[Mkguild] Healing Wounds in Arabarb (31 of ?)

[C. Matthias]

Healing Wounds in Arabarb
By Charles Matthias



Even as dawn approached, the inside of the mill 
remained a dark and shadowed place. The 
surrounding countryside brightened slowly with 
each passing second, revealing the thousands of 
needles fixed to the pines and scattered across 
the ground the subtle line of pitch fixing the 
beams of wood together in the Fjellvidden homes 
that were visible, as well as a variety of other 
signs and portents of coming day.

Jarl sat in the shadowed darkness near the 
waterwheel, gazing out through the slats in the 
walls at that scene. Guard duty was not his usual 
avocation and it certainly wasn't his primary 
role in the Resistance. How well he, Jarl 
Thoronson, could remember in the days of his 
childhood his father Thoron Angulfson preparing 
him for the duties and responsibilities of his 
caste. How well he had been taught the land about 
Fjellvidden that was their guard – their land to protect and lead.

For generations Arabarb had been a patchwork 
quilt of ancient guards that splintered with 
inheritance, until they were too small to 
maintain against the forces of an aggressive 
neighbor. All of that changed a century past when 
the Ecclesia had come and found willing adherents 
amongst the people. Not that peace had come 
immediately, nor that rivalries had not 
continued, but they were no longer so frequent or bloody.

The coastal guards of Arabarb had always been 
wealthy from trade – and from raiding in older 
days – but so too had the principle city on the 
mighty Arabas, the river whose arms touched all 
the disparate corners of their wild land. 
Fjellvidden was the shining star of the north, 
the fortress whose sinews held fast the country, 
and to whom the country had always turned.

And when Nasoj's forces under Baron Calephas's 
command, with its host of wizards, Lutins, 
giants, and other monstrosities seized the castle 
in addition to the forts in the mountain pass, it 
was almost an afterthought for them to pacify the rest of the country.

Thane Angulf, his grandfather, had been killed 
and his head decorated a spike. Jarl was grateful 
that he had never seen it, as his father spirited 
him and his mother out of the city in advance of 
the coming army. Into exile and hiding he had 
been raised, knowing that he had once been 
destined to rule the most important city in 
Arabarb, but now without any way of telling 
anyone who he was. If anyone knew, his life would 
be forfeit. Especially now with Gmork's spies 
able to pretend to be allies in convincing ways 
that none of Calephas's agents had ever been able to muster.

Jarl ground his teeth as he pondered those 
injustices. His father died leading a flanking 
force that was crushed by the giants. His mother 
died a few years later from a winter flu. He was 
left in the hands of fishermen along the southern 
coast who had no idea who he was, only that he 
was an orphan in a country filled with them. He'd 
learned their trade from necessity, nursing every 
one of his wounds with each fish he scaled and 
gutted. The knives became his friend and he 
practiced with them every day, for he would never be allowed a sword or spear.

And then, two years ago, he learned of the 
Resistance through his adopted parent's older 
son, and he had been an eager recruit. But to his 
chagrin, to his eternal chagrin, no matter how 
much he tried to assert the authority he should 
have, he had only ever been just one more body, 
one more contact to perform tasks ordered by 
another. He'd hoped that it might be one of his 
relatives that had miraculously survived the 
slaughter Calephas and Nasoj wrought. He had 
hoped that it would be somebody of his own station.

Rather, more often than not it had been orders 
from the beastly Metamorians who sought to 
coordinate the Resistance for their own ends. 
He'd secretly rejoiced with Gmork's arrival 
almost a year ago and the subsequent complete 
eradication of Metamor's presence from Arabarb. 
But then, on that day when he'd finally set foot 
in the city of his childhood, not only did he 
discover that they were here at the behest of 
more Metamorians, but also, that the Resistance 
as a whole looked up to a man who was father to 
one of them, a man who had never been more than a 
trapper in the southern forests, he knew that he 
would never be Thane of Fjellvidden.

And so, rather than be in the same room with one 
of those infernal Keepers, and rather than having 
to take orders from that woman, he had chosen to 
stand watch over the mill where he could be alone 
with his thoughts and his anger. Jarl Thoronson 
stared past the line of trees at the city that 
should be his and hated it. He could see the 
castle in the distance as the brightening sky 
illumined the cold gray stone of its walls. The 
torches flickered ever so faintly in the 
distance, and its pinions hung limply green from their stanchions.

Once the castle would have been his by right of 
family. But now that family was gone ten years. 
Even were they to win and he revealed his 
birthright it would not be honored. Jarl seethed 
knowing it, and knowing that he could never 
enforce it and that, with his family's defeat, he 
had no right to. They had lost in battle and so had lost any claim to rule.

His one hope was to win it back for himself by 
victory in battle. It had to be his knives that 
killed Calephas. It had to be his knives that killed Gmork.

He just couldn't understand why they honored 
Alfwig and never his family's memory. Alfwig had 
been taken prisoner and was most likely dead! And 
what had Elizabaeg ever done anyway? He ground 
his teeth and balled his hands into fists until his knuckles turned white.

As the vista brightened with approaching dawn, he 
kept a careful watch for any movement in the 
woods and in the city. Tree branches swayed with 
each breeze but otherwise he saw the same nothing 
he'd seen for the last few hours. No people, no 
animals, nothing. Neither in the woods nor in the city.

He didn't truly expect to see anything in the 
woods, but with dawn coming, it did surprise him 
that he saw nothing in the city either. He'd been 
here two days now. There had been plenty of 
people about this early yesterday tending to 
their various duties, especially the soldiers who 
patrolled the city and its boundaries. So why not 
this morning? Surely they weren't all within the inner districts of the city?

A sudden fear gripped Jarl and he took a long 
moment to study the woods nearby, carefully 
noting everything he saw. The nearest copse of 
trees was perhaps thirty paces away, covered in 
pine needles and moss. Little flowering buds grew 
out of the moss, though there were a few small 
patches where all the flowers were crushed. Jarl 
sucked in his breath as his eyes fixed on those 
places. After an interminable number of seconds 
had slipped away, one of the slender stalks bent 
down by itself to lay flat against the forest floor.

His hands went for his knives as he slowly backed 
away from the wall and made his way to the 
waterwheel. He gently rapped against the hidden 
door as he kept to the shadows, hoping that none 
could see him there. It took far longer than it 
should have for somebody to come up the hidden 
stairs and open the secret door. Jarl pushed 
inside as soon as it was open a crack and pulled 
it shut behind him. Brigsne the black-bearded 
innkeeper from Vaar sucked in his breath and glowered at him.

Before he could offer some sharp rebuke, Jarl 
shook his head and whispered, “I think the pups are here.”

Brigsne expression turned from anger to deeper anger. “Are you certain?”

One thing he definitely did not like was being 
questioned. “Of course I am!” He pushed past the 
man and took the stairs two at a time and as 
lightly as he could. Brigsne followed after securing the latch.

Some of the men were taking their rest when he 
came back down, while the other half kept their 
weapons ready and their eyes alert. Elizabaeg was 
one of those awake and she turned to Jarl her 
face weary with exhaustion. Had she tried to get 
any sleep at all? Even Ture was laying down to 
rest and his apprentices were almost certainly in Calephas's hands by now.

He stood a little taller and kept his hands on 
his knives. This was an opportunity to take the 
lead for his people. “Gmork's pups have found the 
mill. They're outside even now. We have to gather 
our supplies and escape down the tunnel. We can't 
afford to wait for the tundra men and the bird. We have to go now.”

Her eyes, bloodshot and at first a little vacant, 
came into clear focus as her strength returned to her. “Did you see them?”

Jarl bristled but kept his face steady. “I saw magic. Who else could it be?”

“Eli protect us!” She ran one hand through her 
hair and then turned to the other men. “Wake 
everyone up. We have to leave now.”

Jarl looked over his shoulder at the innkeeper 
and said, “Brigsne, bar the secret door and give us more time.”

The innkeeper didn't move until Elizabaeg turned 
back and said, “Aye, do that, Brigsne. Jarl, 
gather your things too. Ture, take Jarl and two 
others and go for the boat. Ride down the river 
and lead the pups away. The rest of us will go 
into the forest and make our way to the eastern gate. Hurry!”

Jarl spun on the woman and drew one knife, 
pointing it at the tunnel door which Luvig was 
already opening. “I should be going into the 
castle. I'm a close-quarters fighter. You need me there.”

She frowned and nodded. “But I need smaller 
people on the boat. We have no time to argue. 
Here,” she handed him two of the little jars that 
Luvig had spent so much time preparing. “Now hurry.”

Ture already had his gear on, and with him were 
two other men both thin and younger like Jarl. 
They slung short bows with a fresh quiver of 
arrows over their shoulders. The tanner caught 
Elizabaeg's eyes as he put one massive hand on Jarl's shoulder. “Why me?”

She smiled faintly as she took a bow for herself, 
“Because they're after you. Shout when you hit the water.”

Ture grunted and then pushed Jarl along and into 
the dark tunnel. The young man, the hidden heir 
to the thane of Fjellvidden swore under his 
breath as he rushed headlong down that narrow 
track of rock, wood and dirt light only by the lantern Ture carried.

So much for his chance to be a leader.

----------

Gmork's eldest could feel the many hours of 
wakefulness beginning to wear on him. He could 
see it in his younger brother as well. They 
crouched on the moss beneath the last line of 
trees watching the mill and waiting for their 
other brothers to arrive, each of them trying to 
stay alert. The soft loam and the aromatic trees, 
as well as the cool air brushing through the furs 
they wore and the fur they bore lulled their 
already taxed bodies and seduced them with slumber.

But still they kept themselves awake. Father 
would be most displeased with them if they were 
to let weariness overcome them. They were Gmork's 
sons and there was a certain pride to be had in 
that. He would not allow himself to give into 
exhaustion, and he kept a close eye on his 
younger brother to make sure he would not do the same.

Still, he shifted positions on that bed of moss 
to keep himself from growing too comfortable, 
secure in knowing that his spells would prevent 
anyone in the mill from actually seeing anyone 
outside of it. He could have gotten up and 
stretched, yawning long jaws framed in the 
morning twilight and they would never have known.

It was a rather appealing idea, and he was about 
to stand and do just that when his younger 
brother whispered in a short, quick bark, “Did you see that?”

He blinked, all thoughts of his weariness passed 
and he focused keen blue eyes on the mill. The 
building remained as empty as it had been before, 
its only sign of life the creaking of the 
waterwheel as the river rushed by. “What was it?”

“A flash of light,” his brother replied. He rose 
to all fours, long-fingered hands not even 
disturbing the tangled weave of moss as his claws 
pressed into the loam. “I saw it just now. Something in the back of the mill.”

“The tanner?”

“Or the others. Is it safe to approach? Will they see me?”

He shook his head and wagged his naked tail. “Go.”

His youngest brother loped forward silently, head 
turning from side to side every few paces, 
listening to the air, and then lowered to sniff 
at the ground. He did this three times before he 
reached the mill and began to pace around to the 
right-side, listening and sniffing, and then back 
to the left doing the same thing.

Gmork's eldest heard something behind him and he 
spun swiftly, but his heart beat with a growing 
exhilaration and hunger when he saw his other two 
brothers come bounding from the outskirts of the 
city toward them. At last! Now the hunt could 
begin. Soon they would taste man-flesh again.

The three of them moved into the clearing before 
the mill, while their younger brother moved south 
from the mill with his head close to the ground 
and his tail lifting up attentively. They paused 
and watched him for a moment before he turned 
back and growled, “They have a tunnel and their fleeing through it!”

“A tunnel?” the eldest asked, running to his 
brother's side. He listened at the ground but 
could hear nothing. “Where does it lead?”

“South,” the youngest said, golden eyes 
narrowing, body tense with unwavering focus.

He turned to their brothers waiting behind them. 
“Find the entrance in the mill. We'll follow the 
tunnel and trap them between us!”

Their jaws slavered as his brothers jumped 
backward, rose to two legs, and burst in through 
the mill door. The eldest and youngest loped 
southward on all fours, their heavy paws rending 
the soil in long sodden gouges.



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

Charles Matthias


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