[Mkguild] The Last Tale of Yajakali - Chapter LXIII

[Chris]

-----Original Message-----
From: mkguild-bounces at lists.integral.org
[mailto:mkguild-bounces at lists.integral.org] On Behalf Of C. Matthias
Sent: Saturday, September 06, 2008 1:31 PM
To: Metamor Keep
Subject: [Mkguild] The Last Tale of Yajakali - Chapter LXIII

As discussed last night on the MK Guild, this 
chapter is incomplete.  The final scene in the 
chapter was to be the naval battle sequence 
between Whales and the Corrupted Fleet.  It isn't 
finished, and I don't know when it will be.  So 
I'm posting this as is with the understanding 
that more will come and I'll let everybody know 
when that is.  Until then, enjoy what I do have to offer!

Metamor Keep: The Last Tale of Yajakali
By Charles Matthias

Chapter LXII

Unrequited Love


         A week after Berkon’s death they saw it to the north.
         Night began to fall, ever so early so 
near now they were to the Winter’s Solstice, but 
in the moment before the sun let its grip upon 
the sky fail, a blue star pierced the twilight in 
the north.  The Magyars watched it and all but 
one of them trembled in fear as that blue light 
watched them for a full minute before fading like 
a dying ember into the night sky.
         Only Nemgas had no fear of it.  It had 
been the source of his very life, that which 
freed him from the prison of the Yeshuel Kashin 
and gave him flesh to breath and bleed.  And now 
it was the only thing he could think that had the 
power to save his friend Chamag.
         “How dost he fare?” With the light of 
Cenziga gone, the others found themselves able to 
move again.  Nemgas looked at Amile who stood at 
the wagon door, her hands tightly wrapped across 
the back of the coachman’s bench. “Amile?”
         She blinked and turned to Nemgas.  Her 
face was sallow after so many weeks tending their 
now dead friends.  First Berkon, then Kaspel, and 
now Chamag.  Berkon and Kaspel had succumbed to 
the dark poison, but Chamag had only been touched 
a week ago.  For him they still had hope.
         Amile sighed and shook her head. “I hath 
drained his wound again a few moments gone.  The 
poison wilt not leave him.  More comes each time, not less.”
         Nemgas frowned and ran his fingers 
through his beard stubble.  Gamran, Pelgan and 
Gelel busied themselves with clearing out a small 
space in the snow to build a fire and did their 
best to pretend not to listen. “What of his 
teeth?  Dost they grow as did Berkon and Kaspel’s?”
         Amile shook her head, this time with 
more vigour. “Nay, they hath not grown.  The 
poison hast not yet made a monster of him.  He 
dost complain that thou dost not let him help.”
         “He wilt remain abed until we reach the 
mountain,” Nemgas replied. “Ja.  Help Pelgan and 
the others.  I wilt see Chamag.”
         Amile climbed down the carriage steps 
and passed Nemgas so close their chests nearly 
touched.  Nemgas sighed, his breath steaming in 
the cold air.  With a hop he pulled himself onto 
the carriage and climbed inside.
         As always, the inside was warm and 
welcoming.  The scent of decay and death that had 
lingered around Kaspel was beginning to return, a 
sign that troubled him.  Nemgas shut the door 
behind him and Chamag stirred in the bed at the 
far end.  The burly Magyar leaned over the side 
and grimaced.  A bandage wrapped tight around his 
neck and shoulder. “Ah, Nemgas.  Wilt thou let me up this eve?”
         “Nae, Chamag,” Nemgas replied. “After 
Kaspel tried to escape and join what hadst become 
of Berkon I wilt not let thee up.”
         “I art no monster,” Chamag replied in irritation.
         “But if that poison remains in thee, 
thou wilt become one,” Nemgas replied without 
much joy. “E’en now it may be poisoning thy mind.”
         “It isn’t!” Chamag growled. “I hath lost 
none of my faculties, Nemgas.  I art strong and 
ready to fight.  It hath not taken me yet.”
         Nemgas sighed and shook his head.  He 
walked back to where Chamag lay half in bed and 
leaned against the far wall.  Chamag’s eyes 
followed him, and the Magyar had to admit that 
they were the same eyes he’d always seen in his 
wagon-mate.  The axe-man looked no different 
apart from the bandages.  Perhaps because he’d 
only been infected the one time it would take 
longer?  Or perhaps Chamag’s body was stronger 
and more resistant?  Regardless, he couldn’t give in.
         “And I wilt do what I can to make sure 
it never takes thee,” Nemgas said in a soft 
voice.  His fingers idly rubbed the stump of his 
right arm as he spoke. “We didst see the ash 
mountain’s star this twilight.  ‘Twill not be long now ere we reach it.”
         “I detest that place,” Chamag said in a 
low voice.  He leaned back in the bed, his free 
arm fingering the bandage.  It was stained with a 
mix of red and black blood in the middle, though 
the red was still the dominant colour. “Why dost thou take us there?”
         “Because the sword smote Berkon and the 
sword wast touched by Cenziga.”
         Chamag flinched at the name but gave no 
other outward sign of discomfort.  He pressed his 
lips tightly together and thought for a 
moment.  The burly Magyar’s eyes gazed past 
Nemgas as if seeing through him and then they 
lifted to meet his gaze. “But wilt it not smite 
me?  Dost thy cure kill the poison or the person?”
         Nemgas frowned and then shrugged. “I 
hath no answer for thee my friend.  ‘Tis the only 
hope I know and ‘tis what I wilt seek for 
thee.  Know this, I wilt not let the poison make a monster of thee.”
         Lips still drawn together, Chamag 
lowered his eyes and muttered softly, “Wouldst it 
be so terrible a fate?  More terrible than death?”
         Nemgas stiffened and studied his friend 
more closely.  His body seemed slack and 
listless, but so too had Kaspel’s the night he’d 
attacked.  He glanced at his lips, wondering if 
they hid something. “Aye, to hunt thy friends 
like rabbits?  ‘Twould be worse than death.  The 
gods tend thee in death.  Death rejected what had 
taken Berkon, and wouldst hath done the same with Kaspel.”
         Chamag snorted and rubbed his face with 
his hands as if working some strain loose. 
“Cenziga wilt bring death beyond the gods.”
         “It brought me life,” Nemgas replied, 
glancing furtively from side to side.  He was 
alone in the carriage with Chamag.  The others 
were still out trying to make a fire.  He could 
almost hear their voices and the snorting of the 
horses.  If he gave a cry they would be here in 
seconds.  He took a deep breath and pretended to 
turn aside. “Take thy rest, Chamag.  I will check on thee later.”
         Out of the corner of his eye he noticed 
Chamag relaxing.  Nemgas took one step towards 
the door, and then jumped back onto the man’s 
chest.  Chamag gasped and tried to grapple 
Nemgas, but Nemgas had them pinned with his 
side.  Nemgas pressed his fingers into either 
side of the burly Magyar’s cheeks and forced his 
mouth open.  Chamag screamed, eyes flashing with 
anger and briefly, something more vile.
         Nemgas’s heart beat even faster when he 
saw the teeth behind the lips.  The canines were 
not like what they’d seen in Kaspel or Berkon, 
but they had begun to grow.  They stretched a 
pinky’s breadth past the rest of his teeth, 
swollen and raw.  Chamag hissed and pushed up to 
bite him, but Nemgas pressed his stump into 
Chamag’s neck and forced him back down.
         Pelgan and Gamran jumped in opposite 
sides of the carriage.  Pelgan came in the back 
entrance, and immediately grabbed Chamag by the 
sides of his head and held him down.  Gamran 
grabbed his legs, couldn’t keep them still, and 
then sat on them. Chamag spat, struggled, and 
then all of the fight drained out of him.
         “Chamag!” Nemgas said, letting go off 
his cheeks and leaning up ever so slightly. “Art thee well?”
         Chamag blinked several times, groaned, 
and then looked up at him. “Help me, 
Nemgas!  ‘Tis there inside.  Dost not let it make me a monster.”
         “It shalt not take thee,” Nemgas assured 
him, though as when he assured the same to Kaspel 
and Berkon, he found there was little confidence 
in his voice.  He reminded himself of Cenziga’s 
star, and tried again. “Thou wilt not be a monster, Chamag.  I promise
thee.”
         Tears streamed down his face which 
Pelgan wiped up with his sleeve. “Tie me down,” 
Chamag said. “It wants me to escape.”
         Nemgas nodded.  Gamran fetched the rope 
while the two larger Magyar’s looked into each 
other’s eyes.  The one full of fear, the other 
full of determined hope.  This friend he would 
save, Nemgas swore to himself.  This friend he would save.


>>>How? How will he stop them becoming vampires?




----------

         Grastalko spent a day recovering in his 
wagon.  The smouldering remains of his left hand 
had flared to life at the mention of the Ash 
Mountain that the Magyars were now bound for; the 
flesh had blackened past his wrist and the 
ever-present agony stabbed at him every time even 
so much as a leaf should touch his 
wound.  Soaking it in cool water helped, and once 
out of the wagon he would take every opportunity 
to dip his left arm in the stream they followed 
through the forest.  For a few moments he could enjoy a world without
pain.
         Only a few days later they left the 
forest behind.  The plains of the Flatlands came 
suddenly.  One moment they trudged through an 
endless sea of trees beneath a broad blue sky, 
and then the next the Assingh crunched snow 
beneath their hooves and the sky became a barren 
gray.  Yet even so wintry a landscape could not 
still the joy that eery Magyar felt at seeing


>>>Typo - Every not eery

 
their homeland once again after so long an 
absence.  That night they cleared a great deal of 
snow, built a bonfire with what wood they’d 
collected prior to entering the Åelfwood, 
feasted, danced, sang, and revelled until the 
waning moon had passed its zenith.
         Grastalko had participated as much as he 
could.  Every time his hand began to cripple him 
he ran into the snow banks and buried it.  The 
snow sizzled a few seconds before he felt relief 
sweep over him.  Thrice he sought surcease that night.


>>>I wonder why?



         On the nights that followed he got 
little sleep as he needed the relief again and 
again, more often each time.  On the third day 
through the Steppe, he found a bucket, filled it 
with snow and ice, and kept it by him as he rode 
the wagons through the white land.  Not even the 
chill air was enough to bring him any 
comfort.  All he felt was the mind numbing pain 
whenever he took his hand from the bucket of 
snow, a bucket he needed to refill more and more frequently.
         On the fourth day, Hanaman refused to 
let him come eat in his wagon until he had done 
the one thing he knew he should do but hadn’t 
been able to bring himself to do. “Thou must 
speak to Dazheen,” Hanaman declared with the firm 
insistence of a father. “Thy hand pains thee too 
greatly to e’en aid Kisaiya with the Assingh 
now.  I hath seen thee flinch from thy duties, 
Grastalko.  Thy hand pains thee.  See Dazheen and 
she wilt give thee some balm.”
         He argued to no avail, and he was pretty 
sure Hanaman knew the real reason for his 
reticence.  If he went to see Dazheen he’d have to face Bryone again.
         But go he did.  Holding his left arm 
close to his belly, he climbed the wagon steps 
and rapped the back of his knuckles on the 
door.  The solemn face of Bryone greeted 
him.  Her eyes were soft, brown, and searched 
him, quickly noting the way he held his wounded 
hand.  Her lips drew back in a frown, dimples 
faintly forming in her cheeks.  She gingerly held 
out one hand but didn’t touch him. “Does it hurt thee, Grastalko?”
         He gritted his teeth and nodded. “Aye.  I seek Dazheen.”
         “Dost thee need help?”
         “Nay!  I canst do it,” he replied, 
trying to bury the anger in his voice behind the pain.
         Bryone lowered her eyes like he’d seen 
her do many times for the other Magyars and 
stepped back from the door.  Grastalko stepped 
through, edging against the door so he wouldn’t 
brush her, more for his arm’s sake than his 
heart’s.  She held back the curtain for him and 
he passed beneath into the warmth of Dazheen’s wagon.
         The seer was seated at her table as he’d 
always seen her.  Her white hair was twisted and 
frazzled.  Her skin hung in folds on her 
face.  These he’d always seen, but what startled 
him was to see the bandage removed from her 
face.  Her eyes were closed, but the lids 
flickered like a dog eager to pounce a 
squirrel.  Her hands, gnarled like bird’s feet, 
scraped over her cards arrayed before her in a 
pile.  All of them were face down.
         Grastalko nervously watched those cards 
as he neared.  Her face turned towards him as he 
stepped closer and a faint smile drew taut the 
many folds in her cheeks. “Good evening to thee, 
Grastalko.  It has been many weeks since last thou didst grace my
wagon.”
         “Art they safe?”
         “The cards?  Aye.  They art quiet 
tonight.  He watches elsewhere now.  I dost not 
know where.” She pushed the cards to the side 
with one hand; her nails dragged along the table 
with a sullen rasp. “Sit.  What hast brought thee to me?”
         Grastalko took a few steps closer but 
didn’t sit. “My hand.  It hurts worse each day.”
         “Show me.”
         He took another step closer and lifted 
his left hand towards her own.  The blackened 
flesh seemed to simmer as she moved her fingers 
through the air nearby.  Her smile faded with 
each pass.  Strangely, for the first time in 
days, the pain seemed to ebb.  No longer did his 
arm throb, but it lingered in a quiescent torpor.
         And then Dazheen opened her 
eyes.  Grastalko felt his entire arm go icy 
cold.  He made a fist with his good hand and 
shivered as he stared at the horizontal red slits 
amidst the black ruin of her eyes.  They lifted 
up and down a moment before she closed them again.  And the iciness
passed.
         She lowered her hands to the table and 
coughed wearily.  He heard Bryone stir, but the 
fit passed as soon as it had begun. “I art 
well.  Worry not for me.  It is thee for whom I worry.”
         “Me?” Grastalko asked. “Why?  Art there 
nothing thou canst do for my arm?”
         “The magic in thy arm art the same magic 
that I hath seen upon Nemgas.  ‘Tis an act of the 
mountain to which we now journey.” Just thinking 
of this ill-omened mountain made the pain flare 
anew in his arm.  He winced and fell back into 
the seat. “It hath a hold on thee, Grastalko.  Dost the pain grow
worse?”
         “Every day.  But when thou wert 
examining me I didst not feel the pain.  Why?”
         She shook her head. “That I dost not 
know.  But I fear that thou wilt feel e’en 
greater pain in the days ahead.  The course I 
hath set shalt not be changed, for I must go 
there.  As, I believe, thou must also.”
         “But I dost not wish to!” Grastalko 
cried.  The thought of heading towards the source 
of his agony horrified him.  Would he be able to 
manage the pain at all?  How much worse would it get?
         “Of this thou hast no choice, 
Grastalko.” Dazheen sighed and lowered her 
face.  She seemed immeasurably more ancient, like 
a crumbling stone wall built generations ago and 
left untended. “I canst give thee something to 
aid thy sleep.  It will take thee from the pain 
for a time, but sleep art all that thou wilt do 
when thou hast taken the draught.”
         “Anything that wilt help.  Please!”
         Dazheen nodded slowly. “Bryone wilt 
bring it to Hanaman’s wagon soon.  Go enjoy thy dinner with him.”
         Grastalko stood, and put his arm back 
against his chest to protect it when he realized 
what the seer had said. “How didst thee know I 
wouldst be eating with Hanaman tonight?”
         Dazheen lifted her face and smiled. 
“There art things I canst still see without my 
cards, young Grastalko.” He blushed in 
embarrassment at doubting her.  But she didn’t 
seem to mind. “Go and know that thou wilt sleep well this night.”
         “Thank thee, Dazheen,” he said.  He 
glanced briefly at Bryone, then hurried out 
before she could say anything.  With each step 
through the snow toward Hanaman’s wagon the pain 
blossomed in his arm again.  Grastalko gritted 
his teeth tight and stared balefully to the 
southwest.  The source of his agony was out there 
somewhere.  How could he possibly face it?


>>>That mountain seems to be the source of all their troubles!



----------

         Phil was awakened with a start to the 
whistling thump of a projector being discharged 
and thrashed about so violently he knocked his 
cage over. That only confused him even further as 
he tried to find the door and make his escape 
before his rabbit instincts overwhelmed him. 
Somewhere he heard distant voices raised in 
agonized ululation as the target of the projected 
fire cried out their doom. He felt the cage 
lifted and hastily set down upright upon the 
floor and the strong hand of Rupert seizing the 
loose flesh between his shoulder blades to pull 
him from the cage. He could not help but kick and 
struggle against the strong restraining hand but 
kept his squeals of animalistic fear silenced. 
The captain’s cabin was as dark as a cavern but 
for the flickering of distant lights, flames, 
from some unknown source that lit the confined 
cabin with eerie dancing shadows one of which was 
the mountainous dark form of his bodyguard close 
at hand. Rupert lowered Phil to the floor and 
released his grip on the scruff of the prince’s 
fur but did not remove his hand, resting it there 
upon the back of Phil’s shoulders until he mastered his animal terror.
         “I
 I am myself, Rupert.” Phil said 
after several moments though his heartbeat had 
hardly slowed. The angry hissing of arrows echoed 
into the cabin from without mingled with the 
orders and curses of a crew in the midst of 
battle. One shaft hammered into a pillar just 
beyond the cabin door with a hard wooden thunk. 
“Where is the captain?” The dim flickering of 
distant fire suddenly became a bright 
orange-yellow flash and fire splashed across a 
bulkhead outside the cabin. Small sizzling drops 
of burning resin spattered across the cabin floor 
but only burned for scant seconds before Rupert 
doused them with a firebucket of sand kept near 
the captain’s berth. A moment later the fires 
lapping at the bulkhead were also quenched by the fine, absorbent sand.
         Phil did not bother with his tabard or 
finery, he grabbed up a fire apron from the cloak 
pegs just beyond the door and shook off the sand 
before donning it hastily. Rupert ascended the 
stair from the lower deck to the main gangway 
without a step, he merely grabbed the edge of the 
upper gangway and swung up onto it despite the 
crowd of milling shadows already tightly confined 
along its length. Phil paused in aghast shock at 
the writhing shadows of fighting men backlit by 
roaring flames. Half were engaged in a pitched 
battle with the splash of Whalish fire that had 
stricken the Burning Spear’s only mast and spent 
itself largely ineffectively across the length of 
the deck where it was more easily fought. Others 
continued to man the oars though Phil saw that 
some at the ores merely slumped; injured or 
exhausted or worse. The last held shields or bows 
and tried to protect their crewmates from 
incoming attacks while returning arrows at the attacker Phil could not
yet see.
         While Phil clambered up the stair to the 
main deck and hastily scrambled around to 
surmount the stair to the aft castle Rupert 
worked his way down the main gangway battling the 
blazes with entire casks of sand. Freed of their 
need to fight with smaller buckets the crew he 
relived turned their attention to the attacks 
coming at them from the port beam. Phil popped 
his head over the lip of the stair to the aft 
castle and scanned quickly for any immediate 
danger such as boarders. Whatever fires there may 
have been had been doused by the crowd already 
present but a desultory rain of arrows continued 
to come from the burning vessel only a dozen 
yards off the Spear’s port beam, just far enough 
away that the oars of both ships missed clashing 
by only a few feet. One arrow skittered across 
the deck, its impetus spent, and came to a stop 
against the gunwale a few inches in front of 
Phil’s cautious nose. He quickly dropped back 
down a couple of steps and looked to the opposing 
ship on fire not far away at all.
         It was a Whalish ship, but through the 
fire and smoke Phil had no way of determining 
which one it had been. It’s forecastle was a 
raging inferno and much of its main deck was 
likewise fully engulfed. Beyond it Phil could see 
another ship afire in the distance, its mast a 
towering taper of roaring flame that spiraled 
into the starlit night sky trailing sparks. On 
the nearer doomed dromonai he could see 
crewmembers rushing about aflame with little 
regard to their fates still attempting to loose 
arrows from bows with strings burned through. 
Burning arrows lofted into the air and fell short 
with muted hisses lost under the screams of injured and dying men.


>>>Vivid imagery!!



         With a shrill, whistling thump the 
Burning Spear’s forward projector loosed a 
brilliant ball of churning fire across the short 
span of distance between the two ships and 
spattered itself across the aft castle of the 
enemy boat. A moment later a second gout of flame 
surged outward in all directions from the 
stricken aft as the seals on the stricken 
dromonai’s aft pressure vessel failed and vented 
mixed Whalish fire across its own decks. A ragged 
cheer rose from the Burning Spear and the ship 
beyond the doomed dromonai that Phil was unable 
to see until it drew ahead of the burning ship. 
 From his vantage half way up the ladder between 
gangway and aft castle Phil watched the dying 
Whalish dromonai with a sense of both victory and 
loss, for nothing more moved upon its decks. The 
mast was a pillar of flickering flame and is oars 
thrust akimbo and inert from unmanned oarlocks backlit by roaring
flames.
         A shadow brought his attention to the 
aft castle and he shrank down the ladder another 
step while looking up to see the flame-lit visage 
of Ptomamus looking down at him. Rabbit Prince 
and Whalish captain contemplated each other for a 
few seconds before Ptomamus knelt and thrust a 
soot blackened hand toward him. Phil reached up 
and grasped the offered hand and climbed swiftly 
up onto the higher deck, looking about hastily to 
gauge their situation. Further to port another 
burning ship was falling behind their line, 
already listing markedly to one side. Astern of 
their starboard a third ship was stern-up in the 
air with a spreading flotilla of debris spreading 
outward from the stricken wreck. In the distance 
a shadow flickering with flames swiftly withdrew 
toward the eastern horizon and the remainder of the Marzac force.
         “What happened, captain?” Phil gasped at 
the aftermath of the battle which, from the first 
sound that awoke him to the last futile gasp of 
their opponent, had lasted less than five minutes. “How did they
overtake us?”
         “They did not, your highness, they were 
out before us and we never noticed them.” 
Ptomamus returned to the navigation table to 
confer with one of the Spear’s mages. “Any 
losses, Lindes?” Phil followed him to the table 
and surveyed the damage wrought by the single 
successful fire attack that struck the Spear. 
Broad fans of black soot marred the deck and 
railings but in the darkness it was difficult to 
see anything more than darkness against the 
relatively pale wood of the deck. “Those six 
rakers kept our attentions aft while a smaller 
group of Whalish ships were moving into positions ahead of us, your
highness.”
         After some brief discussion with mages 
aboard other vessels the mage gave a short nod, 
“We lost the Evening Star, captain.” He turned 
and pointed to the burning ship beyond their 
aggressor. The ship had listed fully over onto 
its side by that point but it was too far distant 
for Phil to see if there were any survivors in 
the water. “Shavistii was raked hard by bows and 
suffered considerable injury among her Third 
Crew, but captain Setaes believes he can maintain 
the pace.” Phil could not read Ptomamus’ 
expression in the deepening dark but did not 
imagine it was a pleased look. One more ship lost 
against a foe that already had just their small 
number of ships outnumbered almost three to one, 
even with four ships defeated to their one loss 
did nothing to make the odds any better in their favor.
         “Other than the Ptolmaq what ships did 
we face?” Ptomamus accepted a dampened rag from a 
deckhand and wiped the soot from his face. A 
small cut across his brow and temple trickled 
blood down his pale face but did not seem to discomfit him.
         “Ptolmaq and Lady Geshter’s Folly were 
both sunk, both of which were dromonai seen 
during the attack on Whales. Stonne Lear was also 
sunk and White Crow withdrew afire.” The mage 
said after some long moments. Another man in the 
uniform of a minor officer but no one Phil could 
identify came up from below and made only the 
most brief of bows to the captain and favored 
Phil with not so much as a glance.
         “We lost three crewmen, captain, and 
seventeen have been injured too greatly to 
maintain their duties. Of the rest twenty have 
some minor injuries, mostly burns from the fire 
attack.” Reported the uniformed newcomer briefly. 
“The ape-man put out many of the larger fires, 
but we’re down to four casks of fire sand for the effort.”
         “Rupert.” Ptomamus said off hand as he 
listened to the officer of the deck’s report.
         “Aye, captain, him. He did a fine job, 
but we’ve got four casks left of it. Of arrows we 
expended two score and can recover perhaps half of that from the enemy
shafts.”
         Ptomamus rubbed his jaw for a few 
moments, glancing at Phil with an expression 
unreadable in the darkness. “Rotate the crews, 
put anyone willing to man an oar on one, and 
break out fresh rations. Double water ration to 
anyone at the oars.” He looked aside to the mage. 
“Lindes, I want every mage to focus on keeping 
our men going, and what speed you can provide. 
Any that haven’t the mastery for such spells I 
want on the decks watching for any magic around 
us.” He strode to the navigation able and leaned 
down slightly to read the chalk lines on the dark 
slate. “How far behind us is the remainder of the Marzac group?”
         “Three league near’s I can tell.” 
Offered the steersman stoically with a brief 
glance over his shoulder. “Been keepin’ me night 
eye on ‘em all my watch, cap’n.” Phil looked 
beyond the Spear’s aft rail and understood what 
the steersman meant. In the distance he saw a 
glimmering, ghostly white radiance that cut 
across a wide swath of the distant water. He 
could not tell where sky ended and the ocean 
began because the water was so becalmed but the 
luminescent glow of seawater at night gave away the enemy ships clearly.
         Just as it gave away their position to those same ships.
         “Wall formation, put our most damaged 
ships to the fore. We should make the Sonderush 
shortly and ride it northward.” Ptomamus looked 
toward the sky briefly. “We’ve many hours before 
dawn, double the deck watch and increase each 
rotation frequency.” He raised a hand to his brow 
and peered at the blood staining his fingertips 
when he brought them away. “Someone inform 
Meidaggo I’ve a scratch in need of his 
attentions, once those more injured have been seen to.”

----------

         The morning dawned crisp and cold in 
Masyor.  Frost covered the tents, the grasses, 
and even those soldiers unfortunate to sleep 
under the stars.  The tracks of mud had hardened 
over the night’s course which made it even easier 
for the horses and wagons to move about as the 
lords of the Southern Midlands all gathered at 
Duke Titian Verdane’s meeting tent.
         Sir Malcom Royce had woken Verdane from 
his oddly peaceful slumber once the pale winter 
sun peeked above the eastern treetops.  The 
knight reported that all remained calm and that 
the soldiers were more worried about huddling 
around the morning cook fires than they were 
about attacking each other.  Verdane was not 
surprised to discover that nobody had reported 
seeing a stranger in their midst last night.
         He took only a bit of bread and cheese 
to break his fast, washed it down with warm 
juice, and then readied himself to face his 
vassals.  The words of the Felikaush reverberated 
through his mind.  He did not even need to look 
at the letter to know them. Tyliå-nou’s 
unutterably strange presence lingered in his 
chambers, but no sign of him was there apart from 
the letter.  This he concealed from Sir 
Royce.  He did not want any to know that his 
decision this day was motivated by ancient 
creatures living in enchanted forests where no 
man dare trod.


>>>Smart idea! Not everyone would appreciate an elf.



  If this feud had eroded his 
ability to command his vassals, that knowledge would destroy it
altogether.
         “Is all prepared?” Verdane asked as a 
page fretted over the evenness of his tunic.
         Sir Royce nodded.  Apollinar fidgeted 
with his spectacles and said, “Your soldiers at 
the meeting tent have been relieved and fresh 
soldiers sent.  Lord Guilford and his allies are 
there already.  Lord Grenholt, Lord Thrane, and 
Lord Stoffels wait outside for you.”
         Verdane nodded and slapped the page’s 
prying hands from his collar. “It is fine.  I am 
ready now.  What of Lord Dupré?”
         Sir Royce grunted. “I have him being 
brought by carriage.  Few know that he is being 
held prisoner.  I thought it prudent to keep that secret for now.”
         “Good.  And Anya?”
         “She’s already there,” Apollinar replied.
         Verdane gazed briefly at his mailed 
doublet, noting the wolf’s head silhouette across 
the breast.  The letter told him that the wolf 
would not conquer horse or falcon within his 
lifetime.  He’d long harboured that dream and 
after the curses struck Metamor had felt it was 
finally within his grasp.  Now it was gone.  The 
ravenous wolf would hunger for a time more.
         Finally, he took his eyes from the 
mirror and nodded to his Castellan and Steward. 
“Then let us keep them waiting no more.”  Verdane 
led them from the tent where he found another 
page standing ready with his horse saddled and 
barded.  Verdane’s breath misted in the cold 
air.  Beyond sat the three nobles who had aided 
him these last few months.  They bowed their heads  at his approach.
         Verdane took the reins from the page and 
mounted.  His horse, a black destrier he’d 
trained himself, snorted and stamped his hooves 
as he turned about to join the others.  Behind 
him, Sir Royce and Apollinar mounted and 
followed.  A carriage trailed behind them covered in Kelewair soldiers.
         None of his vassals dared engage him in 
conversation a they rode through the ranks of


>>>Typo as not a


 
soldiers toward the meeting tent.  Their eyes, 
which passed between each other, back to the 
carriage, and then toward the meeting tent and 
assembled armies said all that needed 
saying.  For the first time in a long time, 
Verdane saw that they feared him again.
         Both horses and soldiers lined the 
grasses outside the meeting tent.  A small pile 
of weapons lay outside the entrance, each of them 
carefully placed so as not to touch any other 
weapon.  Verdane and the rest dismounted and at 
his direction, his vassals each lowered their 
swords and knives to the ground.  Verdane alone 
entered the tent with his sword at his side.
         Like the day before, Lord Guilford and 
his allies sat on one side of the table.  Dupré’s 
allies sat on the other, and these already looked 
uncertain as their master wasn’t with them.  All 
of them rose when Duke Verdane entered.  He 
ambled stiffly past and quickly took his seat in 
the makeshift throne at the head of the 
table.  Grenholt, Thrane and Stoffels sat nearby, 
but Anya was given pride of place at her father’s 
right hand.  Her eyes were a mask; though they 
saw everything around, not even her father could 
read them.  Whatever she was feeling she would 
not show it.  It both irritated and pleased Verdane.
         “Thank you all for coming at my call,” 
he said in a sarcastic drawl.  Some of them, 
especially those that allied with Guilford or 
Dupré, flinched back in their seats. “This 
foolishness has gone on long enough.  I will be 
brief.  The war in my lands is now over.  To 
those of you aiding either Lord Guilford or Lord 
Dupré, your traitorous acts will be forgiven 
under two conditions.  First, all your troops 
must have left Masyor by the set of the sun, and 
you must return to your homelands 
straightaway.  Second, after you have returned to 
your lands, you will each send a levy of your 
food stores to feed the people of Kelewair who 
have had to forgo much to feed my army.  If you 
fail in this, and I will personally check that 
each of you has complied, then your lands will be 
taken from you and given to others more worthy of your titles.”
         He could hear a few grumbles, and 
several shifted uneasily.  Verdane paid especial 
note of those who did not.


>>>Smart idea!


  Those who grumbled 
now were sure to do as he wished.   Most of the 
rest would too, but they would need watching.
         “Lord Anson Guilford.  Eight months ago 
I assigned to you the ask of rebuilding the 
bridges across the eastern Southbourne.  You have 
failed to accomplish this.  Your armies are to be 
converted to this task.  By the first of the new 
year I want the foundations laid one at least one 
of the bridges.  Those of your men who are not 
occupied with the bridges are to be set to 
rebuilding the towns in your fief that were destroyed in this squabble.”
         Lord Guilford’s eyes lifted in surprise 
at this.  It was clear he expected something 
harsher.  A smile teased the corner’s of his 
lips.  Verdane glowered at the man. “However, 
should you seek any reprisal against Dupré’s men 
or his lands, you will meet the same fate as William.”
         Guilford’s smile faded instantly. “Am I 
to have no satisfaction for my son’s death?”
         “William’s fate will suffice to you or 
you will share it.  I will not tolerate any more 
of your feud.” He turned to Sir Royce. “Bring in 
Lord William Dupré that I may pronounce his fate.”
         Sir Royce nodded and waved to soldiers 
standing at the entrance to the tent.  Two of the 
disappeared outside.  While Verdane’s vassals 
shifted nervously, and Lord Guilford kept a 
baleful stare upon the Duke, Verdane fingered the 
hilt of his sword.  How he so wanted to draw it 
and cleave William’s head from his body.


>>>I don't blame him!


  His 
heart beat faster at the thought of William’s 
blood splattering across his cheeks.  His fingers 
tensed, frustrated, and then withdrew from the hilt.
         Lord William Dupré was still chained and 
gagged when Sir Royce marched him into the 
tent.  Dupré’s eyes were at times defiant and at 
others full of misery.  Whatever du Tournemire 
had done to him had clearly unhinged his 
mind.  He was very glad that he’d never accepted 
du Tournemire’s suggestion of a game of cards.
         Royce brought Dupré to within a stone’s 
throw from Verdane’s throne and then pushed him 
to his knees.  Dupré’s lips curled around the 
gag.  His eyes never left the Duke.
         Verdane stood and drew his 
sword.  Almost everyone held their breath and 
quite a few gasped.  Verdane held the blade 
before him, threatening but not too close lest 
Dupré attempt to skewer himself. “Lord William 
Dupré, your actions in precipitating this war and 
in your alliance with a foreign power, you have 
given me the right to execute you before your 
peers.” And how much he wished to do so.  Verdane 
tried to think of his son Jaime, held captive in 
the courts of Salinon.  The letter had offered 
him a slim hope, but it was still hope.
         “I choose not to kill you this day, but 
it is not because I am merciful.  The land of 
Mallow Horn passes to my daughter Anya.  In time 
your son Jory may inherit the land, but he will 
be my child and not yours.  You will never see 
him again.  I pronounce a sentence of exile upon 
you, William Dupré.  In these lands you have no 
title, no rank, no position, no servants, no 
land, and no family to speak for you.  If you 
should ever return to these lands you will be 
killed.  You have until the beginning of the new 
year to cross the Marchbourne River.  Troops will 
escort you there to make sure you practice no 
devilry on your way.  No accommodations of honour 
will be granted you on your way.  The only mercy 
you have from me in this regard is that you shall 
be an anonymous prisoner on this journey.


>>>Wow! That is harsh! Nothing is worse to a nobleman then to be
landless and without family of any sort!


         “Once across the Marchbourne, the 
soldiers will bring you to the lands of Metamor 
where you shall suffer the touch of their 
curse.  What becomes of you will be reported to 
me and to all in my kingdom.  After, I care not 
what you do, only that you never return, never 
write any letters, or ever again have any contact 
with your family.  This is your fate, William.” 
William Dupré stared wild eyed at him and he 
screamed through the gag.  Royce smacked him in 
the back of the head and he tumbled to the ground.
         Verdane turned his gaze on the now pale 
Lord Guilford who stared back in horror. “That is 
the fate you will share, Anson, if you do not do as I command.”
         Lord Guilford slowly nodded.  He 
muttered, “I understand, your grace.  I will 
build bridges and homes.  Nothing more.”
         “Good.  I am Duke Titian Verdane IV of 
Kelewair.  You are all my vassals.  You will each 
renew your vows to me this very hour or go with 
William to become a beast, a babe, or a whore.  The choice is now
yours.”
         And with that he sat down in his 
throne.  As Sir Royce dragged the blubbering 
William Dupré away, the others fell over 
themselves to be the first to renew their vows of 
obedience and service.  After so long a time, and 
at such a high price, Duke Verdane knew that the 
Southern Midlands were once again his.
         He hoped that in time Jaime would understand.

----------

         Elvmere needn’t have worried.  Master 
Elsevier was as good as his word once again and 
procured for them a humble but private carriage 
complete with a team of four horses and a fresh 
supply of bread, cheese and wine to succour them 
on their trip from Menth to Metamor.  And to 
further show his dedication to the priestess, 
Elsevier volunteered to drive the carriage 
himself with only a trio of his sailors to provide defence against
banditry.
         The raccoon and priestess rode in 
relative comfort across the northern 
countryside.  The trip took no more than two days 
in good weather, but with the roads cloaked by 
snow it was another day before the mighty castle of Metamor was in
sight.
         Until then, Elvmere and Nylene talked 
quietly, prayed, or watched te vistas pass them 
by.  From Menth the road north led past the well 
tended forests south of the valley’s mouth to the 
more wild stretches once the mountains closed in 
on either side.  The passed many small homes 
along the first day, farmers or shepherds it made 
little difference.  From each a thin column of 
smoke rose testifying to the warmth and life within.
         On the second they entered the valley 
proper and what few people braved the cold air 
they saw were either merchants like Elsevier or 
Metamorians patrolling the woods, river, and 
road.  Elvmere felt a flush of anxiety when he 
saw his first animal morphed Keeper again.  He’d 
left Malger and Sheyiin’s company at the wharves 
of Breckaris months ago now it seemed.  Apart 
from them and Murikeer, they’d been the only 
Keepers he’d seen since March.  Nine months he 
reckoned it.  Time enough for a woman to carry a 
child to term.  The thought both intrigued and 
irked him.  Intrigued because he was a different 
man than the one who’d left Metamor by 
paw.  Irked because it was far too prideful a thought to allow to please
him.



>>>Very interesting analogy!



         Of these feelings he confided a few to 
Nylene who nodded sagely.  Her eyes were taken by 
every Metamorian they spotted along the 
road.  For a time they travelled alongside a 
rather wooly badger-man carting onions from the 
south, and he and Nylene discussed the valley and 
its affairs.  Elvmere didn’t recognize him and 
was grateful that the badger, a master Derygan, didn’t recognize him
either.
         But what wondrous news he had!  Duke 
Thomas was to be wed, and to none other than Dame 
Alberta Artelanoth!  It took Elvmere a few 
questions more to learn that this was the new 
name of she who’d once been the knight Sir Albert 
Bryonoth of Patriarch Akabaieth’s 
retinue.  Though generally delighted by the news, 
Derygan did complain that he hadn’t found anybody 
else as reliable to cart his onions for him.
         Elvmere couldn’t help but marvel at the 
drastic changes Metamor had made in the 
knight.  He knew that Artelanoth had come from 
the Flatlands and recalled Sir Egland fretting 
over her after the curse took her.  She hadn’t 
been adjusting to being female very well so how 
could she now be marrying the Duke?  But Derygan 
the badger wasn’t much help there either.
         Still, he brought news that the valley 
had not suffered from any more incursions by 
Lutins or by any other foul creatures.  There was 
a fantastic tale about an assassin caught in the 
bell tower during the Solstice festival, but 
Derygan knew even less of that than he did of the Duke’s bride.
         But the badger turned down the road 
towards the Iron Mines and so they continued 
towards Metamor alone.  Of the others sharing the 
road with them they saw more scouts and soldiers 
than anything else.  These proved far less 
conversational than the onion merchant.  And they smelled worse too.
         Shortly before noon on the third day of 
travel, while immersed in a conversation about a 
point of theology, Elsevier knocked on the door 
of the wagon and said, “You’ll want to see this, priestess!”
         Nylene stooped by the door and stared 
north out the window of the carriage.  She gasped 
and Elvmere had to catch her round the middle to 
keep her on her feet. “It’s beautiful!  More 
beautiful that even Malger could say!” Her 
awestruck voice pricked a tingle of delight in 
the raccoon’s chest.  He slid his head out, one 
ear brushing across the top of the carriage door as there was so little
room.
         What he beheld made him tremble and 
forget his discomfort.  A surge of joy blossomed 
in his heart, and his whole body tingled with 
excitement.  His paws wrapped tighter around 
Nylene’s waist, and his tail flashed back and 
forth with an almost canine merriment.  His green 
eyes brimmed, but the tears he held back only 
because they would impede his view.  He felt like 
a child who’d been lost in the woods but had 
finally seen his mother standing at the edge looking for him.
         Above the tops of the trees, with the 
edge of the mountains clustering close on both 
sides, rose the towers of Metamor Keep.  Their 
alabaster sheen brightened the leaden sky and 
seemed a pearl amidst ash.  In the way the 
cupolas were arranged from their vantage point, 
he fancied he saw the entire castle smiling at him.
         Elvmere rested his snout on Nylene’s 
head and she patted his shoulder with one hand. 
“Is it good to be home?” she asked, her voice still awed from the sight.
         The raccoon’s tears finally burst, and 
his chest heaved in delight. “Aye, it is good.  Good to be home at
last.”

----------

[NAVAL BATTLE GOES HERE!]

----------

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

Charles Matthias



>>>Cool scenes! I like how he decided the fate by exile! That really
scared the rest!


   Chris
   The Lurking Fox
 

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