[Mkguild] Snow Storm- Part 3

[Hallan Mirayas]

February 21, 708

 

    They hadn't made good time getting to Glen
Avery.  Wolfram had handled himself well on skis, and Drift's excellent
condition saw him through without trouble, but Xavier, Misha had discovered,
was softer than he thought he was and they had arrived very late.  The
next morning, the leopard had been so sore of leg that Misha had left him
behind to recuperate while he led Drift and Wolfram out on a patrol with
several of Glen Avery's scouts.

 

    The day passed uneventfully, something Misha
was prayerfully thankful for.  Wolfram had soaked up instruction like a
dry sponge, but Drift had often seemed distracted, oddly pensive, and had to be
snapped out of it several times.  As they returned to Glen Avery for the
night, Misha paused in the Glen commons and sent the others on ahead, holding
Drift back for a private talk.

 

    "All right, Drift.  What's going on?
 You've been distracted and unfocused all day."

 

    The samoyed took a deep breath and rolled his
staff back and forth between his hands.  "I wanted...  I just..."
 His ears flattened down in frustration and he ran the fingers of one hand
through his neckruff mane while he tried to order his thoughts.  "I
wanted to...  arrrrgh."  His fingers clenched in annoyance as his
chain of thoughts refused to settle.  "Look,
can we go get a drink first?"

 

    Misha produced a small flask and proffered it.

 

    "My own handiwork," Drift observed as
he worked the cork loose.  "Nice."  Without another word,
he tipped it back and drained it down.  Biting back a cough and a wheeze,
the samoyed then mopped his whiskers and muzzle with the back of his wrist
before returning the flask.  "Thank you."

 

    "You're welcome," Misha replied with
a mournful glance at his emptied 'reserve' before putting it away.  "You
were saying?"

 

    The alcohol seemed to steady Drift's nerves,
and the samoyed relaxed a little.  Resting Whirlwind upright in the snow,
he leaned against the staff and ranged his eyes across the hearth-glows
gleaming warmly among the towering trees of the Glen.  The snow on the
ground, thinning after a warm day, was still enough to muffle the sounds of
families settling down for the evening meal, and a whispering breeze rustled
through the branches and pine needles above.  The smell of stew from
someone's hearth fire wafted across the commons, and somebody clinked metal
against metal in a small stable not far away from them.  A horse inside
nickered softly at whoever was making the sound and a gentle voice murmured
back in tender affection.

 

    When he finally spoke, Drift's voice was quiet,
respectful of the peace around him... and even a little envious.  "It
has been nearly five years since my father died, under what I thought were
suspicious circumstances.  I still think so now.  But after all that
time, how many viable, actable clues do you think I have as to his death by
anything other than a damned wandering lutin?"

 

    "Not many."

 

    "None.  Nothing that I can take
before the law and say, 'This proves that I was right, that I'm not a paranoid
conspiracy nut.'  Hunches?  Yes.  Theories aplenty.  But
proof?  Not a lick.  Every lead I've thought I'd had has turned up a
blank dead end."

 

    Misha lowered his ears.  "So you're
here to look again?" he asked, knowing his friend's tendency to bullish
stubbornness.

 

    Drift knew it too, and sighed.  "No.
 And yes.  It's complicated."

 

    "Obviously."

 

    Drift rolled his eyes, but forged on past
Misha's dry rejoinder.  "I love Alexis.  I want to raise a
family with her and be a better father to our kids than mine was to me.
 So on the one hand, I could drop all of this and focus entirely on Alexis
and our children.  There's a definite appeal to that.  I could
just... let it go.  But on the other hand, the dead ends I've run into have
all felt almost too thorough, like somebody is deliberately blocking me.
 Yes, I know how paranoid that sounds.  But somebody who could and
would do that could be a threat to my family.  I've had too many
'accidents' these past couple of years to discount it.  And even if I'm
just being uselessly paranoid, if I give up without some compelling reason,
I'll always be looking back, wondering if I made the right choice, and that's
not fair to anyone."

 

    "Drift, you can't keep this up.  It
will ruin your life.  I've known you for-Yashua's breath, has it really
only been a year?  In that time, I've watched you grow out of your
father's shadow into a confident young man willing to chase his own dreams.
 You've got a wonderful wife-to-be in Alexis, you have good and solid
friends who care deeply for you and, I believe, a promising future ahead if
that ice house does as well as I think it will.  But there's another side
to you that worries me, Drift.  You fixate on things with a
tenacity that I've rarely seen and seldom liked.  It's not healthy.
 It's dangerous, and it could cost you everything you've worked for."

 

    "I know.  You're not the first to
tell me that I can get... obsessive.  If I had a copper crescent for every
time I've heard it from Xavier alone, well..."  The samoyed quirked a
wry smile.  "I'd be richer than you."

 

    Misha snorted a laugh, but his friend's
demeanor, for the moment, kept him quiet.

 

    Drift tilted his head back searching for the
first few stars among the trees as the twilight faded.  "Do you
remember the story of Gideon and the fleece?"

 

    "Yes," Misha replied.  "Vaguely."

 

    "That's why I'm here.  I have asked
over and over in prayer for some pointer to my father's killer, and have never
had anything that lasted.  This is the last time.  I laid it all in
His hands:  either I find something here, a solid and unmistakable sign,
or I'm going to take the silence as a sign to move on.  No more looking
back, either way.  I can't wait any longer.  Alexis is too important
to me."  He lifted Whirlwind and spun it once to clear the ends of
snow before retracting it.  Chk-shk-shk-shak!  "This has
to end."

 

    "Finally I am seeing wisdom in you, Drift,"
Misha said slowly. "Now you can put all that behind you."

 

    "One way or the other," Drift replied
softly, watching a falling star streak silently across the sky.  After a
moment more of introspection, he shook himself and turned, gesturing toward the
distant glow of Jurmas' inn.  "That's enough woolgathering.  Can
we go eat now?"

 

    Misha chuckled, then turned his head slightly
to look at something behind Drift.  "I think someone wants to meet
you first.  Hello, Charles.  Your stealth skills have improved."

 

    Drift spun, stepping back in startled alarm as
a shape resolved from the darkness behind him.  Not gifted with his
vulpine friend's low-light vision, the samoyed sniffed the air while he tried
to make out who this new person was.  Balked by a downwind breeze, he then
pulled a forked, leather-gripped metal rod from his belt and struck it once
against Whirlwind.  "Light," he said, and it sparked to life
with a hiss and a bright blue-violet glow.

 

    "Well, that's new," Misha remarked in
surprise, and Drift got a good look at the newcomer as the animorph Keeper
shielded his eyes against the sudden light.  He held a horse pick in one
hand and a hammer in the other, but something about his carriage and demeanor
suggested far more than a stablemaster.

 

    "I wasn't trying to sneak up on you,"
the stranger said, long whiskers twitching on a rodentine face.  "Just
checking out an unexpectedly familiar sound."

 

    The newcomer lowered his hand, his eyes
apparently adjusted to the bright light, and Drift startled anew.  The
rat's face was marred on the right side by a black scar over his eye in the
shape of a twisted, long-fingered hand.  He's got to be a Long,
Drift thought, glancing from the rat to Misha and back.  Taking his cue
from the fox, Drift relaxed and started to offer his hand before remembering he
still held Whirlwind in it.  Tucking the weapon hastily under his arm, he
tried again.  "Edward Snow," he said as he held out his hand, "but
my friends call me Drift."

 

    Chuckling over the samoyed's momentary
consternation, the rat clasped Drift's hand and smiled.  "Charles
Matthais.  Interesting light you have there," he said.  He then
gestured toward the collapsed staff tucked under the samoyed's arm.  "That,
however, looks even more interesting.  May I ask what it is?
 Where did you get it?"

 

    Drift handed the light over to Misha with an
admonishment to be careful.  "Don't touch the glowing end: you'll get
a nasty jolt," he warned before returning his attention to Charles.
 Holding the staff out level, he squeezed the triggers in the grip to
deploy it.  Chk-shk-shk-shak!  Twisting it, he revealed the
end spikes and then retracted them.  "This is Whirlwind, my
battlestaff."  He spun it into a ready position, scattering the snow
around him like a downy white halo, and his lips drew up in a proud smile.
 "My own design."

    

    The rat's eyes widened as he watched, his ears following
closely the whirr of the battlestaff's pierced ends.  He then threaded the
horsepick and hammer through his belt and adjusted his tunic and vest.  At
his neck, Drift spotted what looked like a curl of ivy poking above his
collar.  Did he have a plant stuck down his shirt?  That question,
though, scattered from his mind when the rat pulled out a small narrow tube of
metal from his tunic and held it out in his paws. "It reminds me of
something I use." 

 

    With a flick of his wrist, the rat extended the
small metal tube into a large staff, with brass ferrules at either end.  CH-H-AK! 
Drift's jaw dropped, and Whirlwind nearly followed it.  Such a familiar
weapon- but so much more advanced!  Somehow, it appeared to be the same
width at the ends as it was in the middle, and yet Drift could clearly see
overlapping sections where it had to retract.  The metal couldn't be
thicker than a strand of fur; how could it possibly survive even a single blow?


 

    "What is-  Where did you-  How
does that-"  The samoyed's voice tripped over itself with astonished
questions before finally picking one.  "May I see?" he asked,
reaching out toward it with one hand and belatedly offering Whirlwind with the
other with a sheepish lowering of the ears.  "It's not as impressive
as yours, but-"

 

    "Nonsense," the rat replied,
exchanging staff for staff.  Examining the visible taper of Whirlwind from
center to end, he spun it once to get a feel for its heft and listen to its whirring
sigh, like wind among the trees.  "You designed this yourself?"
he asked, and then looked up when he heard Misha chuckle.

 

    Drift's tail was nearly stirring a breeze, so
strong was Drift's excitement as he pored over the Sondeshike, switching it
back and forth between his hands to feel its weight, tapping it with his claws
and listening to the sound in an effort to gauge its thickness.  "How
did you get this so thin and yet so sturdy?  A particular alloy, or pure
magic?  It's so light!  What are these brass knobs?  I can't
imagine them being purely for decoration on something this austere in design..."
 His mouth competed with his wagging tail for speed.

 

    "I think he likes it, Charles," Misha
opined wryly.

 

    "Obviously," the rat replied with
equal humor, exchanging the staves back over Drift's reluctant protests.
 Holding the Sondeshike vertically, he held his hand flat next to one side
of the hemispherical ferrule.  "The round shape is to focus the
impact force into as small an area as possible, to concentrate it.  As for
the brass material..."  The rat stepped back and started to spin the
staff, slowly at first, then faster and faster until it looked more like a
gold-rimmed silver disk than a spinning bar of metal.  It hummed with the
motion, loudly enough that Charles had to raise his voice to be heard over it.
 "It lets people know," the rat said with a hint of a smile, "where
not to put their hands!"

 

    "A wise warning, that!" Misha
replied, his three-fingered right hand coming down on Drift's shoulder and
pulling the samoyed back.  "Still a little too close, I think,"
he said as he stooped to scoop up a handful of snow.  "I've seen this
maneuver used before, and it is definitely not one you want to be too close to."
 To prove his point, he packed the snow into a ball and lobbed it into the
spinning disk.  It didn't get there.  As far as Drift could tell, the
air in front of the disk shredded the snowball apart and dispersed it into a
cloud of white powder, scattering it in all directions.

 

    Drift's ears drooped along with his eager mood.
 Compared to a weapon like this, wielded in the hands of a master like
that, Whirlwind barely rated as a parlor trick!  He collapsed the staff
self-consciously and tucked it against his arm.  When Charles slowed his
own whirling staff to a stop, Drift then bowed his head in a respectful nod.
 "You're very good," he said.

 

    Charles bowed his head in return, seeming
pleased with the praise. "I have been training most of my life," he
explained.  "It took me years to learn the Dance of the Staff, and to
see it done properly, it really should be done with two people rather than one."
 For a moment, he looked saddened, his expression falling, but it regained
its humor soon enough.  "But enough of my showing off.  Care to
show me what your staff is capable of?  I'm very curious how you made
that."

 

    "It's not as impressive as yours,"
Drift replied, reluctantly holding Whirlwind up again, still retracted.  "Springs
and gears where I could manage it, enchantments where I couldn't.  I'd
have preferred not to use magic at all; those can be dispelled or manipulated,
and it drives some of the Ecclesia into fits, and I don't need any more help
with that than I already have.  Still, I wanted a staff I could use to cover
my own back, especially in taurform, and then keep in a smaller form when I
didn't need it.  I definitely got that."

 

    Charles had started to open his mouth to ask
what Drift meant by 'not needing any more help sending the Ecclesia into fits',
but the mention of taurform stopped him.  "Another one, Misha?"
the rat asked with a wry smirk.  "I don't think you're going to rest
until every animal-cursed Keeper in the valley is walking on four legs."

 

    Misha laughed, the fox holding up his hands as
if to ward off the rat's words.  "Don't blame me.  He figured it out by himself after watching
you and me returning through the gates after your first time as a taur."

 

    "Is this true?"

 

    Drift facepalmed, groaning with amused
embarrassment.  "I'm going to need another drink if I have to tell
that story again."

 

    "Then wait here a moment while I let my
wife know I'll be out a bit late tonight.  This sounds like too good a
story to pass up."

 

-----

 

    "And this stupid cart driver pulls his
wagon out right in front of me!"  Drift pulled a trencher of bread
into the street he'd marked out in ale on the tavern table, flanked by emptied
and half-emptied tankards for buildings, and then held his hand just above the
'street' to represent himself..  "I do mean right in front of
me, too- no room to swerve around either side or stop..."  He paused
and smiled.  "So I jumped it," he said, suiting action to words
by 'jumping' his hand over the bread.  "Right in front of the driver,
too.  I could have reached out and patted him on the head as I passed."

 

    The samoyed chuckled.  "I can still
picture his eyes, wide as dinner plates as he went over backward into his
wagon.  WAAAAUGH!"  Rocking back in his chair, Drift threw his
hands up on either side of his face, eyes wide and jaw slack in a comical
display of shock that got the whole table laughing, and then picked up his
tankard of ale and gulped down the last few swallows.  Wiping his mouth
and lolling his tongue in a canine laugh, he continued, "And that's how I
got my best reaction to taur form."  He nodded to Misha across the
table.  "Your turn."

 

    Wolfram looked up from his plate of food, a pie
made from turnips and potatoes and beets, as deep as a hand is wide.
 Jurmas the inkeeper had created it specifically for patrons who couldn't
eat meat.  Given that the ram was on his third helping, it seemed to be a
hit.  "I still say that you couldn't pay me to do that," he
interjected around a mouthful of pie, then held up a hand as to ward off
angered retorts.  "No offense to you all, but to me it seems..."
 He swallowed, frowned, and scratched an itch on his chin while he tried
to track down the ending for his sentence.  "What's the word I'm
looking for?" he mused.

 

    "Odd?" Drift proposed with a smirk.

 

    "That too, but more im... im..."

 

    "Impressive?" Misha teased.

 

    "Impractical," Charles replied.
 When Misha turned on him with a look of exaggerated shock, the rat
continued.  "It's true.  In the wrong conditions, taur form is
far more trouble than it's worth.  Heavy, slow to maneuver-"

 

    "Stairs," Drift interjected.

 

    "Highly visible, large target area,
long-term logistics-"

 

    "Lo-what?"

 

    "Food supply problems, Wolfram."

 

    "I knew that."

 

    "Highly unusual outside of Metamor.
 Certain to draw significant attention."

 

    "Clothes.  More stairs."

 

    "Now, having said all that," Charles
continued, "I can also say from personal experience that, in the right
situation, taur form can be a lifesaver.  Its strength and shock value can
turn a fight in moments, and for transporting people or materials, it's superb.
 A taur can go places where a pack horse cannot, and the food supply issue
can be got around by changing to a smaller form before eating.  No, I
don't know why that works," he added as an aside before Wolfram could ask.
 "Like any other tool, it needs to be used at the right time and
purpose to be effective, but don't rule it out just because it's..."
 The rat smiled.  "A little odd."

 

    Drift looked up as a shadow fell across his
emptied plate.  "Welcome back, Xavier.  Have an interesting
discussion?"

 

    Xavier pulled out a chair and sat down, a
contemplative cast to his black-furred face.  "Baron Avery has an...
interesting outlook on the duties of the nobility," he said, but refused
to be drawn into an explanation of the enigmatic remark.  Instead, to
change the subject, he leaned in to take a closer look at the only member of
the group unfamiliar to him.  "I know you," he said finally.
 "You're Charles Matthais."

 

    Charles turned his head further toward the
leopard, revealing the blackened handprint over his eye, and his whiskers
lowered in a cautious moue.  "I am he."

 

    "What's a writer of your caliber doing way
out here?"

    

    The rat's cautious expression turned to one of
bemusement.  "'Of my caliber?'" he asked.  "What do
you mean by that?"

 

    "My personal library has several of your
works.  The one with the three prisoners and the guard in the plague-hit
town is a personal favorite.  I even taught Wolfram how to read using it."

 

    Charles's whiskers perked for a moment and his
ears rocked back slightly against his head.  The corners of his snout
turned up in a warm smile. "I am honored that you'd use one of my stories
to help your friend learn to read.  It's probably the best thing that has
been done with some of them.  But that one I'm still fond of even after
all these years."

 

    A smile of dawning comprehension crossed both
Drift and Wolfram's faces.  "I knew that name sounded familiar,"
the samoyed said, while the ram beamed with happiness.  "I preferred
the story of the Phitt and the Shan," the samoyed said, smirking slightly
as he gestured toward Xavier, "but I'm a bit more lowbrow than my lordly
friend here."

 

    Charles put his hand to his head and laughed.
 "Oh, Eli, I'd nearly forgotten about that one.  I wrote that,
what, three years ago?  Yes, for the Vernal Festival."  He shook
his head and reached for his drink, taking a long sip before continuing.  "Where
does the time fly?  I haven't written anything in nearly two years."

 

    "Then it sounds to me like you're long
overdue to get some writing done," Misha commented. "I'd love to see
your trip to the south written down.  An epic for the ages."

 

    "We'll see," Charles replied, sitting
back in his chair as his eyes went momentarily distant.  "Perhaps in
a few months or a year... right now, the memories are still a little too close
for me."

 

    A somber mood settled over the table for a few
moments, but soon faded as Misha carried the conversation off into a different
topic.  Several hours passed in convivial comradeship before the time came
to call it a night.     "Well, I should be going for
the evening," said the rat as he rose from the table, and he bowed his
head to the three newcomers to his circle of acquaintances.  "It was
nice to have met you three, and I hope to see you again sometime once I'm done
with my escort duties."

 

    "Good night, Charles," Misha said,
rising to shake his friend's hand in farewell.  "Safe journey to you
while you're escorting the Bishop."  Once the rat had left, the fox
turned his attention to the rest of the group.  "As a matter of fact,
we should all be heading to bed.  We've got a long day tomorrow, and I
don't want anyone hung over or too tired to stay sharp."  Over
Wolfram's half-hearted protests regarding the high quality of the Glenners'
ale, the veteran scout turned his attention to Xavier.  "You're
recovered enough to join the patrol?" he asked.

 

    "Indeed.  The respite was much
appreciated," the leopard replied with a nod, and then changed the
subject.  "I'm told there are Lorland natives in the area.  I
would very much like to meet them before we return to Metamor."

 

    "All right.  I'll introduce you once
we get back."

 

    The leopard nodded again by way of thanks and
departed for his private room on the second floor.  Wolfram drained his
two mugs and headed for the room he was sharing with Drift, pausing at the
doorway to wait for his friend.  Misha nodded to him and made sure that
wait wouldn't be a long one.

 

    "Drift, I know you're looking for
something, but I need your full focus on patrol tomorrow, all right?  Can
you do that?"

 

    "Yes, Misha.  I think I've got things
settled now."


    "Do you have a plan for what you're going
to do here?  If you're looking for a sign, do you have some idea of where
to start?

 

    The samoyed grimaced and stroked his chin.
 "To be honest, Misha... no, I don't.  Aside from hoping to find
the actual place where he died, and seeing if anyone here remembers anything..."
 He shrugged helplessly.  "I'm making this up as I go along."



    "Well, that's at least a start.  I'll give it some
thought.  See you in the morning."  Misha watched all three of
his charges go, and worried.  Wolfram was so eager to impress the head of
the Long Scouts that he might try something rash to do it.  Misha didn't
expect he'd do so, but it was possible.  The veteran scout sighed, knowing
that he'd have to let the ram down if he really did have his heart set on the
Longs.  George had had an eye on him for some time now as a prospective
officer's candidate in the regular army, and had told Misha in no uncertain
terms that this one was not to be poached.  Xavier could make an excellent
field mage, if he could manage to stop alternating between approachable and
prickly, or at least give a bit more warning when he decided to change moods.
 His weather magic, if it lived up to its reputation, would be invaluable
to any patrol, but his attitude could get him in serious trouble in the field.  And
Drift...

 

    Drift was a keg of dragon dust waiting for a
spark.  It remained to be seen whether he found one.

 

    Misha sighed again and pushed himself up from
the table, pausing to gulp down the last dregs of ale from his mug.  He
wiped his mouth, then stretched to pop a crick in his back and turned for bed.
 When did I start getting old?

 		 	   		  
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