[Mkguild] Healing Wounds in Arabarb (46 of ?)

[Christian Okane]

You finally killed Calephas!  Hurrah!  I've waited for that monsters death
for a long time!

*Does a happy dance!

Chris
The Lurking Fox





-----Original Message-----
From: mkguild-bounces at lists.integral.org
[mailto:mkguild-bounces at lists.integral.org] On Behalf Of C. Matthias
Sent: Monday, May 23, 2011 4:39 AM
To: Metamor Keep
Subject: [Mkguild] Healing Wounds in Arabarb (46 of ?)

Healing Wounds in Arabarb
By Charles Matthias


One thing that Alfwig had grown used to in the two months he had been 
chained in the dungeon of Fjellvidden castle was the sounds of the 
river rushing past. The water lapped at the stone foundations and 
when the tide was high, at the floor beneath him. It almost purred as 
it flowed to the distant ocean. No matter when he felt tired, it 
never ceased to lull him to sleep. Fitful sleep with bad dreams 
perhaps, but still sleep nevertheless.

This meant that even he could hear the sound of fighting in the city 
when it began. It may not be in the castle, but it was sufficient for 
him. Alfwig slipped free of the bonds that Yajgaj had undone, rubbed 
his wrist and ankles for a moment, stretched his legs one last time, 
and then walked carefully across the dungeon. Even though Yajgaj had 
extinguished the torches, after two months, there was not a crevice 
in the dungeons that Alfwig didn't know as intimately as his own heart.

The door was unlocked and beyond he saw light at the top of the 
stairs. Only a single lantern, but it was enough to make the man's 
eyes wince. Alfwig shadowed his eyes with his forearm as he climbed 
the steps softly and carefully, listening for the sounds of anyone 
approaching. The castle was silent, and now out of the dungeons he 
couldn't even hear the distant combat.

At the first landing he saw the lantern hanging from the wall 
overlooking a sleeping cot covered in furs suitable to a Lutin. A 
pair of chests rested against the back wall. Alfwig found both of 
them unlatched. Fresh clothes suited to his frame were tucked into 
one, while good leather armor had been carefully arrayed in the 
second. He lifted the armor to his nose and smiled faintly. Crisp and 
with the familiar scent of the oil he'd used while working in Ture's 
tanning shop. This was indeed the armor he had fashioned for himself 
a few months ago as he'd looked forward to the day that he would help 
his people be free of the tyrants that had unmanned them.

He stripped out of his dungeon rags, able to rip the cloth from his 
chest and legs rather than both to take the time to remove them. 
Then, he pulled on the fresh cloths and delighted in how good a fit 
they were. Yajgaj had clearly studied him well in preparation for 
this day. How long had that Lutin been planning to betray Calephas 
and Gmork, and why do so only now?

Once he dressed, Alfwig donned the armor and stretched it to make 
sure it was still flexible. He then searched for his sword, but 
neither was there even a dagger in the trunks, nor was there a sword 
anywhere near them. He finally found his blade beneath the cot just 
as Yajgaj had promised. A small covered platter of bread and cheese 
was waiting for him. There was only enough for a few bites so he 
quickly chewed both.

His sword had been freshly oiled and sharpened as if it had been done 
by a weaponsmith of Arabarb. Yajgaj surprised him anew. He swung the 
sword a few times, savoring the feel of a blade in his hand again. 
Alfwig smiled in satisfaction, and then started up the stairs. He 
knew the path to Calephas's laboratory; he'd been brought there often 
enough. This would be the last time he ever walked that dark corridor 
that smelled of death.

"Lhindesaeg," he murmured under his breath when he reached the top of 
the landing, "I'm coming."

----------

At the end of a long corridor at the very bottom of the castle, two 
levels down from the laboratory, was a solid black iron door. The 
only one who ever came to this door was Baron Garadan Calephas. And 
so it was now, accompanied by the tiger Weaker, that Calephas came to 
it one last time. He threw the heavy latch and pushed the door out 
into the crisp air and the small dock beneath the castle. The yawl 
stretched against the stone pier, the river slowly moving past here, 
but still strong enough to easily carry them out into the main 
current and sweep them past the city within minutes.

The Baron smiled in relief. He had hoped he would not have to pass 
any of the soldiers, especially the Lutins and most especially any of 
Gmork's pups along the way from his laboratory. He'd seen not a soul 
and his sword remained unused in its scabbard at his side. He glanced 
at the tiger carrying the chest with his potions and gestured for him 
to go through. "Set them on the ship and haul in the anchor. I'll 
ready the mizzen and then we'll cast off."

Weaker nodded mutely, climbed down the stone steps to the wharf and 
then over the gunwale near the bow. Calephas watched him set the 
chest in the little niche between either side of the fo'c'sle before 
turning to secure the iron door. It took both of his arms to swing it 
shut. A large iron bar was attached the stone wall next to the door. 
It was free of rust only because the Baron came here and treated it 
with his alchemical concoctions at least once a week even in bleakest 
winter. No amount of soldiers would batter down this door. Gmork 
could do it, but Gmork would be busy defending the castle from the 
idiots in the Resistance.

Calephas laughed to himself as he thought on it. Let them fight. In 
an hour he would be far downriver and by the evening his potions 
would be ready. Come the morning he could stretch majestic wings and 
fly wherever he wished to go, a mighty wyrm at last.

How many of his enemies had sought to destroy him over the long 
years? His rivals in the Midlands had driven him into exile, but he 
had ended up conquering Arabarb with Nasoj's help to gain a land even 
vaster than the one his birthright had provided him. Two years ago 
he'd been given the task of preparing a mountain assault upon the 
northwestern edge of Metamor Valley. The Keepers had driven him back 
and slaughtered his men, but not before his spies had found paths 
through the forests that could help Nasoj's armies march straight to 
Metamor without the fools in Hareford or the Glen any the wiser.

And how well he remembered that attack the previous winter. 
Everything had seemed to go according to plan at first, that was, 
until one of Nasoj's divisions decided to ransack the Glen as they 
passed. The Glenners had found his encampment despite the winter's 
grip and a betrayal from within his own rank had handed him over to 
them. How he longed for the day he could feast on Andrig and 
Gaerwog's flesh. The thought of ripping their bodies to pieces with 
serrated teeth and cooking their flesh with his very breath brought 
an icy thrill that made him shiver as he crossed the pier to the aft 
of the yawl and climbed aboard.

Even though the Glenners had captured him, he had still escaped and 
while leading the remnants of his army north, led those overrated 
Long Scouts into a trap that very nearly decimated them. A magical 
artiface alone had saved them, one that Nasoj had long sought vainly.

And of course, Calephas could not forget his alliance with Lilith and 
the gift of the draconian potions. From every defeat he grew 
stronger. And now he would never need to fear defeat again.

He laughed to himself as he pondered all of these events, hands 
carefully readying the mizzen mast. He was so wrapped up in his joy 
that he didn't even bother watching Weaker haul in the anchor. The 
tiger stood staring at the anchor chain and crank for several long 
seconds before bending over the side and grabbing the heavy chain in 
his paws and lifting it up with his own remarkable strength. His lips 
curled back with each pull revealing sharp fangs and a long raspy 
tongue. Golden eyes narrowed as the anchor, a massive rusted piece of 
metal that weighed at least twenty-five stone, emerged above the 
surface of the water and clunked against the side of the ship. This 
he grabbed and hauled over the gunwale along with the chain, and held 
in his paws as if it were a holy object.

Calephas, finished with the mizzen, moved to the port to undo the 
ropes lashed to the pier when he noticed Weaker standing next to 
fo'c'sle with the anchor in his paws. "Weaker, what are you doing?"

The tiger glanced at him and his lips curled in a snarl. "Wicked."

His hand reached for his sword and his voice deepened with the 
authority that he had once used to break this tiger. "What did you 
say to me, slave?"

The tiger lifted the anchor a little higher, the chain clinking as it 
dragged across the wood of the yawl. His voice hissed with predatory 
exhilaration. "My name is Wicked!" With a heave he drove the anchor 
down into the chest at his feet. The wood cracked and splintered, and 
the three exquisite bottles with his precious potion shattered and 
spilled their contents across the deck.

"No!" Calephas shouted in fierce rage. His sword leaped into his hand 
as he dashed across the short distance. He swung the blade at the 
tiger's side, but the Keeper swung the anchor up to meet the blade. 
He was faster than Calephas had imagined carrying so heavy a weight, 
as he deftly parried blow after blow from the heavy sword. Calephas 
had to yank his sword back each time to keep the blade from snapping 
against the anchor.

The tiger's eyes were fierce with triumph as he stepped to the right, 
moving slowly around the baron. Calephas felt only rage and hate for 
this traitorous slave. The loss of the potions was devastating, but 
he knew enough now that he could create them anew. It would take 
months, but he would do it. First this tiger would die.

His voice was ever one of his weapons. "You little shit! How dare you 
try to stop me from striking you! You are nothing without me, Weaker. 
You are a weakling without me. You are dust! An ant! Dung! I am your 
master! I am your god, Weaker. Drop that anchor and face my wrath as 
you ought! I am your god!"

Weaker smiled at him and kept turning to the side. He never lashed 
out with the anchor, only deflected Calephas's sword blows. All the 
baron needed was for this foolish Keeper to try to strike him once 
and it would be over. No matter how fast he could move that heavy 
weight, Calephas could slip through his attack. His sword had already 
nicked the tiger in the upper arms three times and the trails of 
blood were staining his orange and black fur as they dripped down to 
join the mess of purple and gray smearing the deck.

And then, after the tiger was finally back on the gunwale side, he 
shifted to his right with the anchor and Calephas drove home in the 
slight window between his arm and chest. The blade sank deep into his 
flesh, piercing just beneath his lung. Blood spurted along the haft 
of his sword and the tiger's expression of delight became blank with pain.

"Weaker," Calephas sneered as he slid the blade further into the 
tiger's belly, curving it as he drew it back out. Another moment and 
the craven beast's innards would spill across the deck.

But the tiger lowered his right arm and grabbed the chain dangling 
from the end of the anchor and grinned. "More Wicked," he said with a 
vicious hiss before he turned and threw the anchor over the gunwale.

The chain which had been dragged along as the tiger had circled him 
snapped into the air, caught Calephas behind the back and shoved him 
into the tiger's chest, the sword driving completely through the 
tiger's middle as the breath was forced from his lungs. Calephas 
tried to scream as he clawed at his slave's shoulders to break free 
before the sinking anchor vaulted them from their feet and carried 
them both down into the water tangled in the heavy chain.

The yawl rocked back and forth for a moment after they disappeared. 
The water rippled with the current that babbled briskly in the sudden
silence.


----------

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

Charles Matthias




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