The boot came free from the bog with a sucking sound, bringing with it the fetid smell of rotting vegetation. Caught off balance the young woman measured her length onto the tussocky hummock she had been using as leverage.
Pulling her face out of the damp ground she spat out a curse, along with a quantity of decaying vegetable matter. Already she could feel the damp beginning to soak through her trews at the knees, a sensation that only added to her already extensive discomfort and annoyance.
The early winter rains had swollen the waterways and bogs of the Sarangrave and familiar paths had changed almost beyond recognition. As a result, a trip that should have taken a day and a half had now stretched out to almost three days. Beneath the discomfort and bubbling anger was the sickening concern that she might very well arrive too late and find her contact long gone. Pushing herself upright she checked the horizon and estimated she had perhaps half an hour of light left.
Muttering a string of curses she stepped off the hummock and began wading.
***
Night had fallen and a light mist was beginning to rise when she finally glimpsed the low island that was her destination.
Wading out of the brackish water onto the sandy beach she squelched her way through the reeds toward the leaning Swampwood tree that dominated the islet.
As she drew closer she could see a faint light flickering on the bark of ancient tree, hinting at the low banked fire that had been lit in it's lee. With a muttered prayer to Ana and Ea she eased her way into the clearing.
The small fire had been set in a shallow hollow, carefully arranged to ensure that the any light emitted would only be visible to someone approaching from the west. The reeds and ferns had been methodically cleared away to prevent the fire from spreading. The young woman crouched down to examine it. The coals were coated with a grey film of ash, suggesting that it had been some time since it had been last tended.
Using the copper blade of her knife she carefully rolled some of the coals to the side. As they were cleared away a blacked package wrapped in leaves was revealed. She skewered it with the tip of her blade and dragged the package towards her. Rolling it out onto the cool earth she gingerly began to unwrap it, pausing frequently to wave her fingers vigorously, blowing on them to cool them.
As the leaves were finally peeled away the rich aroma of baked catfish wafted into the evening air. With the fish finally unwrapped she paused to savour it's rich scent. As she inhaled a puzzled frown flickered across her face. She leaned in closer to the fish and sniffed again. Mixed with the smell of fish was a subtle and complicated blend of scents. Thyme and another, sharper, herb. The woman allowed herself a small smile of amusement as she rocked back onto her heels and stared out into the gathering darkness.
"I didn't think they'd allow you within sixty leagues of Daris, Smith", she murmured into the darkness.
From the shadows to her left a low voice rumbled, "All things change, Stitcher".
The woman rose to a standing position and turned to face the speaker, "Your cooking has improved", she said with a grin.
Smith stepped into the light. A large man, he was dressed in a long patched tunic of indeterminate colour. The long sword in his right hand was unwaveringly pointed toward the young woman's midriff.
"Thank you. Now if you'd be so kind as hold this up where I can see it". He tossed a small glittering object across the clearing to her. She caught the object left handed easily and glanced down at it. Smith watched the emotions flit across her face, surprise, confusion, and finally annoyance. She held the charm up and allowed the fire to glint off it.
"Would you care to tell me what you're playing at?" The words came lightly enough, but Smith knew the woman well enough to know that she struggling to contain an angry outburst.
"Does the council know you're even out here, with this?" She waved the charm at him.
"The council knows, and they approve Stitcher", Smith made a beckoning gesture and the woman called Stitcher carefully tossed the charm back to him.
He glanced at it and lowered his blade, allowing a smile of relief to show on his face.
"Under the circumstances you can understand why I need to be cautious", he tucked the charm out of sight. "Word of the Varanite cloning experiment had already sent the council into hysterics, when we heard about the attack on Daris...", his voice trailed off.
"Fair enough, I'd react in much the same way in your position", Smith could barely hear her subdued reply.
He watched her sink back into a sitting position and studied her profile. Lines of worry and care where etched into her face where previously there had been none. He joined her at the fire, staring into the flames, allowing her a chance to calm herself before turning to regard her.
"When we heard about the invasion everyone's first thought was for your safety. Cob and Piper where all for setting out to look for you and damn the consequences". Smith speared a flake of the fish on his belt knife.
"And what about you?" The question was asked casually but Smith could hear the tension in Stitcher's voice.
"Weaver, and I, convinced them that it was too dangerous". He concentrated on the Catfish, unwilling to meet her eyes, he didn't need to see the look of betrayal she would have on her face.
"Weaver", Stitcher's voice was bitter, "Weaver is so tied up with her intrigues that she has..."
"Weaver has to take a longer view than you", Smith allowed a little annoyance to creep into his voice, "and this is a conversation that I have no interest in repeating, again. Now, your report please".
For long moments Stitcher was silent, staring in to the fire. Just when Smith was convinced that she was not going to reply she sighed and began to speak.
"More of the survivors of the attack on Daris are returning to rebuild the village each day. The surviving members of the Council of Lords and Redboots are doing what they can to keep things civilized, but it's being hampered by some tensions between the Brigade and Council."
"Surprisingly many of the ringleaders of the various sects appear to have survived the attack, and things are rapidly degenerating to the regular status quo. The Nergalites are spouting platitudes of brotherhood for all, provided the Ruins are recognised as a kingdom of Nergal in the mortal realm. The followers of Marduk, Girru, and Utu are girding their loins and preparing to bring enlightenment to the Nergalites with sharp pointy objects."
"Every time a leader tries to bring any order to the situation they vilified by those who do not share their particular vision and the whole seething cycle of accusation and counter accusation begins again.
"The imperial forces seem largely unaware or unconcerned about the village. I'm pursuing a number of leads to try and discover on why this might be. I've heard the Variants have established an armed camp near the river, left unattended too long they will be difficult to dislodge."
"The whole situation is a gods tangled mess", she punctuated the last statement by tossing a branch onto the fire.
"Does this mean you're ready to return to the fold?" Smith did his best to keep his voice as casual as possible. His question was rewarded with glare.
"The council is wrong, the fact that the fractions of Daris are floundering like a rudderless ship in a storm doesn't change what I said", passion rang in the young woman’s voice, "We have waited too long as it is and already risk forsaking the oath
we have - all - taken".
Smith leaned back and allowed himself to openly grin at her. The diatribe floundered to a halt as she became aware of this. He watched her eye's narrow with suspicion.
"Why are you here Smith, and what do you mean the council approves?"
"As I said, all things change Stitcher. You recall your report on the Fortinbras girl?"
"Yes"
"Well with the benefit of hind sight it appears that Utu was up to more than simply offering a warning of dangers to come to a favoured follower. What do you know of the holy bell of Utu?"
Stitcher's eyes unfocused. "It hung in the great temple of Dasar where it was used to call the faithful to prayer. Following the fall of the city it was shipped back to the imperial capital as a war trophy."
"Very good", Smith paused to stab another portion of fish. "Are you not going to eat any of this", he enquired politely.
"Never mind the fish Smith. What has the bell got to do with Fortinbras?"
Smith tutted. "Your impatience will see you in trouble one day girl, eat some fish".
Stitcher snorted, but she relented and speared a portion with her belt knife. "The bell", she insisted around a mouthful of fish.
Smith eye sparkled with humour as he continued his tale. "As best we can tell the relic was tolling the whole time Utu was prophesising".
"But I thought it was melted down?" The confusion in Stitcher's voice was such that it was all Smith could do to avoid breaking into outright laughter.
"It was! The Duke of Tarasius was wearing his ceremonial armour at the time. They say he may never recover his hearing. The imperial warship Abraxius sank, all hands lost. Its ram was cast in part from bronze of the bell. There are a dozen similar stories from both Dasaria and Varana".
"But what purpose could Utu have for such a display?" Smith watched the girl struggling to draw conclusions.
"There is more," he went on softly. "In Caer a statue of Nanna-Sin's owl flew three times about her temple grounds. In Durase the statute of Inanna has somehow turned to face to the west, no one saw it happen, although the temple was full at the time. There are other tales as well".
"Why?" The word was barely a whisper. Stitcher's eyes widened abruptly and she turned to face Smith, "Fisher. Is Fisher safe?"
Smith smiled and paused savouring his news. "The Fisher is fine Stitcher. As is his son".
All things change
Moderator: Lords of The Realm
All things change
Last edited by Harper on Mon Jan 05, 2004 3:57 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Sally Adams
- Dasarian Hero
- Posts: 383
- Joined: Mon Jul 21, 2003 11:03 pm
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The G Elle
- Dasarian Hero
- Posts: 282
- Joined: Mon Jul 21, 2003 5:43 pm
It's going to be a cold night.
The fire has long since burned down to embers and the mist draws in. My clothes are finally dry and my stomach is pleasantly full. Smith's cooking has improved since we last met, although he still uses too much Tarragon and Pepper for my taste. When I told him this he laughed, I think he over spiced the fish deliberately.
For the moment we sit in silence, content to simply enjoy each others companionship without conversation. If I count back it has been almost four years since we last talked face to face, yet in everyway that counts it might as well be yesterday. We have both grown used to the restrictions our oath has imposed upon us. It forms a bound that I think few others could understand, one that the passing of time does not weaken.
I've always been dismissive when people speak of their lives changing in an instant. I have observed, that when examined closely, very few great changes occur in an instant. Rather they are the result of months, or years, of small decisions all leading inexorably to the "great" change. Yet as I sit here I can find no other way to describe the impact of Smith's oh so casual announcement than, in that instant, I was aware that everything had changed.
It should not have been such a great surprise, for all of his disfigurement the Fisher is a whole man, and he and his wife have always seemed well pleased with each other. Yet since his father and brother were taken fifteen years ago our future has rested on the survival of one weakened man. For all the harsh words I have had with them, I can understand why the council has chosen the path of caution. One man's life must seem all too thin a thread to reweave as rich a tapestry as that we seek to.
But now all is changed, and for a wonder it seems the council has the wit to see this as well.
The fact that Weaver has allowed Smith to return to his old hunting grounds speaks volumes to me. In truth there are likely to be few still alive who would recognise him. But previously even such a slight risk has seen the council imposing the tightest of restrictions on our movements. It is obvious he is revelling in his freedom, although he tells me he has business that will soon see him moving on. In the meantime I can only hope he keeps away from Bearis, for there is one who surely will not have forgotten him. I know it will be hard for him, I think Smith is finally coming to appreciate that Tymora’s gift is not without it's teeth, as are all the gifts of Wyrms.
Smith's freedom is not the only change, from pariah and outsider it seems I am once again to be included in the deliberations of the council. I can feel the cool surface of my last coin against my skin. If I concentrate I can feel the stirring of the web like a hundred half heard whispers.
I can't deny that the recent years have been difficult, but I find myself wondering if I am truly ready to return to the restrictions of the order. It is a decision that I tell myself I need not make immediately, a weakness perhaps, but one that causes no harm for the moment.
Smith tells me he believes that the council will allow us considerable leeway in our activities. I can feel Weavers hand in this, could it be that she is coming to accept that Daris is to be the pivot point I have long warned her of? Or does she merely seek to draw attention away from one of her many other projects? Either is possible and it would be naive to think that Varana are unable to read the signs as well as we. We can only hope that Ba-Jiricek's pact still holds.
The trip to back to Daris will be long, but the solitude will give me the chance to consider how this news may effect those threads I have already woven. No doubt the various factions will have shifted again in the time I have been absent, I can only hope things have not progressed too quickly for my associates. Perhaps a trip to New Dasar would be in order in the near future; the return of the coin opens a number of intriguing possibilities.
But for tonight I will sit with my friend, remember old companions long gone, insult his cooking, and talk about how things will be.
The fire has long since burned down to embers and the mist draws in. My clothes are finally dry and my stomach is pleasantly full. Smith's cooking has improved since we last met, although he still uses too much Tarragon and Pepper for my taste. When I told him this he laughed, I think he over spiced the fish deliberately.
For the moment we sit in silence, content to simply enjoy each others companionship without conversation. If I count back it has been almost four years since we last talked face to face, yet in everyway that counts it might as well be yesterday. We have both grown used to the restrictions our oath has imposed upon us. It forms a bound that I think few others could understand, one that the passing of time does not weaken.
I've always been dismissive when people speak of their lives changing in an instant. I have observed, that when examined closely, very few great changes occur in an instant. Rather they are the result of months, or years, of small decisions all leading inexorably to the "great" change. Yet as I sit here I can find no other way to describe the impact of Smith's oh so casual announcement than, in that instant, I was aware that everything had changed.
It should not have been such a great surprise, for all of his disfigurement the Fisher is a whole man, and he and his wife have always seemed well pleased with each other. Yet since his father and brother were taken fifteen years ago our future has rested on the survival of one weakened man. For all the harsh words I have had with them, I can understand why the council has chosen the path of caution. One man's life must seem all too thin a thread to reweave as rich a tapestry as that we seek to.
But now all is changed, and for a wonder it seems the council has the wit to see this as well.
The fact that Weaver has allowed Smith to return to his old hunting grounds speaks volumes to me. In truth there are likely to be few still alive who would recognise him. But previously even such a slight risk has seen the council imposing the tightest of restrictions on our movements. It is obvious he is revelling in his freedom, although he tells me he has business that will soon see him moving on. In the meantime I can only hope he keeps away from Bearis, for there is one who surely will not have forgotten him. I know it will be hard for him, I think Smith is finally coming to appreciate that Tymora’s gift is not without it's teeth, as are all the gifts of Wyrms.
Smith's freedom is not the only change, from pariah and outsider it seems I am once again to be included in the deliberations of the council. I can feel the cool surface of my last coin against my skin. If I concentrate I can feel the stirring of the web like a hundred half heard whispers.
I can't deny that the recent years have been difficult, but I find myself wondering if I am truly ready to return to the restrictions of the order. It is a decision that I tell myself I need not make immediately, a weakness perhaps, but one that causes no harm for the moment.
Smith tells me he believes that the council will allow us considerable leeway in our activities. I can feel Weavers hand in this, could it be that she is coming to accept that Daris is to be the pivot point I have long warned her of? Or does she merely seek to draw attention away from one of her many other projects? Either is possible and it would be naive to think that Varana are unable to read the signs as well as we. We can only hope that Ba-Jiricek's pact still holds.
The trip to back to Daris will be long, but the solitude will give me the chance to consider how this news may effect those threads I have already woven. No doubt the various factions will have shifted again in the time I have been absent, I can only hope things have not progressed too quickly for my associates. Perhaps a trip to New Dasar would be in order in the near future; the return of the coin opens a number of intriguing possibilities.
But for tonight I will sit with my friend, remember old companions long gone, insult his cooking, and talk about how things will be.
OCC: better late than never
The man called Smith watched the four hundred year old Zishyun vase sail out the door and hit the wall. The paper-thin porcelain exploded into a thousand shards which rained onto the floor with an almost pleasant tinkling noise. Mentally he added another four thousand imperials to the damage bill, the floor was already littered with the wreckage of several other priceless artefacts.
Glancing out through one of the villa's wide windows he could see the sun glinting and reflecting off the water in the bay. The sails of the distant pleasure boats tacking back and forth gracefully in the light swells. Another loud crash and the continued stream of cursing from within the room suggested that it would be some time before the destruction wound down. With a sigh that seemed to convey he had seen this many times before he leaned back against the cool stonewall to wait.
Sometime later a shuffling sound brought him out of a pleasant day dream involving two young courtesans, a boat, and bowl of grapes. A short pasty-faced man in a freshly pressed tunic was approaching up the hallway, his face filled with trepidation. The mans mousy hair had been brushed forward to conceal his receding hair line, not for the first time Smith considered telling him it didn't. Instead he settled for a cursory nod.
A bright flash through the open doorway and a splintering crash announced the demise of another piece of priceless furniture. The little man winced and edged closer.
"How long has she been going now?" he asked in a low voice.
Smith glanced out the window; the shadows in the small courtyard garden had shifted considerably since he had last looked.
"Coming up on three hours I'd say", he opinioned. "She ran out of pots and ornaments about half an hour ago, so that just leaves the heavy stuff."
"Can't you ask her to keep it down? It's only a matter.." another flash and a muffled boom from within the room drowned out the last of what ever the little man was trying to say. Smith watched a few small flakes of plaster and dust fall from the roof and waited for the ringing in his ears to die down.
"If you think I'm going in there Fletch then you're even more unbalanced than she is. How's Cob?"
The small man grimaced. "Nothing serious, his sheepskins took the blunt of the blast. A few burns, I think his eyebrows will grow back."
Smith sighed, "We'll need to convene the full council, I guess, to discuss this. We need to know how the crusaders got past the seal to find the girl"
Fletcher bobbed his head in agreement; "I've already sent Piper to Durace to recall Cooper. Cob should be able to leave for Cana within the hour."
"And what of the Stitcher, who will contact her?", asked Smith watching Fletcher's little eye's dart about. Fletcher at least had the sense to look embarrassed.
"I thought to wait until...", he began.
"You thought to try and exclude her", Smith finished for him.
"Now is not the time for dissent”. Cob’s voice began to rise stridently, "It is Weaver's time and she will only stir up things!"
Smith was readying himself for a heated retort when he became aware of the sudden absence of background noise. A slight pinging noise, such as might be made by hot metal cooling was all that could be heard from the room beyond. He met Fletcher's eyes and hoped his own expression was calmer than the little man's.
Taking a deep breath he squared his shoulders and stepped into the doorway.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The bottle hit the wall with a crash, exploding into a thousand shards which rained onto the floor. The woman called Stitcher looked the wreaked room, there seemed to be little left to throw.
"If you've quite finished destroying your room, perhaps you'd like to talk now". The voice of the woman leaning in the doorway was pitched artfully to convey her boredom. "I should have thought you'd be happy that the heir had been restored to the throne, it is what you've been working towards".
"An," Stitcher replied absently sizing up a bookcase.
"Pardon?" The woman had apparently decided that as the cursing had finished it was safe to enter the room.
"An heir", Stitcher enunciated each word clearly. "An heir to the throne. It's different than the heir to the throne".
"Oh dear."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Smith paused to admire the devastation as he entered the room. It was, he conceded, an artful effort.
The remains of the 200-year-old oak table carved by the Varanite Master carver Sentol burned fitfully in one corner, while the remains of a feather mattress still drifted in the air; He couldn't see anything that resembled the remains of the bed frame the mattress had once rested on. Amid all the destruction a lone Zishyun incense burner remained intact upon the mantelpiece.
"Feeling better?" he enquired of the dishevelled woman standing in the centre of the room.
"Save your platitudes", the woman's voice rasped, "Convene the council".
Smith sketched a quick bow, judging that now was not the time to admit to second guessing Weaver's mind. With another quick glance about the room he turned to leave.
Weaver let him get to the door before adding, "And while you're at it summon my sister."
The man called Smith watched the four hundred year old Zishyun vase sail out the door and hit the wall. The paper-thin porcelain exploded into a thousand shards which rained onto the floor with an almost pleasant tinkling noise. Mentally he added another four thousand imperials to the damage bill, the floor was already littered with the wreckage of several other priceless artefacts.
Glancing out through one of the villa's wide windows he could see the sun glinting and reflecting off the water in the bay. The sails of the distant pleasure boats tacking back and forth gracefully in the light swells. Another loud crash and the continued stream of cursing from within the room suggested that it would be some time before the destruction wound down. With a sigh that seemed to convey he had seen this many times before he leaned back against the cool stonewall to wait.
Sometime later a shuffling sound brought him out of a pleasant day dream involving two young courtesans, a boat, and bowl of grapes. A short pasty-faced man in a freshly pressed tunic was approaching up the hallway, his face filled with trepidation. The mans mousy hair had been brushed forward to conceal his receding hair line, not for the first time Smith considered telling him it didn't. Instead he settled for a cursory nod.
A bright flash through the open doorway and a splintering crash announced the demise of another piece of priceless furniture. The little man winced and edged closer.
"How long has she been going now?" he asked in a low voice.
Smith glanced out the window; the shadows in the small courtyard garden had shifted considerably since he had last looked.
"Coming up on three hours I'd say", he opinioned. "She ran out of pots and ornaments about half an hour ago, so that just leaves the heavy stuff."
"Can't you ask her to keep it down? It's only a matter.." another flash and a muffled boom from within the room drowned out the last of what ever the little man was trying to say. Smith watched a few small flakes of plaster and dust fall from the roof and waited for the ringing in his ears to die down.
"If you think I'm going in there Fletch then you're even more unbalanced than she is. How's Cob?"
The small man grimaced. "Nothing serious, his sheepskins took the blunt of the blast. A few burns, I think his eyebrows will grow back."
Smith sighed, "We'll need to convene the full council, I guess, to discuss this. We need to know how the crusaders got past the seal to find the girl"
Fletcher bobbed his head in agreement; "I've already sent Piper to Durace to recall Cooper. Cob should be able to leave for Cana within the hour."
"And what of the Stitcher, who will contact her?", asked Smith watching Fletcher's little eye's dart about. Fletcher at least had the sense to look embarrassed.
"I thought to wait until...", he began.
"You thought to try and exclude her", Smith finished for him.
"Now is not the time for dissent”. Cob’s voice began to rise stridently, "It is Weaver's time and she will only stir up things!"
Smith was readying himself for a heated retort when he became aware of the sudden absence of background noise. A slight pinging noise, such as might be made by hot metal cooling was all that could be heard from the room beyond. He met Fletcher's eyes and hoped his own expression was calmer than the little man's.
Taking a deep breath he squared his shoulders and stepped into the doorway.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The bottle hit the wall with a crash, exploding into a thousand shards which rained onto the floor. The woman called Stitcher looked the wreaked room, there seemed to be little left to throw.
"If you've quite finished destroying your room, perhaps you'd like to talk now". The voice of the woman leaning in the doorway was pitched artfully to convey her boredom. "I should have thought you'd be happy that the heir had been restored to the throne, it is what you've been working towards".
"An," Stitcher replied absently sizing up a bookcase.
"Pardon?" The woman had apparently decided that as the cursing had finished it was safe to enter the room.
"An heir", Stitcher enunciated each word clearly. "An heir to the throne. It's different than the heir to the throne".
"Oh dear."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Smith paused to admire the devastation as he entered the room. It was, he conceded, an artful effort.
The remains of the 200-year-old oak table carved by the Varanite Master carver Sentol burned fitfully in one corner, while the remains of a feather mattress still drifted in the air; He couldn't see anything that resembled the remains of the bed frame the mattress had once rested on. Amid all the destruction a lone Zishyun incense burner remained intact upon the mantelpiece.
"Feeling better?" he enquired of the dishevelled woman standing in the centre of the room.
"Save your platitudes", the woman's voice rasped, "Convene the council".
Smith sketched a quick bow, judging that now was not the time to admit to second guessing Weaver's mind. With another quick glance about the room he turned to leave.
Weaver let him get to the door before adding, "And while you're at it summon my sister."
It had been raining and the water in the sewers was beginning to flow sluggishly. Running along just above the water line a rat scurried towards an unexceptional side branching in the labyrinth that was the Dasar sewer system.
Its small mind was full of the taste of the apple core it had just eaten and the scent of its wiggling newborn kits back in their warm nest. The rat's small black eyes and sensitive whiskers were well suited to the darkness of the sewers, allowing it to easily avoid the many day-to-day dangers of its environment. Yet the situation it found on rounding the corner was so far outside the realm of it's day to day experience that it took refuge in the oldest survival response of all and froze.
The air in the sewer seemed to tremble and pulse, the water rushing away to the sides of the narrow tunnel in standing waves, almost as if an invisible weight was being pressed down into it. With a sound very similar to that of tearing of canvas a young woman suddenly appeared, staggering slightly as she found her footing in the ankle deep water. The water in the pipe abruptly surged back into place as if the weight had been removed, rushing back to lap about the boot tops of the sewers newest occupant.
"Fletcher you bastard, that was deliberate!" Stitcher addressed her words to the ceiling as the last remnants of the portal faded.
With a long-suffering sigh she fumbled her way through the darkness to the side of the tunnel. Once there she murmured a word and sketched a quick gesture in the air, the ritual was almost automatic, so often had it been preformed. A soft sourceless blue light flared into existence. Blinking as her eyes adjusted, Stitcher glanced about the pipe trying to orientate herself. She grimaced with distaste as she caught sight of the vanishing tail of a particularly large sewer rat scurrying off into darkness.
Moving to the mouth of the pipe she knelt to examine the crumbling brickwork. Carved into a worn plaque was the faded number twenty-seven. Satisfied that she was where she expected to be Stitcher began moving cautiously through the tunnels.
After a nerve-racking half hour she arrived at another unremarkable intersection. Pausing to check another worn plaque she allowed herself a self satisfied smile before wading up the side junction in the now hip deep water. Several paces up the pipe she turned to face the slime-coated brickwork and removed a small silver object from her belt pouch.
Presenting it to the wall she spoke in a clear voice.
"One comes, bearing tidings for the liege"
For a moment she thought that the ancient mechanism had failed, but, just as she was about to turn and retrace her steps a low grinding noise heralded it's reawakening. Ponderously a section of brickworks shifted in the top half of the wall to reveal a small opening.
Cautiously Stitcher leaned her head into the narrow opening and looked up. Corroded ladder rungs rose up a narrow chimney like space to be eventually lost in shadows far above. Carefully, she tried her weight on the first rung and, when it seemed to hold, she used it to lithely slither up into the narrow space. Behind her the hidden door ponderously closed itself.
"The thing about knights", she pondered as she made her way hand over hand up the narrow space, "is that they are very efficient when presented with a direct problem."
The problem. How to protect the new heir to the throne? The solution was blindingly obvious. You ringed the palace with steel and set wards against evil on every door and window. Simple and highly effective. However this also made it damned inconvenient if you needed to see afore mentioned heir without an appointment.
Mercifully just as her arms were beginning to show signs of tiring the top of the chimney came into view. Pulling herself over the lip of the chimney she rested until her breathing had returned to normal.
This was the part of the plan that was most likely to go wrong. The ancient tunnels might not even reach the room that she needed, or they may have been discovered them. Worse still, it was not impossible that one of Nergal’s aberrations might still be skulking about; a worrying thought that she was trying hard not to dwell on. Not for the first time she questioned the logic of who ever was responsible for building the palace over Nergal's Temple. Still, she conceded, the only thing that delaying would definitely bring about would be a loss of the night's concealing shadows.
Reaching into her pouch again she removed an amulet and carefully settled it around her neck. With a gesture she extinguished her light spell. Stroking her fingers gently over the raised runes of the charm she murmured a word then held her hand out before her to confirm the enchantment had been activated. She watched the waves of heat rising from it, looking down she could see where her body had been resting against the stone of the tunnel as pale green glow already fading into the stone. Satisfied that all was well she began to make her way through the twisting passages.
The peephole looked out into a large chamber, a holdover from the days of Oraan if the records she had read were correct. At some point while she had been in the sewers it had stopped raining, and the silver light of the moon was now flooding into the room beyond.
A large ornate four-poster bed took stood in the centre of the room. Inconveniently its hangings where down, concealing any occupant from view. Stitcher leaned her head against the wall of the tunnel and watched carefully. After a few minutes she decided that air about the bed was definitely warmer that the rest of the room. Of all the rooms she had looked into this seemed the best candidate.
There was always a chance that an unfriendly man in chain with a sharp sword was lying in the bed instead of the young woman she had come to see. Stitcher grinned, time to roll the dice. She spent a few more minutes peering through the spy hole, checking the layout of the room. It was unlikely she would have much time and every step would count. If the knights hadn't found the old tunnels yet there was no excuse for them to not have by tomorrow evening, an important secondary benefit of the evenings expedition.
Wading a ball of cloth into the peephole she retreated a short way down the passage counting her steps as she went and rekindled her light spell. From a small pack she withdrew three scrolls and a silver charm.
Taking care to avoid pricking herself, she pushed the pin of the charm through the parchment of the first of the scrolls and put it to one side.
Next she checked the two remaining scrolls. The first was a simple scroll of silence, easily come by. The other had cost an inordinate amount of money, but provided it worked as it should, would be worth every coin spent as it would probably keep her alive to face the morning.
Taking a deep breath, she tucked the charm pierced scroll into her belt and made sure it would not come loose. Unrolling the scroll of silence she began to read. As she finished the last word in the incantation the scroll crumbled to dust.
Stitcher strode swiftly back to the peephole and pulled the ancient lever beside it.
Nothing happened.
“ !” she swore.
Quickly she threw herself to the floor and putting her back against the opposite wall began to push at the door with her legs. Painfully slowly it began to open out into the room. Beads of sweat forming on her brow, Stitcher prayed silently that she had estimated the radius of the spell correctly.
The door abruptly gave way.
Stitcher threw herself to her feet and raced into the room beyond. Desperately aware that her time was running out she almost tripped on the heavy rug that was rucked up just outside the door. Recovering her balance she flicked the final scroll open and took a deep breath.
One step, nothing.
Two steps and abruptly she could hear again. Frantically she rattled through the words of the incantation. As the scroll crumbled the air about her seemed to thicken.
Moving as if she was wading through deep water Stitcher fought her way to the bed, counting slowly under her breath, and laboriously pulled the hanging aside. When she released her hold on the material it remained hanging where she had released it, impossibly hovering in midair.
The face of the young woman lying in the bed was achingly familiar. Although she knew she shouldn’t Stitcher wasted long moments gazing at her face.
She has her mother’s cheeks but that nose is definitely from her grandfather, she found herself thinking. Shaking her head she pulled the last scroll from her belt and placed it next to the young woman’s head.
Written in a clear hand were the words – If in need. The silver cloak pin worked in the shape of a harp glinted in the light of the moon.
Turning Stitcher waded back towards the safety of the hidden door. No time to tidy the carpet she decided, besides no sense making it any harder for them than necessary.
As she pulled the door closed behind her, time rushed back to fill the room…
Its small mind was full of the taste of the apple core it had just eaten and the scent of its wiggling newborn kits back in their warm nest. The rat's small black eyes and sensitive whiskers were well suited to the darkness of the sewers, allowing it to easily avoid the many day-to-day dangers of its environment. Yet the situation it found on rounding the corner was so far outside the realm of it's day to day experience that it took refuge in the oldest survival response of all and froze.
The air in the sewer seemed to tremble and pulse, the water rushing away to the sides of the narrow tunnel in standing waves, almost as if an invisible weight was being pressed down into it. With a sound very similar to that of tearing of canvas a young woman suddenly appeared, staggering slightly as she found her footing in the ankle deep water. The water in the pipe abruptly surged back into place as if the weight had been removed, rushing back to lap about the boot tops of the sewers newest occupant.
"Fletcher you bastard, that was deliberate!" Stitcher addressed her words to the ceiling as the last remnants of the portal faded.
With a long-suffering sigh she fumbled her way through the darkness to the side of the tunnel. Once there she murmured a word and sketched a quick gesture in the air, the ritual was almost automatic, so often had it been preformed. A soft sourceless blue light flared into existence. Blinking as her eyes adjusted, Stitcher glanced about the pipe trying to orientate herself. She grimaced with distaste as she caught sight of the vanishing tail of a particularly large sewer rat scurrying off into darkness.
Moving to the mouth of the pipe she knelt to examine the crumbling brickwork. Carved into a worn plaque was the faded number twenty-seven. Satisfied that she was where she expected to be Stitcher began moving cautiously through the tunnels.
After a nerve-racking half hour she arrived at another unremarkable intersection. Pausing to check another worn plaque she allowed herself a self satisfied smile before wading up the side junction in the now hip deep water. Several paces up the pipe she turned to face the slime-coated brickwork and removed a small silver object from her belt pouch.
Presenting it to the wall she spoke in a clear voice.
"One comes, bearing tidings for the liege"
For a moment she thought that the ancient mechanism had failed, but, just as she was about to turn and retrace her steps a low grinding noise heralded it's reawakening. Ponderously a section of brickworks shifted in the top half of the wall to reveal a small opening.
Cautiously Stitcher leaned her head into the narrow opening and looked up. Corroded ladder rungs rose up a narrow chimney like space to be eventually lost in shadows far above. Carefully, she tried her weight on the first rung and, when it seemed to hold, she used it to lithely slither up into the narrow space. Behind her the hidden door ponderously closed itself.
"The thing about knights", she pondered as she made her way hand over hand up the narrow space, "is that they are very efficient when presented with a direct problem."
The problem. How to protect the new heir to the throne? The solution was blindingly obvious. You ringed the palace with steel and set wards against evil on every door and window. Simple and highly effective. However this also made it damned inconvenient if you needed to see afore mentioned heir without an appointment.
Mercifully just as her arms were beginning to show signs of tiring the top of the chimney came into view. Pulling herself over the lip of the chimney she rested until her breathing had returned to normal.
This was the part of the plan that was most likely to go wrong. The ancient tunnels might not even reach the room that she needed, or they may have been discovered them. Worse still, it was not impossible that one of Nergal’s aberrations might still be skulking about; a worrying thought that she was trying hard not to dwell on. Not for the first time she questioned the logic of who ever was responsible for building the palace over Nergal's Temple. Still, she conceded, the only thing that delaying would definitely bring about would be a loss of the night's concealing shadows.
Reaching into her pouch again she removed an amulet and carefully settled it around her neck. With a gesture she extinguished her light spell. Stroking her fingers gently over the raised runes of the charm she murmured a word then held her hand out before her to confirm the enchantment had been activated. She watched the waves of heat rising from it, looking down she could see where her body had been resting against the stone of the tunnel as pale green glow already fading into the stone. Satisfied that all was well she began to make her way through the twisting passages.
The peephole looked out into a large chamber, a holdover from the days of Oraan if the records she had read were correct. At some point while she had been in the sewers it had stopped raining, and the silver light of the moon was now flooding into the room beyond.
A large ornate four-poster bed took stood in the centre of the room. Inconveniently its hangings where down, concealing any occupant from view. Stitcher leaned her head against the wall of the tunnel and watched carefully. After a few minutes she decided that air about the bed was definitely warmer that the rest of the room. Of all the rooms she had looked into this seemed the best candidate.
There was always a chance that an unfriendly man in chain with a sharp sword was lying in the bed instead of the young woman she had come to see. Stitcher grinned, time to roll the dice. She spent a few more minutes peering through the spy hole, checking the layout of the room. It was unlikely she would have much time and every step would count. If the knights hadn't found the old tunnels yet there was no excuse for them to not have by tomorrow evening, an important secondary benefit of the evenings expedition.
Wading a ball of cloth into the peephole she retreated a short way down the passage counting her steps as she went and rekindled her light spell. From a small pack she withdrew three scrolls and a silver charm.
Taking care to avoid pricking herself, she pushed the pin of the charm through the parchment of the first of the scrolls and put it to one side.
Next she checked the two remaining scrolls. The first was a simple scroll of silence, easily come by. The other had cost an inordinate amount of money, but provided it worked as it should, would be worth every coin spent as it would probably keep her alive to face the morning.
Taking a deep breath, she tucked the charm pierced scroll into her belt and made sure it would not come loose. Unrolling the scroll of silence she began to read. As she finished the last word in the incantation the scroll crumbled to dust.
Stitcher strode swiftly back to the peephole and pulled the ancient lever beside it.
Nothing happened.
“ !” she swore.
Quickly she threw herself to the floor and putting her back against the opposite wall began to push at the door with her legs. Painfully slowly it began to open out into the room. Beads of sweat forming on her brow, Stitcher prayed silently that she had estimated the radius of the spell correctly.
The door abruptly gave way.
Stitcher threw herself to her feet and raced into the room beyond. Desperately aware that her time was running out she almost tripped on the heavy rug that was rucked up just outside the door. Recovering her balance she flicked the final scroll open and took a deep breath.
One step, nothing.
Two steps and abruptly she could hear again. Frantically she rattled through the words of the incantation. As the scroll crumbled the air about her seemed to thicken.
Moving as if she was wading through deep water Stitcher fought her way to the bed, counting slowly under her breath, and laboriously pulled the hanging aside. When she released her hold on the material it remained hanging where she had released it, impossibly hovering in midair.
The face of the young woman lying in the bed was achingly familiar. Although she knew she shouldn’t Stitcher wasted long moments gazing at her face.
She has her mother’s cheeks but that nose is definitely from her grandfather, she found herself thinking. Shaking her head she pulled the last scroll from her belt and placed it next to the young woman’s head.
Written in a clear hand were the words – If in need. The silver cloak pin worked in the shape of a harp glinted in the light of the moon.
Turning Stitcher waded back towards the safety of the hidden door. No time to tidy the carpet she decided, besides no sense making it any harder for them than necessary.
As she pulled the door closed behind her, time rushed back to fill the room…
Stitcher leaned forward and, resting her elbows on the stone balustrade of the rooftop garden, looked out over the bay. The late afternoon light glittered and sparkled on the waves and lent an almost magical appearance to the limestone bleached walls of the villas with their red and blue tiled roofs. It was, she decided, a very tranquil scene; marred only by a rising pillar of smoke from the Baker's district.
The afternoon breeze off the bay tugged gently at her hair. Absently she tucked an errant strand back behind an ear. The faint scuff of leather on stone drew her attention away from the bay. Schooling her face to a calmness she didn't necessarily feel, she turned.
Although the evening was warm Weaver was already wrapped in a thick woolen robe, the cowl pulled up over her head. Stitcher let her eyes roam over the familiar shadowed face.
Deep lines had been etched into Weaver's face and bruises like shadows surrounded her eyes. In the dying light of the day her skin had taken on an almost translucent appearance. Something of Stitcher's dismay must have shown in her face for the faintest of smiles briefly touched Weaver's lips.
"Do not look so dismayed, it is but a temporary ebb," her voice when she spoke was a rich as ever, echoing with power. She stepped closer and leaned in to brush a kiss across Stitcher's cheek. "It is good to see you, sister."
"And you Cer" Stitcher murmured, letting her lips gently brush the dry skin of Weaver's cheek.
Weaver stepped back and moved briskly to the balustrade.
"Peaceful up here is it not?" she asked. "Hard to believe that down there people are dying over the price of bread."
Readopting a calm expression, Stitcher followed her back to the railing.
"Is this your work then?" she asked curiously, nodding towards the fire.
Weaver sniffed dismissively. "No, not ours. The Emperor has entirely himself to blame for this." She frowned, "The irony is, that by burning down the district they will only raise the price of bread further. I fear there will be famine here come winter," a hint of anger crept into her voice. She turned away from the view and leaned back against the railing. When she spoke again her voice was once again calm.
"I thought we might take a moment before the council convenes to catch up, and perhaps agree a strategy."
Stitcher continued to stare down into the city, not quite trusting herself to reply to this unexpected development.
Weaver sighed softly. "In light of recent events I feel it is time that our... dispute came to an end. If the council continues to be beset with split loyalties we face a very real possibility of failure. Everything we have laboured for will be scattered as that smoke on the wind" She gestured down at the billowing smoke of the raging fires in the city below.
"I assume that in this truce you will continue to guide the council," Stitcher tried to keep her tone light, although it was difficult to completely keep the bitterness out of her voice.
"We must have a leader, and you have to admit your judgement has been somewhat suspect of late..." Weaver let her voice trail off as Stitcher's grip tightened the balustrade railing. Bowing her head Weaver held up a hand forestalling Stitcher's angry reply. "I'm sorry, I did not come here to rebuke you." Tentatively she lifted her hand to her sister's cheek. "When I heard of recent events I feared for you, and I realised I have come to regret much that was said between us in the past."
Stitcher looked into the face at once so similar and yet at the same time, so very different, from her own. At last with a playful grin she stepped back. "Very well, a truce", she conceded. "Now, what news have you to share?"
If Weaver was surprised by her quick capitulation she didn't show it. Instead she steepled her fingers and paused a moment before replying.
"The Canites have finally taken Duseric. General Fremal has celebrated by having all of the men of the city crucified. Once he has re-provisioned it is expected that he will turn south and make for Cana itself."
Stitcher stiffened but managed to keep her tone dispassionate, "Is there any indication of how the emperor will respond?"
Weaver grinned viciously, "The price on Fermal's head has now reached four million imperials. Piper says imperial troops are marshalling in Vars and Kurna. He can't afford to let Fermal take Cana, the temple is too great a rallying point. He will send in the Claw and Talon if need be."
Stitcher bowed her head. When she spoke her voice was subdued, "I have seen them Cer, if they are unleashed Fremal won't stand a chance. The uprising will be over within a week and the emperor will be free to turn his attention back towards Nelina."
Weaver turned back towards bay, "I know."
Out in the bay the sun was sinking into the sea, Stitcher couldn't help but feel that the blood red sky was an omen.
The afternoon breeze off the bay tugged gently at her hair. Absently she tucked an errant strand back behind an ear. The faint scuff of leather on stone drew her attention away from the bay. Schooling her face to a calmness she didn't necessarily feel, she turned.
Although the evening was warm Weaver was already wrapped in a thick woolen robe, the cowl pulled up over her head. Stitcher let her eyes roam over the familiar shadowed face.
Deep lines had been etched into Weaver's face and bruises like shadows surrounded her eyes. In the dying light of the day her skin had taken on an almost translucent appearance. Something of Stitcher's dismay must have shown in her face for the faintest of smiles briefly touched Weaver's lips.
"Do not look so dismayed, it is but a temporary ebb," her voice when she spoke was a rich as ever, echoing with power. She stepped closer and leaned in to brush a kiss across Stitcher's cheek. "It is good to see you, sister."
"And you Cer" Stitcher murmured, letting her lips gently brush the dry skin of Weaver's cheek.
Weaver stepped back and moved briskly to the balustrade.
"Peaceful up here is it not?" she asked. "Hard to believe that down there people are dying over the price of bread."
Readopting a calm expression, Stitcher followed her back to the railing.
"Is this your work then?" she asked curiously, nodding towards the fire.
Weaver sniffed dismissively. "No, not ours. The Emperor has entirely himself to blame for this." She frowned, "The irony is, that by burning down the district they will only raise the price of bread further. I fear there will be famine here come winter," a hint of anger crept into her voice. She turned away from the view and leaned back against the railing. When she spoke again her voice was once again calm.
"I thought we might take a moment before the council convenes to catch up, and perhaps agree a strategy."
Stitcher continued to stare down into the city, not quite trusting herself to reply to this unexpected development.
Weaver sighed softly. "In light of recent events I feel it is time that our... dispute came to an end. If the council continues to be beset with split loyalties we face a very real possibility of failure. Everything we have laboured for will be scattered as that smoke on the wind" She gestured down at the billowing smoke of the raging fires in the city below.
"I assume that in this truce you will continue to guide the council," Stitcher tried to keep her tone light, although it was difficult to completely keep the bitterness out of her voice.
"We must have a leader, and you have to admit your judgement has been somewhat suspect of late..." Weaver let her voice trail off as Stitcher's grip tightened the balustrade railing. Bowing her head Weaver held up a hand forestalling Stitcher's angry reply. "I'm sorry, I did not come here to rebuke you." Tentatively she lifted her hand to her sister's cheek. "When I heard of recent events I feared for you, and I realised I have come to regret much that was said between us in the past."
Stitcher looked into the face at once so similar and yet at the same time, so very different, from her own. At last with a playful grin she stepped back. "Very well, a truce", she conceded. "Now, what news have you to share?"
If Weaver was surprised by her quick capitulation she didn't show it. Instead she steepled her fingers and paused a moment before replying.
"The Canites have finally taken Duseric. General Fremal has celebrated by having all of the men of the city crucified. Once he has re-provisioned it is expected that he will turn south and make for Cana itself."
Stitcher stiffened but managed to keep her tone dispassionate, "Is there any indication of how the emperor will respond?"
Weaver grinned viciously, "The price on Fermal's head has now reached four million imperials. Piper says imperial troops are marshalling in Vars and Kurna. He can't afford to let Fermal take Cana, the temple is too great a rallying point. He will send in the Claw and Talon if need be."
Stitcher bowed her head. When she spoke her voice was subdued, "I have seen them Cer, if they are unleashed Fremal won't stand a chance. The uprising will be over within a week and the emperor will be free to turn his attention back towards Nelina."
Weaver turned back towards bay, "I know."
Out in the bay the sun was sinking into the sea, Stitcher couldn't help but feel that the blood red sky was an omen.
Family Business
~Six months ago~
The Harper called Fletcher eased his way back from the ridgeline. The last dregs of Fremal’s army were fleeing the field in tatters, washed away by the might of Emperor Hallaathrad’s elite Talon and Claw infantry.
Fletcher had seen General Fremal ‘s banner fall, swamped under a sea of crimson armoured warriors. The Canite revolt was over.
As he slithered his way down the side of the dry gully towards where he had hidden his horse, Fletcher was already composing the message he would need to send to the council.
He reached the bottom of the gully in a shower of dust and peddles and dog trotted into the cleft he had set up his camp in.
“Time to go Ugly”, he informed the dun coloured horse hoobled in the back of the cleft, as he scooped his saddlebags up.
A nasty tempered nag from the Dars region, Ugly was definitely no Corda bred steed; such would only draw unwanted attention in the badlands of the empire. Stocky and barrel shaped he was bred for the harsh steppes and had seemingly limitless stamina. With the distance Fletcher planned to cover before nightfall it would be needed.
Still distracted Fletcher reached for the reins of the horse. Ugly rolled suddenly white rimmed eyes at him and danced back.
A cold weight seemed to settle in the pit of Fletcher’s belly as he heard the scritch of moving gravel behind him. He spun, wrenching his blade free of its scabbard as he did so; all too aware that he was probably already too late.
A flash of red, then all was dark.
~Two months ago~
The river giggled and chattered to itself as it made it’s way towards the distant sea. Seated upon the riverbank, Stitcher gently held the shaking body of the small blond child.
It had been over a month since Fletcher had officially become overdue to report. With the normal portal system compromised by recent Varanite activity she had had to cover the distance to the Fisher’s valley the old fashioned way.
“Bu-u-u-t I don’t wanna go Auntie”
Stitcher looked into the tear filled eyes of the little boy that so many had given their lives to protect and hide. Already he had the distinctive look of his bloodline. Sat beside his cousin there would be no doubt as to his lineage.
As gently as she could, she tried again to explain to the four year old why his whole world must suddenly change.
“Siron, you remember how I told you about the bad men that hate your family…”
~Two weeks ago~
The ring of metal on stone echoed back discordantly from the walls of the tomb.
Clang!
Clang!
Clang!
Crunch!
Smith dropped his chisel and mallet and danced about cursing and waving his throbbing thumb.
“….poxing thrice cursed…”, the stream of invective dried up as he thrust the wounded member into his mouth and sucked it.
Watching from the shadows by the crypt entrance his companion rolled her eyes at his antics.
“You do appreciate that I need to concentrate to keep this spell active?”, she asked peevishly.
Smith glared at her.
“Ib do fink do canb bo any betta…”, he mumbled around his thumb balefully.
His companion sighed theatrically.
“Well, as we are beginning to run short of time…”
Stepping off the steps she moved into the flickering torch light, her long blue hair swaying as she walked. As she brushed past the big man she flashed him a tight grin and murmured, “I’d step back a little, if I were you.”
While Smith moved back warily, she reached forth a slim finger to touch the lid of the sarcophagus and whispered a word. There was a single sharp crack and the lid jumped.
“Try now”, she said airily as she swayed back towards the shadows by the door.
Smith shot her a dirty look.
“You do realise that Stitcher is going to turn blue when she finds out about this,” he asked.
The blue haired woman paused for a moment before speaking over her shoulder.
“My sister is in the habit of getting entirely too attached to these new men. If she exercised a little more detachment she would see the sense of this action.
Now, would you mind hurrying, holding these enchantments”, she wriggled her hand, “is beginning to become wearying, and we will have a hard time explaining our presence here if they fail.”
Still glowering Smith moved back to the Sarcophagus. Bracing himself he began to push. Stone ground on stone, as slowly, the heavy lid slid aside. A waft of putrid air sent Smith stumbling back, coughing and choking.
“Well”, he gasped, “I guess that answers that question.”
His companion stepped up to the side of the Sarcophagus.
“Indeed it does. Assuming it is truly her in here.”
She pulled a silver dagger from a belt sheath and held it over the head of the wrapped corpse. A faint glow began to gather about the blade.
Turning away she re-sheathed the blade.
“Bag her up”
- - -
The acolyte looked up as the crypt door opened and the familiar figure stepped from the crypt.
He watched as the tall woman left, her face grave and sorrowful.
Silently he offered up a prayer for her. Asking that in time the woman’s pain at the loss of her friend might become a lighter burden.
Sighing he turned and did his duty, relocking the crypt, least the eternal rest of these great Dasarians be disturbed.
~Six months ago~
The Harper called Fletcher eased his way back from the ridgeline. The last dregs of Fremal’s army were fleeing the field in tatters, washed away by the might of Emperor Hallaathrad’s elite Talon and Claw infantry.
Fletcher had seen General Fremal ‘s banner fall, swamped under a sea of crimson armoured warriors. The Canite revolt was over.
As he slithered his way down the side of the dry gully towards where he had hidden his horse, Fletcher was already composing the message he would need to send to the council.
He reached the bottom of the gully in a shower of dust and peddles and dog trotted into the cleft he had set up his camp in.
“Time to go Ugly”, he informed the dun coloured horse hoobled in the back of the cleft, as he scooped his saddlebags up.
A nasty tempered nag from the Dars region, Ugly was definitely no Corda bred steed; such would only draw unwanted attention in the badlands of the empire. Stocky and barrel shaped he was bred for the harsh steppes and had seemingly limitless stamina. With the distance Fletcher planned to cover before nightfall it would be needed.
Still distracted Fletcher reached for the reins of the horse. Ugly rolled suddenly white rimmed eyes at him and danced back.
A cold weight seemed to settle in the pit of Fletcher’s belly as he heard the scritch of moving gravel behind him. He spun, wrenching his blade free of its scabbard as he did so; all too aware that he was probably already too late.
A flash of red, then all was dark.
~Two months ago~
The river giggled and chattered to itself as it made it’s way towards the distant sea. Seated upon the riverbank, Stitcher gently held the shaking body of the small blond child.
It had been over a month since Fletcher had officially become overdue to report. With the normal portal system compromised by recent Varanite activity she had had to cover the distance to the Fisher’s valley the old fashioned way.
“Bu-u-u-t I don’t wanna go Auntie”
Stitcher looked into the tear filled eyes of the little boy that so many had given their lives to protect and hide. Already he had the distinctive look of his bloodline. Sat beside his cousin there would be no doubt as to his lineage.
As gently as she could, she tried again to explain to the four year old why his whole world must suddenly change.
“Siron, you remember how I told you about the bad men that hate your family…”
~Two weeks ago~
The ring of metal on stone echoed back discordantly from the walls of the tomb.
Clang!
Clang!
Clang!
Crunch!
Smith dropped his chisel and mallet and danced about cursing and waving his throbbing thumb.
“….poxing thrice cursed…”, the stream of invective dried up as he thrust the wounded member into his mouth and sucked it.
Watching from the shadows by the crypt entrance his companion rolled her eyes at his antics.
“You do appreciate that I need to concentrate to keep this spell active?”, she asked peevishly.
Smith glared at her.
“Ib do fink do canb bo any betta…”, he mumbled around his thumb balefully.
His companion sighed theatrically.
“Well, as we are beginning to run short of time…”
Stepping off the steps she moved into the flickering torch light, her long blue hair swaying as she walked. As she brushed past the big man she flashed him a tight grin and murmured, “I’d step back a little, if I were you.”
While Smith moved back warily, she reached forth a slim finger to touch the lid of the sarcophagus and whispered a word. There was a single sharp crack and the lid jumped.
“Try now”, she said airily as she swayed back towards the shadows by the door.
Smith shot her a dirty look.
“You do realise that Stitcher is going to turn blue when she finds out about this,” he asked.
The blue haired woman paused for a moment before speaking over her shoulder.
“My sister is in the habit of getting entirely too attached to these new men. If she exercised a little more detachment she would see the sense of this action.
Now, would you mind hurrying, holding these enchantments”, she wriggled her hand, “is beginning to become wearying, and we will have a hard time explaining our presence here if they fail.”
Still glowering Smith moved back to the Sarcophagus. Bracing himself he began to push. Stone ground on stone, as slowly, the heavy lid slid aside. A waft of putrid air sent Smith stumbling back, coughing and choking.
“Well”, he gasped, “I guess that answers that question.”
His companion stepped up to the side of the Sarcophagus.
“Indeed it does. Assuming it is truly her in here.”
She pulled a silver dagger from a belt sheath and held it over the head of the wrapped corpse. A faint glow began to gather about the blade.
Turning away she re-sheathed the blade.
“Bag her up”
- - -
The acolyte looked up as the crypt door opened and the familiar figure stepped from the crypt.
He watched as the tall woman left, her face grave and sorrowful.
Silently he offered up a prayer for her. Asking that in time the woman’s pain at the loss of her friend might become a lighter burden.
Sighing he turned and did his duty, relocking the crypt, least the eternal rest of these great Dasarians be disturbed.
Flin Hearthstone
Captain Talaluth Juran