Paths of Damnation 2 (Kragyevozar)

Why I and my axe brothers were here in Tyrosht is something of a long tale, and one I have told elsewhere. It is good enough to say we have reasons to be here, each of us different yet similar. And all under the same bans of exile. Condemned to walk Zagroneichnie, without the borders of the homelands. It is an awful fate, to be denied the homeland, denied succor in any land from danger by others still within the borders of the Zhakon.

It would have been more dangerous, but we were accompanied by those who had chosen the path of ezgnaneiye with us. Among them two of great standing in the land, the Runabrost Grimdarzog, and the rising star of the diplomatic corps, Zefdarfan. That they had chosen to ride away from the gate of the exiles with us had left avalanche of turmoil behind us, And the crossing of the sea of treachery to this port had stirred so much ill-will against us all I was sure the bans would never be lifted now.

Here in the port of the Council I found the attitudes still against us. That we had faced pirates, beasts, undead and more crossing the sea, to reach this place mattered not to those here. I was known, not just as Keilroi of the Mountains, but as an  ezgnanst now. Outcast. Unlawful to speak with. I ignored the catcalls from the dwarven quay we had been denied the right to tie the ship to, though some of my companions felt the sting in their souls from the words. Words which ended when I uncovered my prisoner's head to the master of arms at the Gate of the Docks.

"I believe you have an offer of some coins for this one's head...how much for his whole body?" I was arrogant, cold and mean as I knocked the pirate LeGiles to the ground on his knees before the soldier. A soldier whose eyes lit up with a fire like that of a forge well stoked.

"There is only one corsair of these seas I would rather see here in chains before me. But Muirgant has disappeared yet again at the word of a hunter of pirates so fierce." The old man's smile was warm. The first warm smile I had seen. "What name shall I take to the Council to issue the coins unto?" The query was normal, but my answer would shock him.

"I am Keilroi, these are my friends and companions. We give you the pirate, his surviving crew, and their vessel. One less pirate clan to raid the sea." I let the name spread across the stone road and up the quays behind us. It was known to the Karleekie. It was known to all. My exploits in my youth still were told, and here I was, wearing the brand of exile on my forehead, the chain of a penitent and dragging in wanted men like a bounty hunter.

The gasps from the dwarven quay told me the name had struck home. The Keilroi had come to the west. As he came, he brought the Zhakon of the seas with him, still acting to enforce the Laws, not disruption and chaos as most did. The catcalls at us died, and instead the cheers for a hero began. With a few catcalls for the pirates as they began to be unloaded from the hold of the sailing vessel we had taken. Keilroi was still Keilroi to the dwarves. Someone to hope to see, not fear seeing. Unless one walked the path of the NyeZhakonst, then one had better still fear me.

I felt the hand of my old mentor, 'Darzog, on my shoulder. "Less grim, smile some malchik. Keilroi is a happy Karlykn, remember that. It does not hurt to smile from time to time."

And with those words, I was again just a malchik, being chided gently by his mentor to proper behavior. Some things never change, and never should.

/***

Three days it took to get the coins from the Council, but I begrudged them not a bit of that time, for they were being more than fair, we got the bounties on each pirate, coins from the sale of the ship, and rewards from those whose stolen cargoes were identified in the holds. We had enough for most adventurers to retire on,  but as we still had further to go, to reach the lands of the Lorsan Coast, where so many of our kindred who were also exiles had settled over the ages.

During those three days, as the others were treated to drinks and food, I sat at our inn thinking, making lists of things we would need, and meeting with the local liaison from the Knights of the Grey Sands to arrange joining a caravan on the northern route west, around the desert they patrolled and kept peace in. If one could call a life of danger peace. It was time well spent, even if I would have preferred to sit before the ochags and drink like the others.

In the darkness of the nights I sat and drank alone, if I could avoid 'Darzog and Dyadya Jaochim. Which was becoming more difficult of late. They meant well, but it still bothered me that they felt my isolation was wrong. I needed to think, and not about the past, but the future. We had made it this far by luck, not planning, and while I was not a great believer in plans, I knew we had to have at least a skeleton of one, or be caught with our shtani around our knees.

This night, had they known, they would have worried at the lack of vodka at my table, not the presence of it. Downstairs in the main area there were many revelers, but here in the balcony area around the main open room, there were few. Our crew and axe brethren were enjoying some of the spoils of our war on the way here, the younger ones learning the ways of the myrmidons we now were.

But I sat in the gloomy booth, recessed away enough to break some of the noise, thinking, and staring at the map before me. The Lorsan Coast, and Kelevfalashch, were still a long ways to go, and after our experience on the waves of the Veleky Vod, we had no desire to continue travel by sea. But there were only two routes west left from this island, three if one wished to take the more dangerous path across the heart of the Grey Desert. That one had no water that one could guarantee. The south caravan path had water in abundance, running down from the great gorya that rimmed the Rift of Dihn and the dry basin of the pustinya. But that meant crossing the lands of the Byezborodnei, and we had already been warned of a rough reception by those folk from some of the Alfs here.

We all had some experience with wastelands, and the problems of finding vod safe to consume, from our own adventures in our youth around the lands of the Lead Hills and the vast wastelands around them, or entering the Krasny Styepzei to hunt the great beasts or Vyeleikan-Ludoyed, the tusked giants of those prairies. The northern road was the one controlled by the Knights of the Sands, and open to all for its whole length. It was fraught with many dangers, from dragons to orcs and the lamia of the central desert who from time to time came out to raid the caravans.

But it was the only option, in a sense for us. Which meant our enemies, both from the homeland and here Zagroneichnie, would know our path. As Karleekie marked for death by some of our kin, no true caravan would let us join them, I was sure. Even without asking the Knights or any of the merchants or caravan. Few would want to add to the dangers of their own crossing of that part of the world.

As I sat there sipping the strong kophye that came from Rahab, thick with cream to take out the bitter blades from the taste, I pondered ways to cross the distance. Normally I drank mine without cream, but the syrupy brew made in this place was so strong and bitter, cream was a necessity. As so many times before, I had so much of mind focused on the problem on my table, someone was able to approach me unnoticed. I was lucky that I did not spill the pot or cup at hand when I started when my visitor cleared his throat.

He was an older karlykn, one I knew from my few times in court. He acted as the head of the local members of our race here and in the lands ruled by the Council. Some said he was even an advisor to that assembly on things related to our kind. His face was worn with the marks of worry I myself had begun to carve in my own face with the frowns of concentration. It was a deep brown, an unusual color for our kind, but it was the warm brown of the sun baking his flesh, not rot or some malady of the skin. They called him Gyevard Blednei, for the white hair he had since his youth. It was like a snowy mane on a lion from the north. His eyes were solid black marbles, glittering with humor and joy, despite his stern mime. He reminded me of ‘Darzog in that way, with the stern outer shell hiding the warm person inside.

“Poklonei, my kniaz.” The voice was not the rough one of most of our folk, but a softer one, filled with a sound more like the descent of water in a cascade in the mountains, not the rougher rock tones of my homeland.

I grunted. “I have no claim to that title anymore, Gyevard. Sit, take a cup of this foul brew.”

He smiled wider, and slid into the bench opposite me. “Spacebo, tovarishch. It is rare to find one who drinks Kophe in the evening, but I appreciate it. As I grow older, I find that vodka and veiskei do not sit well on my stomach afterwards.” He poured a cup of the syrupy brew straight, making my own stomach wonder at the iron lining his must have despite his claims otherwise.

“What brings you here, Glava.” I used the old term for chief of several clans, not the more modern appellation of boyar. He chuckled at the term, which meant he was in a good mood.

He sipped his tea, eyes turned to the few on the balcony, waiting patiently for all around to have their attention turn from a meeting of lords to the entertainments below. Such patience he used left me wondering if I could ever have such a calm attitude of waiting for the right moment. His eyes seemed calm, but he leaned back and they never stopped scanning those near and far. It was a gaze I remembered well from my bodyguards of my youth. One that weighed the threats of each it rested on in that single glance, marking the dangerous, the safe and the unknowns for when trouble would break out.

But this night there was no such tussles, the merriment at best were a few wrestling matches, but they were the good natured kind. I could see Joachim below at the end of the bar from which the drinks were served, he was sipping cha, and watching us. There was a look on his face I rarely had seen of late, since he had left his own children behind in his own exile for having spoken for me before the Dvoryets, the assembly of my folks governing councils. It was the smile of relaxation amid friends. But then, 'Darzog had told me once that Joachim was the kind of karlykn who could be happy anywhere, as long as he had friends or family around him.

I waited, trying to match the patience of the dwarf across from me. But I fidgeted to much for it to seem the same. My hands kept seeking the map, tracing the northern caravan route, trying to visualize the path to come in my head. As I did my companion sat nearly perfectly still save the slow oscillation of his head, as he continued to watch as life went on around us.

When at last he spoke, it was softly, so quiet I almost missed the words. "There is word among those who walk the shadowy paths beyond the Zhakon that your life has a new threat to its continuance, young man. There are whispers that the ubeiyotsyei have let a blade be made for you."

The room was no longer warm. It seemed as cold as a windswept peak of the (iron mountains) in the middle of winter. Ubeiyotsyei was a word rarely spoken among our kind, save in talking of the affairs of the other folk of the world. Assassins were rare in our people's doings, we who lived mostly within the Zhakon. For one to be unleashed on us even more infrequent, as any slain, even an exile, was likely to be avenged by his friends and family.

I felt my eyebrows seeking my hairline, as I tried to silently convey both my curiosity as to whom would try such a foolish action and the way this word had leaked from a tsyech as secretive as theirs. Their guild was known for killing those that spoke of its inner workings, or even rumors of its clients or contracts. That Gyevard had heard such, and lived to speak of it to the target told me something of the internal war going on inside that gathering of professionals we called a tsyech. A war within that guild would cause chaos everywhere, as contracts were taken against the codes of their rules. Not that rules were as strong a control as the Zhakon, the Law we Karleekie lived by.

He said no more, still watching, with the eyes of a warrior on guard duty, no longer the lazy gaze, but a more intense one. And his eyes were on one person, an alf, one of the byezborodnei, who leaned against the far balcony wall with an air of arrogance one could only find among the worst of that race. The arrogance of one not afraid of even the gods. I had seen many of his kind in the past half century, those who had walked away from gods and ethics in pursuit of power and wealth. They were no longer the people of honor they had been even just before my birth. Too many had taken upon themselves prejudices against others, feeling superior to the rest of the world.

This one, though, was more dangerous, he had weapons in evidence on his body, including a strange knife. One with a red lacquered handle. Even I had heard in my sheltered life, of the blades that marked one of the ubeiyotsyei on a mission. The way the elder with me was focused on him suddenly told me this was the threat I had to pass in this place to move on. But the alf's focus was not me, but the bar. He watched me from time to time, but it was Dyadya he was targeting.

I reached down and touched the topor leaning against the bench between me and the wall. I found the cold steel reassuring, knowing that even the slightest touch of it on this foe's flesh would pain him dearly. This was my only advantage, for while I was a warrior, this one specialized in leaving his blade between the shoulder blades of unsuspecting recipients of his skill. I needed to get up and move about, yet a simple hand gesture kept me in my seat for a few moments longer, as Gyevard motioned me to hold.

"Not yet, let his arrogance grow some more, and he will be apt to make mistakes." The words came from a mouth that barely moved, and was in the yazik, the speech of our people, but a dialect rarely heard outside the hills I had grown up in. The tongue of the Choelm was one few outside the clans of the hills knew, and thus safer to use for such a warning.

So I tried to learn a warrior's patience. To find the moment to strike that would turn the battle we now would be engaged in. I kept my face towards my companion, speaking of the trail to come, trying to keep my face from showing any hint of my observation of this foe. A fighter's mime is very difficult to maintain, I learned that day. Doing so while spying was harder yet.

As we sat, the alf became used to us there, relaxed even, yet it was the relaxation of a lion on the hunt, the disinterested act that belies his purpose in walking or standing in some place near the prey. There was a look of bored his face, but the eyes carried his hatred of all around him. Occasionally he scratched various places where it was obvious to a person familiar with carrying weapons that some deadly tool rested there, and he was more interested in checking to see they were there and ready to use.

I found myself doing much the same, with my axe beside me, not to mention knives and other toys I had learned of late. As well as finding my hand touching the kurok on the table before us in passing. Discharge of such a weapon in this town was forbidden, but I knew that if they were forced to choose between the hell to come of Jaochim's death or injury and my firing the kurok's small lead projectile, the latter would be more easily dealt with. But it would let someone know that one of our guns was able to come past the gates of the docks, compromising a vast smuggling empire, and ruining the ability to have our folk trade here.

There had to be a way to mess up this one's plans. Plans or the ruining of them, were the meat and potatoes of my own history. Keilroi was known all over as the wrecker of plans, hence LeGiles impending appointment with a noose at the docks. I felt my face scrunch up, remembering the words the pirate when I took him, that he would never be hung. This was a diversion, and if the Council had half a brain, they would not respond to any call for the guard here. There had never been a breakout from the tyurma here, but there was always a first time for everything. And as I realized this was just a diversion, that old wicked smile came to my face, as my eyebrows began to dance up and down with mirth at a plan that came to me. Weapon dancing is often associated among my kind with merriment and celebrations like we were in here. And few save the forge lords danced with a hammer. My hand sought out my own hammer, the great heavy thing with the arshen and a hand haft. It was heavy, with a large block of metal, topped with a spike.

"Excuse me a moment, I think I should join the merriment." I stood, leaving my axe, but picking up my hammer. "It seems a bit dead here, perhaps a hammer dance?"

The look of shock on Gyevard's face was a joy. He was a warrior of the careful school, but I had been raised and trained amid the wild hill clans of the Choelm. And they tended to have a different feeling about battle, it was something to enter into with a recklessness to shatter the enemies will, and break their courage with the wild battle rages. I knew better now, knowing that they did plan their battles, as carefully as the other warriors, they just refused to use formations in combat. Or to have inflexible plans, the way some did.

There would be a fight here soon, so the best way to deal with it was to take the initiative, in a way the enemy would least expect. I spun my hammer twice in front of me, and leaped to the broad banister on the balcony's edge. Just the motion caught the eyes of many below. But I needed all eyes on me, so the fool would think his time had come to strike. The malot crafted  on the Heart's Forge began to leave a trail of steely blue in a ring as I began to swirl it with a purpose to my right side. That ring was of the magics from the Forge, and a touch of red for the heart's blood I had shed in its making.

"Let us celebrate the victory over piracy! Give me a beat, tovarishchie! Let us dance the hammer's beat!" And with that I began to shuffle seemingly without care along the railing, to the beat of the many hands and suddenly produced hammers on the tables below. I paced my steps to the beat, letting the rhythm claim me as I went. It is an old dance, the forge dance, that I tried to do, and not suited to the rail, obviously so. And this let me jump to the stairs nearby and dance down them, gently tapping the louder strikes on the banister as I descended. I could not help but smile, and it was one that Steffan and Zeffan knew well as I reached the main floor. I saw their looks of shock, they could tell I was up to something, but had not noticed the lurker above yet.

The hammer was swirled above my head, as the beat picked up to the steady forge tapping of a smith at his task. I no longer had to entice the beat, but still took the hammer on metal strike with gentle force on the supports of the balconies above. Each step seemed unplanned, but was made with a goal in mind. At last the whole of the bar was singing the forging song, the Pyesnya Kovalnya, that we had all heard some time in the past, at festival or sung as an item was crafted over anvils all round the world. At last I stepped out of the ubeintsya's sight for a moment, and laid into the support holding up his perch with all my might.

The reward was not all I wanted, the wood was not as solid as I had thought, old and dried out, it shattered easily, splinters sailing throughout the bar like the shards of a ship struck by the ball from a cannon. He had already started his move when his footing had been taken from him, stepping forward to leap down to our level. I was out of position by luck of the rotted column of wood, spinning under the might of my own miscalculation wildly, as the hammer came back towards the center of the building, it rang on metal, and something red danced up to ricochet off the falling balcony back to my foe, equally off balance from the unexpected fall. The alf was face down on a table, stunned, as his own crimson blade found his buttocks. His shriek was of fear and hate, mixed with shame as he tried to reach back to remove it. The song died as the balcony  finished its slow descent, and blocked my view.

It was only a few beats of my heart later that I was free of the mess I had made, my hands finding Dyada and 'Darzog's arms to guide them to safety. I found there was no more threat, only the shambles I had made of a place I found suddenly I liked more than I had before. The old runabrost stopped me firmly, and pointed at the bloody blade, still embedded in the seat of the assassin, whose body was twitching as only a poisoned man could do.

"Malchik, there is no threat left, this kind acts alone." His voice though soft, carried through the suddenly silent hall. "The marks on those blades are said to tell the tale for all to know."
I walked over to the body, looking carefully, my hammer firmly held at my side, ready to block a blow if needed. He was dead by the time I got there, even though the blow could not have been fatal. Save for the coating on that damned blade.

Poison, the mark of the deadliest of the assassins, and the colored blade said it all. This was meant for someone feared by some other. Some coward who did not wish to face their foe fairly, but desired their death by any means money could buy.

As 'Darzog said, there were three marks on the hilt, at the blade was the crest of my family, marked with the bar sinister. I had been the target. Not Joachim, not the runabrost. Me.

The next one I did not recognize, it was a crown wreathed in flames, but that was the mark of the foe who wanted me dead. I would have to puzzle this mark out, to understand who my real foe was. Last was a single dagger, with a drop hanging from its tip. Assassination by poison, one attempt. I would face no others, for now. But my grip on my hammer tightened rather than loosening. Someone wanted me dead, and it was not those in Ovozyest. This boded ill for me.

I reached to my belt and carefully took out my gloves donning them, but never letting my hammer leave my hands. I had been sent a message, and the gods had protected me against the death this blade had promised. But now, there was only one thing left to do. The symbol for my foe burned like the flames that were part of it into my mind, as I removed the dagger, set it on the floor and struck it with my hammer, which was enchanted to break weapons safely. No shard flew, no other paid a price, yet, for this action. But now the assassins would know their alf had failed. And I was alert to the threat.

When I met the eyes of my companions, they were all filled with worry. Zefdarfan wanted to say something, but I motioned him to silence. I needed to think about this, and deeply. There was no more celebrations that night, as we made the repairs to the balcony and sought a new support for it, and several others. All this and more we did in silence, as we each thought hard on the message I had been sent.

Paths of Damnation 1

Enough was enough. It was bad enough that the Imperatrix had allowed the Insulae to return to the fold after many ages, but to place many of those bigoted fools into places of power within the Empire, even to this distant outpost of her power, was idiocy, plain and simple. And the one she sent to take over here in Amoeni Terrai was a total incompetent. We sat there, at the table, Antonius and I, drinking our wine, and complaining about the new boss, who was nothing like the old one.

At least Urbania had known her limits in relation to her knowledge of the terrain when she came here. The fool from the Hantius gens walked in and told us we did not need to have water delivered to the outposts in the sands, there was water enough there. Even in the wettest years, the gullies in the hard clay badlands below the sandy plateau ran dry over half the year, and the tanks and oasis were dry for the same in dry years. But you cannot convince a Decurius of anything, short of doing it at blade point. The sad part was that the fool we had been sent was also related to my drinking companion, a fact Antonius kept apologizing for, buying bottles of our vintage, and cussing his father's clan.

Galenia Hantia was a moron, to think that we should summon water by spell to a place where even the greatest of mages had never even tried. But nothing we said here would matter. Unless it got back to her, in which case we could expect the worst jobs, the crummiest assignments, and no thanks for doing them. I had a luxury Antonius did not, I was at the end of my current enlistment in the Legion of the Custodians. If I chose, at the end of the season, only days away, I could walk away. Tony had to stay another three turnings of the seasons. Three long years of torture, unless the Hantia took a ride into the deserts with her attitude, and did not come back.

Corvinius, the master of our thousand, rarely sent idiots to the edge of the Grey Desert. That he was doing so this time worried me as to what was the conditions back home. Antonius seemed concerned as well, being from the islands, where the council of elders of the Ten Families ruled now with an iron fist. The same council that was attempting to suborn those who sat in the Forum with their lies and subversion of the freedoms we Numeni so fiercely defend normally.

I poured another goblet of wine for each of us, and smiled at my rival and friend. "I might as well be drunk when I resign. That way Corvinius cannot have an excuse to come gather me back to the fold." I lifted my drink to eye level, staring at Tony across the rim. "To the Imperatrix, long may she live."

While my companion was of the Insualae, his loyalty to the realm was still there. "Indeed. I may not agree with her or her policies, but they are better than the fools trying to remove her have." We drank swiftly, and set the goblets down to relax a bit more. Tony was thinking his way through things still, as in how to deal with what he would be left with.

I broke the silence, not to rub things in, but to keep others from joining us. When we were talking, everyone kept their distance from us for fear of the fight to come, when we drank silently, they came over to find out who had passed on to their next life.

"Well, luckily, Nonia is free too, and out west, at Pelori. I will cross the desert and maybe even ask her to take me to the Matriarch of her clan for approval." That got a startled move and then a laugh.

"Perfidio! Bill, you and Nonia have danced around it long enough, get married, boy. Hell, I have leave still, so I may come just to arrange the parties!" I winced as the bar exploded in cheers of our fellow Custos and those we often guarded of the caravans. I do not remember much more of the night, save that the fight Tony and I had was one of who could out drink who, which explains the memory loss...I hope.

Gods, please don't let Nonia hear about this before I can explain it to her.

I awoke in a damp bedroll in the tent I had pitched outside of town two nights before. The moisture was not rain or a flood, but the sweat of fear. I had hoped the nights of dreams of futures fraught with dangers where over. They were not. The nights dreams had been dark, so ominous I wanted to forget them, but could not.

This was not the first time I had been visited by the dark goddesses who deliver the Fates and Omens. The Parcae, we call them. Furies is what some call them. I tend to curse them as evil bitches who exist solely to ruin my sleep. When these dreams came to me, normally I would seek some priest to tell them to. But we had no member of the temples here in this place at the moment, all being out on rounds to the smaller communities before the fall turned to the season of dust storms.

I gathered myself as best I could and dressed simply, donning the leather pants and wool tunic for one last time. Specula, my saber, I wore in a backsheath today, being in town and not needing to ride anywhere. I donned several other weapons with my clothes, but I will not speak of them. Not that they are unimportant, but someone not so friendly to me may read this someday, and damned if I will tell them where I hide the blade or other tool of death I may need to draw against them.

My mind was still upset over the dreams of the night before, as I exited the tent. And discovered I had not been alone out here on the edge of the desert the night before. There were five tents there now, surrounded by a troop of temple guards, the Triarium, the spearmen of the third rank. Elves of such skill at war that they were recruited by the priesthood to protect the temples of our folk, in all their scattered places. Soldiers of the gods, who protected the priests of the lands they served in. That they had camped near me was not something I was comfortable with, having denied the callings of the gods twice already.

One of them was taller and older than the others. Very old, yet still very vigorous, even for our folk. I knew him, most folks knew of him, but I had met him before. Didius Lorcius. The leader of the Triarium. He smiled and waved at me, approaching carefully as mornings were the time of sunning serpents and scorpions in this place. One warming before sleeping the other warming to hunt the day.

"Ave. Billenius, is it not?" His voice was still firm, no crack of age in it. His hair was white as snow, and unlike most of our kind, he actually had some whiskers on his chin.

"Ave, Triari Didius. Yes, and I remember you well, old warrior." My voice was rough in comparison, not with age or weakness, just the effects of the hangover.

"Yes, and I you and your words to the priests. But last night I had my sleep interrupted by something that tells me the gods again call you to their service. You cannot deny the gods forever, young man. Sooner or later they get what they want. Better you accept their calling, for I have seen those the drag to their service, and the prices they had to pay." It was not a sermon, despite the wording. I could tell by his face and eyes, it was a plea. He had tears in those deep grey eyes.

"Just drinking dreams, last night of service drink off..."

His laugh cut me off. "Oh, those are great nights indeed. The dreams of the vine are indeed to be feared." Then a chill entered his voice. "But young Varus, know this. What I heard last night were the dreams brought by the Parcae. You cannot deny those dreams or what they mean for you forever, Varus. Sooner or later, those goddesses will pull you into their web of weavings."

I laughed, not at his words or sincerity, but the image he had created in my mind of the spiders weaving the Fates for the Parcae to deliver. "I am sure the spiders will have me some day, Didius. But until they capture me, I will stay my own man, and flit about like the flies and bees, tasting of this earth."

I waved to him as I walked off. "But the dreams of last night are sending me west, where I want to go anyhow, Triari, so for now, I must officially tender my resignation from the Custos and gain th freedom to head to the setting sun, and the smoke and fires that filled those dreams."

Behind me I heard the great old warrior hiss in surprise. For two reasons, my doni of foresight is well known among my folk, and so too is the word that I rarely share any of what I see, to prevent others from coming to hate me. I crossed the ashes of many ages of volcanic rains of the gritty materials that covered the desert to the west, and even this distant land with their pall.

It is amazing how courage at the bar evaporates by daylight's blazing heat. Especially under the desert sun of summer. I straightened my tunic before entering the offices of the Custos detachment, trying to find that resolve of the night before. The only thing keeping me going right now was the thought of being there when Nonia finished her time in the western desert detachment.

Inside I could hear the screaming that had come to mark the tenure of Urbania. Who she was tearing into did not matter anymore. It merely was the final log on the pyre of my career here. This is not how you treat folks who lay their lives on the line for others. Maybe the new ones, still learning, but to scream about the state of the uniform of a veteran, well that was intolerable. Henrius had been in the service for longer than she had lived, and was only a line worker by choice. Some of us had long ago called him the real leader of the troop here.

I walked in, and decided to let my last act be one of courage and respect. "Only a fool criticizes one with more experience than she has. And more brains, I might add, Optio Hantia." Where this courage was coming from still eludes me. Years later I thought it over, when asked, and still cannot answer with more than I have a low tolerance for fools.

"Yes, but that experienced rider was drunk when he reported for duty, and now I have no one to bear the messages to the west." Urbania's voice is not one made to soothe a soul. In fact one could say her voice is the grit used in sanding the wood used in furniture, or more appropriately, marble table tops.
Fortuna was smiling upon me, I could do her a favor as I left the service. "I am headed west, where do the messages need to go?" The eyes of cold green met mine, and it did make me realize she may not turn out to be as big a fool as we thought. There was a deep intelligence behind those irises. One I had not thought of the night before when complaining about her.

"Pelori, the capital, Cisburni, you name it." She recognized me at last moment. "Ah, Varus Billenius. You are sure you will not stay on?"

"Sorry, I extended for five years here twice already. there is no reason to hold me for more than thirty years on a twenty year enlistment. You need to find someone else to replace me, and I did bring in six more members for you this spring. I have a life to get on with, and that is not here on the edge of nowhere." My voice was even, and I tried to keep it friendly. Earlier this week she had invoked the extreme measure of preventing discharges of several first term folk. By mentioning the previous extensions, I was reminding her that no one could be forced to serve more than half again their initial enlistment.

Her face showed her distaste, but she knew I would not only fight any extension, but had a connection to the Imperatrix through my family I could use to end the action if needed. "Very well. Which batch will you take?" I was surprised at her lack of a fight. She might survive this place after all.

"Pelori and any messages for the Knights of the Sands. I have to head up that way to visit home and get some things I have there." I took the two saddlebags offered, and stayed a moment longer. Looking around, I saw the real problem, she had brought all her old staff with her, folks from the islands, from the wet western coast, and other places where the problem was too much water, not too little.
"You might want to talk to Loricius. He is out on the edge of town, where I camp. He can explain the water thing to you." The start told me everything. She had just signed the papers on that spell thing.

She'd never read it.

"What water thing?" Her voice was sharp, but she did not look at me, but her staff. I began to wonder if they were hers, or rejects shuffled off with her. There was hope, if Loricius could set her straight.
I walked out of the yelling match that erupted moments later with a smile, looking up at the noon sun, then off the to distant west. Unlike my dreams, it was not filled with smoke, fire and death. It rang of hope and Nonia.

As I wandered around town that day, settling my debts, and gathering supplies, I had that awful feeling between my shoulder blades, the one I have learned to never ignore. It made bartering and trading difficult, as I tried to both catch sight of my stalker, and yet not let this person know I was aware of being watched. This much I can say, the merchants knew I was distracted, and took advantage of the situation somewhat. To say my purse and pouch of gems was lighter than it should have been was an understatement. I really needed to have a talk with this person, they had cost me at least three sapphires, and a dozen topazes, not to mention the garnets when I almost picked him or her out to the crowd.

It was at the stables, as I gathered in Turbator for a quick loosen up ride that I realized there was more than one watching me. As we rode out for the short ride after the normal argument over being saddled, I tagged one, a fellow member of my race. One from the islands to the west, by his clothing, which was not suited to the desert.

One bearing more weapons than needed when walking in a town. There was an arrogance in his stride, as he walked to the stables. I knew what was to come. A challenge, in the old, very formal style. I rode off slowly, letting my mount stretch muscles rarely used the last hebdoma. It was good for him, and let me think over how to deal with him. I had Specula with me, and that was all, not even a knife. I was not sure an enchanted blade would be accepted by him, in fact, I was willing to lay coins on that. His folk felt only pure unenchanted chablys was acceptable in a duel. But I would trust no blade brought by one from the islands.

I made one decision fast, and headed leisurely to the west of town, where there was a broad bench just feet above the river that would give us good footing for the fight to come. He took up a distant following pattern, so I waited until we were at least one mil from the buildings before letting my mount try his paces. Turbator sensed we were going to a fight, and seemed to have the same place in his limited mind. The race like pace he took up was beyond belief, and the cloud of dust we left behind was an ugly arrow to the west.

He slowed as we came to the spot we had both chosen somehow. He paced around the broad stretch of flood deposited silts and sands, stirring up the dust still, pawing the ground even before the other stallion arrived. I waited until he calmed a bit before dismounting. Once on the ground I stepped away quickly, to avoid catching a hoof, but for a change my six-legged friend seemed to be content with just nipping at my sleeve.

He knew, as well as I did, that we both needed to be fit for combat. Somehow, this beast from a distant place of grasses also sensed we were leaving the lands of sage and ash. I was still amazed at the doni that had given me the ability to make friends and understand beings others called beasts. I could sense their thoughts, and contrary to the claims of many, they did have them. Right now, Turbator was thinking of chasing off a stallion, to show who was dominant.

I could feel the rider and his determination as he came up to us, even with my back turned. My donum were flaring up again, and after so long of only having the sense of danger or occasional hints of things to come, it was disconcerting. Once the flamens had sought me, as the Triari had said, for those gifts from the gods, but I had denied them. Yet the gods can be patient, to a point. I began to wonder if there would be a day they would gather me into their fold, whether I willed it or not.
The sound of two feet landing heavily on the ground brought me out of the dreaming I had walked the edge of for that moment. Reality was intruding, and the gods and their plots would have to wait and see if I could walk away from this place to do their bidding.

"Quintas Billenius Varus, you have been marked for death by the Allegiance of the Blades. As a member in good standing, I have taken coin and weapon to slay you. But as you are of the blood of the ancient lineages, I grant you the honor of dancing with me in the old formulas." Somehow I knew he would have a voice others would call angelic, not knowing what he was inside.

With a simple turn, I drew Specula from her sheath, letting the light she was imbued with flare out for the moment. "There is no honor in taking coin to kill others of our kind. In fact, it was forbidden by the gods ages ago, in the earliest of days you claim to be here to represent, fool." My voice was low, and had that edge it too oft did in such times. But in the end, all that mattered was not the appearance or perceptions of others, but who stood for right and who committed wrongs.

"You and those of the plains left honor behind when you left the islands, servus. Now, be a good boy, and die like the dog you are." His blade came out, stained red with an iron based poison. The merest touch of that blade on me, even some of the stuff dropping on my skin would be deadly, I was sure.

"Poison? This is your honor?" My taunt struck a chord in his anima, one he seemed surprised to still have.

"I am an assassin, stultus, what did you expect of me? Dueling swords and seconds?" His blade still dipped to the ground, offering quarter.

I smiled and saluted him with my acinias. "No, you are all I thought would come for me. As is your second out there in the sage watching us. Signal him to back off, and stay out of this. His kind is not ours, and this is not about the money, is it?"

One thing I have learned over the years is that the eyes often speak even with the rest of a person are still as stone. Pupils constricted, then opened in the response of fear. He had not known he was followed, nor could he think who was out there, waiting for this fight to be over. And now he would not be able to stop thinking of that one.

I let my inner eye open for the slightest of moments, sensing the flows of life forces around the me. There was a smoldering pile of ashen color out there, with only hints of the fires of life in it. It was not the dying fires of the undead, nor was it the smolder of one of the living who is dead inside. It was one who tried to bend the stuff of shadows around himself, with a skill that was remarkable, but still nothing compared to artistry of my old friend Umbradinor's. This one was still learning the path of crafting shadows, young, unskilled, yet showing promise. I knew this one, I was sure.

In my musings, I was vulnerable, and the fool made his first attack. My saber is fast luckily, and with a flick of my arm, the first clash of chablys on his bronze blade. From this moment, all was the battle, none on other things. I laid my mind upon this foe, and watched everything he did, noting the slightest of clues, the tension of muscles I could see under his skin, the way he shifted his weight to a side, forward or back, all was important.

The dance began in earnest, as we began a slow circling series of feints, attacks, blocks and movements. With each move, one of us stepped closer to death, the other to life, and for the first few fingers of sand dropping from the upper to lower ends of the horus, neither of us was sure who was moving which direction. Then the moment came, he launched a series of attacks that were part of the standard saber dance, predictable to a point I blocked them without thinking of the blocks, but turned my eyes to the step he would take next or beyond.

In the saber dances of the islands, the aggressor always wins, but in reality, it is the person who realizes a fight is not a dance who wins. Specula touched him gently several times as I used her tip to test his mindset and skill, and found both lacking. How the assassins had allowed such a fool into their midst, I could not know, and probably never would. One thing was for sure, this fight was not one I had sought, nor desired.

Turbator had declared his own war, as we had danced, with the huffing and screams only the equines can make, be they horse, mule or onager. The other stallion was younger, and took the challenge eagerly. Hooves and teeth were clashing at the river side, as we danced, two battles of one single war. I tried not to let more than where their fight was at, it being far more mobile than ours, as it raged along the length of the bench. If that battle crashed into ours, all sorts of new problems would erupt.

My nameless foe, which was strange given his attitude to the traditional style of dueling, had yet to touch me once with his blade, but now wore the green badge of combat in seven separate spots now on his body. None were deep, nor did any slow him a bit, but I had the touches, and now we both knew he was not as skilled with the blade as I was. My acinias danced in and out of his defenses as lightning would in the clouds of a storm. This was not part of the enchantments cast upon that chablys. It was all training, determination to live, and way too much experience in real world fighting.

At last he managed to turn away from the formula of the island dance, and tried to lock blades between us, but years in the saddle and working in the fields beside those I protected had given me greater strength than his years of impractical forms had done for him by practice. With a simple push off, I ended the match, as the edge of his blade dug into his face. I gave him his spin at the end, like in the saber dance. Despite his sudden knowledge of being dead, he still tried to block it. Specula shattered his saber, and I winced as he at last drew blood with a sliver of bronze that broke the skin of my forearm.

Behind me, the younger onager fled at last, but Turbator stood his ground neighing loudly in triumph, not pursuing the vanquished. Which was good for a change. I felt the first throbs of the poison of iron in my arm, thinking I should bandage it, when a strong arm took my good one.

"Augur, you make it very difficult to protect you." Didius voice, not angry, but not happy.

Nor was I happy with what the treatment for the poison was. Leave it to say, it is not very palatable, nor were the after effects anything I would care to share. Also, I hate tourniquets with a passion, they make your fingers numb for days later.

"Crossing to the Shadows" Chapter 9 - raw first draft

"Perfidio. You are certain? The Roshen refuses to force them to commit?" Salio slammed his fist on the table. "Do they not respect those contracts?"

Leaning on the table, his overseer hung his head. "Shamefully, no." Touching the letter carried in moments before, reading slowly. "The Season of Shadow voids the contract, or so they claim. And Claudio has a legitimate reason to leave us."

Whirling, Salio started to speak, only to be silenced by upheld hand.

"Bone fire. How, the surgeon knows not. He kept all cats clear of him while the wound was treated. He fears it will be chronic." Looking up, he found Salius face sad and shocked.

"Gods. Claudio rode with me that first crossing." He dropped hard on his chair. "No chance the surgeon is wrong?"

"I saw the glow in this leg myself. Claudio sends his regrets." Jarthuna's head shook, he wished such a thing on no person. Having one's bones burn with real fire while sheathed with flesh made him glad that disease affected only the Numeni.

They read the letter once more, the Warrior's Guild stated clearly they would not force members to honor contracts during the coming eclipse, and advised them to seek help elsewhere.

"Cowards." It was all Jarthuna could think of that moment.

Nodding, Salius stood upright. "This forces my hand on something. I cannot abide the breaking of the contracts. They knew when they signed the term included the eclipse." Stepping lightly, to avoid waking his sister behind the curtains, his brow furrowed. "How many still honor their word?"

"Three, Mercator. You wish names?" Jarthuna continued reading something he never would have believed of the Roshen il Kenzili. As the sands fell down the glass horarium, his master thought it over.

"No. Merely tell them we are releasing them." Shaking his head, the elf walked to the table again.
"Nine to replace, not to mention the additional we hoped to hire."

"The worst part of the journey, the sand crossing, we have the Custos regiment contract to ride with us. But the Mercatrix will be barren of protection that way." Jarthuna found the stool reserved for him in the tent corner. "Perhaps along the Via we can cover that on our trip, finding men willing to brave the desert under the shadow."

The merchant prince paced, agitated. "Yes, but we will need aid along the way ourselves. I cannot trust the turmae sent with us will not have to answer calls."

Both thought over their dilemma for several fingers of sand. Salio stopped after much pacing, running hands across two days worth of scalp stubble. Once more he glanced at the map, marked with the legs he took. "Count on them leaving us, in fact. I have only one choice open. We hire brave free-blades, and leave some cadre for Servilla at Krithnak."

"Betting on making better time than my caravan is foolish, brother." Sweeping aside curtains, Villia entered the area. "If I am not there, keep them until we cross. The south trade road has its perils, but the paved road still is there for most stretches. That will let my caravan make better time." Her finger stabbed the western ends of the map. "I will be in Pelori before the Shadow passes a score of days."

"There are no days or nights when the shadow falls. Only darkness crawling with many fell creatures. You above all should know this." He shared a meaningful stare with his sister. Jarthuna still remained clueless to the way the words carried something else.

"A mage. If we find a mage, one who touches darkness, but never embraced it." The twins spun on him, startled.

Servillia recovered first. "There are few anatomists. The mages of the shadows are gone."

Jarthuna smiled. "No, just in hiding. One who studied that path is here now. My kinfolk warned me of his studies at the colleges amid the grasslands."

Salius smiled softly. "A shadow mage, even one just starting out, would inspire a few to stay." Catching his overseer's eyes, he nodded. "I wish to speak with this young man. You know where he stays."

Nodding, Jarthuna rose from his stool.

Lips pursed, Servillia motioned him to wait. "One worries about allegiances of such."

Salius smiled grimly. "Better the allies of the shadow than the Allegiance of the Blades, sister." His face soured with thought. "Find him, schedule the meeting. I will speak with him, he will travel with me."

Jarthuna left quickly. Salius met his sister's eye, seeking some hope. "I still worry. The south route is vulnerable. Fewer patrols, fewer places to recover at. I am tempted to call in a favor from the scaled one."

Villia waved her left hand, a gesture of contempt and confidence. "No. Let sleeping dragons lie, brother. Ankara-Keweii-Ghani cannot be trusted."

Salius held her eyes, seeing the determination there. His twin despised the great lizards, despite the good allying with those from the Last Mountains towering south of town rendered past ventures.
"Very well, but I will still seek some advantage for your caravan, Villia. We cannot take chances that are beyond the norm."

She snorted her derision. "And cozening up to some unknown mage who plays with the shadows is not such a risk?"

Exhaling loudly, Salius gave up, for the moment. "Very well. But if the Parcae give us an omen about something, we take it." Sitting slowly, fingers traced the Great South Road. "Something tells me our goddesses will touch us with their sinistra mani, not the dexter ones."

He strode from the tents, intent on finding men, elves, or even dwarves with iron spines.

(after this chapter, I'm slowing down the postings, having decided at this point in finding and tossing them into the canned posts, I want to drag out just how much I have until well after I left, just to rub the salt into the wounds of those who called me lazy.)

"Crossing to the Shadows" Chapter 8 - raw first draft.

"Joachim, are you sure we should get off this early?" Garzog's gravely voice startled the dwarf. Somehow his companion managed to walk silently of the deck of the aging river galley. His own steps always found the creaking deck boards.

"If nothing else, you won't be able to sneak up on me, tovarishch." Turning towards his friend, finding his face lit by Jzhan's last rays. Rough and weathered stone described the rune priest best. Sharp cheeks and nose with a rounded off square jaw lined by thick brown beard. Wind tossed Garzog's shoulder length hair, free of normal duck tail pull back.

"Bah, you just worry too much about the river beasts." Slapping the railing, Garzog's white teeth glinted as the sun dipped beneath the horizon. "These rails are enough, given the free board he has."
Joachim turned back to the river, eyeing warily the island ahead. "My only worry rises from our captain demanding weapons staying in our travel chests." Glancing around, he noted the positions of the elves on deck, furling sails as the wind shifted with the setting sun. "Too many of these duch possess a poor idea about ownership, judging by their gaudy jewelry pulled out once we left Tyrosht."

Leaning on the railing, Garzog dropped his voice to a whisper. "Indeed. More observant than me on that." Sneaking his own peeks, the priest noted several large stoned earrings among the crew. Ones matching the descriptions a port official questioned the dwarves about before the ship sailed.

"River men generally bear a goodly amount of bor blood in them. Something I understood when we booked passage. I trust them not beyond this island." He motioned to lights in the foothills over the left railing. "There lies one place we must visit, anyway. Pragotsyennei-Kamengorod. Krepost-kofs long un-audited by the Tsar's inspectors. Not to mention, this visit drops our feet back onto kamen e zemlya. Too long on water for me this trip."

Garzog couged as the galley rowers changed their pace a bit, lining the craft up with the right side channel. "Bah, the desert will dry that off us. Though I have only seen hints of it so far."

Joachim smiled a bit, though the darkness hid it. "The Pustinya vDveidzhyushcheiecya Pil, where the dust never settles down, unless devouring a city. Wasted lands, yet filled with rumors of treasure that lure honest karleekie to their doom." Shaking his head. "Once, that time I took ship to the west as a boy, I saw Pelori, on the western end. Gray sands far as one could see to the east. And Nicolai demanding I come back during the great zatmeneeye, the long dark shadow, bodes ill, my friend."

Slapping his hand to Joachim's shoulder, he laughed. "Joachim, you forget your sense of adventure. We are young, wild dwarves, off to take our own claim."

"Twenty years is long to men, but my memories of this place are not good and still recent to me." Against the horizon a bridge loomed over the channel. "Like these bridges, Garzog, we stone folk stand the tests of time. Sixteen vyek they span this river. Built by our ancestors for the human empire that fell two ages ago."
Garzog chuckled in the dimming light. "Sixteen centuries, use the trade tongue, tovarishch. Lest our captain think we plan to rob him first."
Baring his teeth to the wind, Joachim let his friend think he snuck in the last words for a bit. Already he noted the torches along the stone quay built along the island's shore. There tall shadows and short ones danced under twilight's fiery sky. Crimson and pink clouds, amid the orange haze of dust stirred by the winds from the desert. Omen of blood spilt soon, as he remembered the heroic ballads saying.

Waiting patiently for ropes to secure the ship did not come easy to a matros with many ocean voyages under his belt. Fingers rapped an old sea chantey upon the rail, one learnt his first trip out. Joachim grimaced at the words contained in it. "Burning sky over orange sea, as the ship foundered upon the shoals." More poetic in his native tongue, but apt in the others he spoke as well.

Once assured his galley securely moored, the captain strolled over to them. "Very well, pumillo, this is the port for Gemmarium." Looking them over, the elf smiled darkly. "Now, as you were booked to Radixium, there will be an additional fee for early departure, as well the full passage price upstream."

Garzog backed away when Joachim's hand dove beneath his tunic, producing a short throwing ax. "Silence." One word that left both elf and dwarf companions puzzled.

"You dare tell me to be quiet. This is my ship, pumillo, you do well to remember I am the law on water."

"No, I offer silence about these as our price." The ax lifted over Joachim's head to tap the grandly cut diamond decorating the captain's ear. "I won't talk about these, which a wise person would have kept hidden a few trips, and you don't speak of us. Though it would be fair if you refunded half the fee from here to Radixium. After all, I am sure you have some cargo to smuggle there from here."

"Jakin from the Hills, you bargain shrewdly as ever." The anger melted to mirth. "Never thought you would keep a hatchet under the mail. Should have remembered that dice game on the Lorsan Coast. We made a fortune that night."

Joachim winced at the elvish pronunciation of his name. Something he'd forgotten until now. Officials dealt with along the line prided themselves on being precise in their speaking, especially with names. Then a smile lit his eyes only. "Full fare, you owe me for letting you ride along with my dice that night."

Laughing, the captain tossed him several coins from the fallen empire. "Full fare for the trip. Annia was certain it was not you, and convinced me otherwise." He motioned dock-wards, where their chests and gear passed from hand to hand from the hold onto the quay. "Never saw you, swift fingers."

"Never laid eyes on gems on-board if pressed, black arrow." Joachim stalked across the deck, legs feeling the stone under them already. "Next trip, I might bring my dice!" Roaring that challenge, he scrambled across the gangway, with Garzog swift behind him.

"Tovarishsch, you forgot telling that tale along the way." Garzog grumbled.

Checking the seals, Joachim merely smiled. "Priests look poorly upon turning rune casting into a game of chance."

"Little you know of us. We cast stones for chores while novices, against our teachers."

The captain turned after speaking to those loading his vessel. "Jakin! Beware of games of chance. I hear that Triconis passed this way two days ago to Radixium."

Sparks danced amid the browns and reds of his eyes, Jakin looked intrigued. "The stunted elf?"

"All three! My cousins say the three eyed one is there with the Custos." The captain shook his head, "Not good news for us gamblers."

"I just ride along with them at stones, stay out of card games, and watch the fights in the taverns they start." Laughing, Joachim raised his hand is salute. "Keep it off sandbars, Laenas! Don't want to find you stuck as I ride the riverside trail!"

"I was drunk that time, you scoundrel!"

Still chuckling, he turned about, finding Garzog smiling, holding the reins of four small ponies. "Mountain stock, already here. There is a fifth waiting there."

Walking over, Joachim spotted a slip of paper tucked between halter and pony. The docile creature seemed happy for him to remove that irritation He opened it slowly, recognizing the awful rendering of runes, poor spelling and limited vocabulary. "Vill sez U will need annuder pone. Hope two conthinue aks leshons."

"A seer told a friend we would need this, Garzog." Joachim folded the note carefully, tucking it into a pouch, where other such notes resided over the years.

The rune priest walked over, looking at the equipment on the pony. "Beginner's gear." Then his hands found the shroud and goggles of darkened glass. "Yadneik? We are to deal with those of the poisoned minds?"

"Your aunt married up there, did she not." Joachim noted some bits on the side away from Garzog. Tools of a trade he despised, daggers, and an ax of design he knew well.

"Yes. Father's sister. Captured, married and stayed after her ransom was paid. He said Grandfather was furious over it, took her ax and cast it off a cliff."

Lifing the axe, Joachim spoke with dread. "That seer told him many things, I would bet. Else, why this axe on the pony."
Sharp intake of breath marked Garzog's shock. Silence lay between them for a while. When the rune priest spoke at last,  his voice was soft. "Hide that thing. How good is this seer. Do you know him."
"One of the Triconis, as the point ears call them. (Rascals) as we name them. Good men, good hearts, lots of bad luck though. The seer, I know the (Great Spearman) himself watches over him. Something about a prophecy." Shaking his head, Joachim set the weapon back where he found it. "Guess we will have a guest. Your aunt?"

Garzog looked grim. "She died a few (decades) back. No, this will be her son, I would guess." Then he smiled. "I have a cousin, perhaps he will travel with us."

Mounting his own pony, the warrior dwarf nodded. "Let us hope he can tolerate us. But to walk out from under those mountains, that is something only ezganeik do."

Climbing into the saddle, Garzog nodded, still smiling, but worry lines around his eyes. "Yes. But an exile from the Dyermo must have redeeming qualities."

Riding across the island, the road proved still in good condition, despite the ages since constructed. Both karleekie stayed silent, even while crossing the bridge across the south channel. Several ships lay at anchor, waiting the light of day to sail. More sat lifted onto cradles along the shore. Few wished to travel during the coming eclipse. The (eclipse) bore ill-luck. Their own journey requiring moving under the shadow worried Joachim.

Several hands of the stars across the sky later, the two found a campsite, near the start of the great gorge of the Yakim into the mountains above them. Sounds of flint on steel rose near a simple stone oven often made by their kind at such places. Trading glances, the dwarves checked their beasts well outside the clearing.

Joachim spent time watching the site, noting only one shadow moving for certain, but at times his peripheral vision caught motions in the scrub trees sheltering the place. Catching Garzog's eyes, hands moved in the silent commands for watcher. Puzzled at first, Garzog moved his head about slowly. Sitting up suddenly, metal of his mail coat jangled, breaking their silence. "Prezrak." His only word.

The warrior sucked in a breath, startled about a ghost being here. Campsites in this part of the world were supposedly safe havens from attacks. Meeting his companion's eyes, noting Garzog's nod, he rode forward, letting the pony rattle brush as he approached the clearing.

"(hail) the fire! May we join you."

Silence met his call. Then a chuckle. "What fire? Never could start one."

Joachim laughed. "There is a trick to it. I'd be willing to share the trick, and provisions, to stay the rest of the night."

Another long pause. "Karleekie?" Questioning tone spoke of caution.

"Couriers of the Tsar." Joachim ratcheted up his appraisal of the youth a bit. The lack of rock tones in the voice spoke the lack of years.

"Bozhemoi. Well, this outcast may be bad luck for you." One last strike of stone on metal then the hint of glow as tinder caught. "Or you may be fortune for me. Come in and sit."

Choosing his way carefully, Joachim led in his pack animal as Garzog herded in his animal and the spare mount. Once in, the warrior nodded at the young dwarf, barely old enough to grow the beard, judging by gaps along his jaw and missing sideburns.

"Not so strong a breath. Gentle puffs, until the twigs catch." Dismounting proved difficult, something spooking the ponies. Fighting to keep his under control when half off the saddle prompted several curses.

The boy looked up, fiery hair gleaming off light from the first licks of flame. "Silly bor, haunting the ponies as he can't scare me."

Reaching ground, Joachim gave the boy a steady gaze. "Bor? There is a thief running around in the brush?"

"Ghost of one. Believe he may be upset I took his tools and weapons." The boy met the stare with honest eyes at least. "Dobri Vecher, Gospozhee."

"And good evening or night to you as well young one. I am Joachim ot Choelm, my companion goes by Garzog Goryets when in strange lands."

The eyes narrowed a bit. "I have no place to be from. Call me Dzhio Stranneik, I guess."

The rune priest looked at him carefully. Noting the hair and skin tones. "I will not ask why you are exiled. But this I must know. You have look different from most Dyermo. Mother or father was from another band?"

Meeting the gaze, the boy nodded softly. "Mother."

Garzog sighed. "Well met, droyudrenei brat. I am the son of your mother's brother." Walking forward slowly, he extended his left hand. "Any kin cast out of the Dyermo lands has potential in my book."
Dzhino rose, accepting the gesture warily, hand only lightly clasping the wrist, while Garzog's held strong. "So I still have family, despite being shsilka?"

Garzog smiled. "Family and more, malchik." Walking to the spare mount, Garzog retrieved the ax on the saddle. "Your mother's syekeira, young man. Bear it well."

Looking into his eyes, the young man spoke softly, voice pitched not to carry beyond the ears of those near the fire. "I, Dzhino Tsyepochka, accept this in her honor. Spasebo, cousin."

"Pdzhalsta, Dzhino. Welcome to the clan. I, Gramrond Dargovovich accept you." Smiling widely, the dwarf winked. "Ignore my grumpy friend, cousin. He feels we should live up to our stand-offish reputations."

Joachim laughed. "No, I just think a rune priest should behave more properly." He settled in by the neglected fire, building it up properly.

Catching the eye of his new found kin, Dzhino whispered loudly. "You are a rune priest? Could you help me with a small matter. I stirred up a prezrak that is following me."

Garzog smiled. "Tell us this tale. I am not skilled at banishing ghosts, but something about it makes me wary of doing so. I feel there is something here we do not know.

Cradling his mother's battleaxe, the young Karlykn told them of his journey the last two days.

"Crossing to the Shadows" Chapter 7 - raw first draft

Shaimini Na-su's hearth rang with the hammer of Batulbel. The afreet worked the iron and cobalt blank, folding it slowly, working the grains of black carbon into the blue steel created by his skill. Each blow rang in measured beat. Despite those watching, the demon of fire refused to rush his craft. How these two came to possess the spell to summon and bind him to their will, he pondered while making the knife they demanded. That spell normally rested only with the priests of Kvaeg. Neither of these were such.

The names they tried to give during summoning held no power, which told him they had no clue only a true name held the power of binding. When they figured that out, Batulbel noted the blood on the scroll cases. His anger stayed in check, bound by the spells. But his mind roved over the zisura used in his binding. The demon tested the bonds mentally, finding his captors left many loop-holes in the binding, allowing him to choose some aspects about the blade's enchantment. All they asked was for the power of shadows, the spell for opening minds and hinted at the binding to a path. Which path vague instructions left open for him to choose.

Sitting just beyond the heat of the borrowed smithy, two men from the Dark Coast sat in chairs, talking softly. Flexing his power, Batulbel bent sound from them to his ears.

"Hamat-tabal assured us. The scrolls will make the blade of shadows. You heard the Sang. This is the place the slayer of shadows will rise in. We even know he will be of the poisoners from the mountains." The human speaking seemed pleasing to the eyes of women, as two knelt at his feet, washing them with tongues. Deep olive skin barely seemed filthy to when Batulbel cast a glance at him.

His compatriot had no attendants. His hands straightened his black tunic and kilt as he stood to pace nervously. "Raish, that worries me most. Prophecy is a sword with no hilt, only edges." His orange waist sash held a rippled ax of Ganzer and the dreaded dagger, whose black and red hilt marked him as a slayer of men. "Those fools in the temples know nothing of blood and daggers, save when they gut someone to read their entrails."

"Those entrails rarely read wrong, Tehath my fiiend." Tension rose between them, Batulbel noted. The still seated one motioned the girls away. Despite speaking a tongue rarely heard this side of the Great Water, he did not want ears for the discussion to come.

"Still, I trust them not." Tahath's sash end swirled out as he turned sharply on his companion.

"These entrails said much, including that we would have this adaman." His use of a word only the seers used for arguments forced the standing man to take a step back in shock. "And they predicted we would have problems with the spell. More than we have already encountered, so your caution may be wise."

Tahath shook his head. "Truly, I was surprised that we only had to fight for an hour to control Batulbel." Hands twisted into warding gestures to the smith as he said the name.

"But this bodes well. The Dingiri smile upon us my tab. You are the best companion, the one I came to age with, standing beside me even as I dared this profession. But you must trust me more." Raish smoothed his kilt, standing slowly, meeting his friend's eyes.

Finding that gaze difficult to hold for long, Tahath turned his face back to the forge. "What else do I need to know?"

Moving beside his friend, the assassin spoke softly, forcing the demon to change his beat a hair to hear the words, missing the first bits. "... in the desert of ash. This is all we know. All the entrails said. Other than it will happen under the shadow."

Whispering his reply, Tahath noted the change in beat, which the demon hid with the folding of the metal forcing him to adapt it further. "The demon cannot be summoned outside a forge, the spells bind him only inside such walls or a temple."

Waving a hand, his companion spoke a hair louder, to be heard over the harsher beats folding required, making it easier for Batulbel to eavesdrop. "There are temples in that desert. Towns swallowed by the sands and ash with forges made by the beast people." Mention of the lamia of the desert gained him a dark glance. He pressed on. "Yes, they can kill us, but we are dangerous to them as well. Tahath, this is destined. The blade will be blooded and sealed before the last star strikes of the Shadow fall."

Watching the metal being settled onto coals by the deep crimson demonic hands, the balding man spoke too soft to hear over the popping gas pockets amid the coals.

As the forge settled down, Batulbel knelt as if watching the metal's shape, hiding his concentration at hearing words they wished even his slave self to not hear. The afreet concentrated on dimming his soul fire, the corona blazing normally when he touched his magics.

Breaking through, he caught a last small bit. "...so seek the train of the falling star. I still know not what that means. Nor could the erib bithi tell me more."

Tahath felt distrust even the fire demon detected from a distance in his aura. "Those who are bound into the houses of the gods forever should not look without them. They cannot understand what they left behind."

"Perhaps. But this is what we have to work with. The Sang himself read those entrails. Virgin entrails rarely lie or have doubts." Raish shook his head, making his own shorter ringlets of ebony dance around his face. "That was a costly gift to the gods, letting them take a virgin girl. They reward such generosity."

Still doubting, Tahath turned away to leave. "The star that falls. I think I have a glimmer of what that means. I will go into the bazaar again. Something I heard needs clarification."

Smiling, the assassin revealed teeth filed into an adder's fangs. "Do so, my friend. And learn to trust the gods. They will raise up the dominion of the blades again."

Tahath nodded moving away swiftly. After a few steps, he muttered under his breath, still in the range of Batulbel's spell. "Train of the falling star. No caravan has such a sigil. Useless prophecies, always twisting things into riddles. How do I find a caravan company that is falling... star or fortune?" He stopped, whirling around to face his tab. "Raish, did the Sang say mul or kakkab?"

The red sashed one turned to his partner. "Does it matter? Both mean star."

"Mul is close to Mu, what if it means fame not star?"

Raish smiled, even as he summoned the young women back to him by gestures. "Indeed. The conversation those men had at the inn. A company whose fortunes and fame are tarnished by failures and financial losses. Good thinking. See, the gods touch your heart to inspire you." Taking his seat, He motioned the women to continue as before.

Cursing the veiled words of the gods, Tahath left the smithy.

Batulbel smiled as he finished the fold. They would never find the flaw laying at the core of this blade. Buried deep, the afreet worked his own magics upon the blade. Something they forgot forbidding. Free will, Batulbel thought, was a wonderful thing, and whoever wound up wielding this blade deserved it And theses two fools earned the shock that would give them in the end.

"Crossing to the Shadows" Chapter 6 - raw first draft

Didius Loricus hated the desert. After the fiascoes to the north, failed business tries, and the maneuvers cut by the Decuria, no other places remained. His last funds lay before him, a plate filled with food he was not sure should be fed to swine. Dodger's Inn definitely met his expectations, low and crude. Few of his fellow Numeni dared enter the place. The food contributed most of that reluctance, he was sure.

Looking around, the humans and short ones dominated the crowd. In the corner sat the only other elf. Long wild brown hair worn loose, high forehead and slovenly dress told him this elf was as down on his luck. Much as himself, Didius mused. Proably some cast off from some unit, not Legion though, the discipline of the Legions and Centuries stayed with a man. When they could afford it, at least. Something about the numen rattled around his skull, failing connection to memories.

Running his left hand through his own unkempt hair, black sprinkled by the snow of age, Didius exhaled, bracing himself against what passed as food here. Assuring himself it could not be worse than field rations, his fork stabbed the meat, not pleased by the light color. Pork, probably. Something off the table by his religious convictions, but when hungry, the gods made exceptions. This dish might be the reason it was forbidden by canon law, though. Taking the first bite failed to improve his opinion. Overcooked, seasoned with too much sage to hide the origins, and gamey.

Forcing the meat down proved hard. The second bite was no better, but his taste buds lay dead after the first bite, which helped. Concentrating on eating, he never noticed the falling off of noise in the place, The footsteps approaching his table barely registered on his thoughts. Loud crack of a spear butt on the filthy stones managed to break through finally. Looking down, the chablys shaft resting there hinted only that another elf was the interruption.

In his own tongue, despite being in a place unusual to hear such, he gave a contemptuous greeting. "What ever you want, it can wait for me to finish my swill."

A foot shifted beside the spear haft. Noting the soldier's sandals, Didius exhaled harshly enough to force a belch up. After-taste from the meal did nothing to improve his disposition. Another Legionairre looking for a fight, he assumed. Chablys golden glint on the greaves spoke of some wealthy islander. Not one who should seek a fight, unless linked someway to the Left Hand Century.
The spear rapped harshly, indicating irritation or impatience. Keeping his stare towards the pitiful meal, he gave a snort. "If it can't wait, I might force this down your throat, caligius." He used the most insulting term for soldier, hoping for a fight to save him from finishing the plate.

"That's a mighty threat, Rico. I think I can wait." His visitor's voice was soft, a deep baritone accented by the island tones.

Eyes narrowed at those words. Few here in the desert knew his service nickname. Only one person he knew possessed the skill at arms to feel safe backing down from a fight. Glancing at the greaves again made Didius wince, then shove back his plate,

"A good commander would save a former underling from such, unless he is also down on his luck." Rising, the broke elf met a smiling face.The visage marred by an aquiline nose, framed in short white hair still touched with red at the temples. "Ave, Praetor."

Chuckling, the elder waved off his attempt at a salute. "Those days are well behind me, but it just so happens I can spot an old comrade in arms a meal. If you don't mind me joining you."

Smiling, Didius motioned to the other chair across the table. "Not sure there is anything edible here, judging by what I managed affording."

Returning the smile, the former commander of all the military branches accepted the offer. "Bad days if you dared whatever they would serve you for a few vittles."

Wincing at the comment, Didius nodded agreement, pulling the plate back for another attempt choking it down. "Rough days, a few bad business deals and made the mistake of sitting in on a game of chance the Tres Triconis."

Mentioning that ended the smiles. "Ringelius, Norbanus and Billenius in one place? Perhaps I should move on immediately." Then he looked concerned. "Varus needs to accept that the gods gifted him not for wealth, but to do their bidding. A seer using his powers to gain wealth often goes awry."

Footsteps approached the table. Checking on that sound revealed their kinsman from the corner moving their way. Measured steps, each placed with care, almost a dance. At his belt rode the long, curved blade of a Custor. Glancing closer, Didius noted bulges from knives in several places also. Shifting in his chair, his hand dropped off the table to his own gladius.

"Dom Bentarius, Optio Loricus. May I join you, kinsmen?" The voice was not as deep as the Triari's, roughened with the hints of long stints out on the dust.

But it was a voice that let Didius at last place the elf in his memories. "Custor Cethegor. I should have known that was you in the corner. No one else would dare wear a face so ugly."

Pulling a chair from the next table over to their table, the man took his seat before answering. "As I recall, you broke this nose up Crystal Wastes way. Something about not following you so closely into battle."

Didius laughed. "My back swing tends to extend that way. Sorry about the elbow to the face."

Cethegor shrugged it off. "I heard you were both forced out. If you are looking for work, the local Custos seem to think being decimated out of the ranks as a positive, not a negative."

Praetor Bentarius smiled. "I am here merely on inspection of the local Triarium. They needed a morale boost, and reminding not to take orders from former commanders not of the order."

Cethegor nodded. "Just mustered out this morning from my lustre, looting to find work myself. Temple guard won't get me any pay though."

"Not really recruiting here. Though both of you measure up, in my book." Two sets of eyes locked on the Triari's face. "Like I said, not actively recruiting here, but if either of you change your mind about my past offers, let me know."

The server arrived, looking flustered. "Sorry, sir. Almost missed that you moved." She set three bowls holding stew on the table. "From across the street, as you asked. Dodger ain't happy about it, but he acknowledged your point about the pork."

Cethegor nodded, laying a single gold nugget the size of a knuckle out. "As promised. Found me a good spot out in the desert."

She palmed it quickly. "Dodger will like that. I will bring you the change later." The dust covered elf nodded his accepting that offer.

 Looking at the other elves, he shrugged. "It was after my time was up, and I reported the find anyway. They let me keep a bit, and buy a claim there." Hands dove inside his brown suede vest, producing three silver spoons. "Venari does a wonderful lamb stew, but is too fastidious for me to enter there like this."

Didius chuckled, accepting the utensil. "Fair enough. Guess I will owe you a meal. Or a day's work on that claim."

Cethegor waved off the offer. "Not that good a find. Outwash gully is all. May sneak back in there someday to find the motherlode." His face drew up in a grin. "Or save that for something to while away my final days doing. Looking to travel for now. Stirred up some dragons finding that."

Bentarius shook his head. "Might be a good idea. Dragons have a dim view of folks taking gold from lands they claim."

Cethegor smiled shyly. "Dimmer view about killing one of their butte-mates." Shrugging, he went back to eating his stew.

The Triari picked up the spoon left on the table, tasting a small bite first. Surprise crept across his face after a few grains of sand. "Very good. Hear that several caravans intend to challenge Urias grip on crossing the desert during the eclipse." He scooped up a spoonful, letting the comment sit on their minds.

Didius finished first, leaning back in the chair contentedly. Using a small glass filled with the potato alcohol made by the local dwarves to clean the spoon of residues. Each table had such, for cleaning before meals. Using them after the meal made more sense to the warrior.

Returning the spoon, he lay his head back, staring at the rafters. "Urias gens and who else are making the crossing?"

"Cavus gens, that Hill-Lord outcast, and some young humani from the wild tribes of the Grasslands. Nephew to Urias Salius' overseer." The Triari remained upright in his chair while speaking. "Each has its problems. Hill-Lord Brule has many enemies, the youngster has no skill, Cavus are doing this only to break the Urias gens. Servillia and Salius dominated the caravan routes too long, and the other parts of their gens took too many risks, ones that failed expensively."

Cethegor produced a long stemmed pipe from his vest, filling it slowly with a rich, coppery tobacco. He spent several fingers of sand smoking in silence, until he spoke. "Brule is a beast. He beats workers for no reason, thinking it gets him more effort. Scet's wife is expecting, so he is using all his savings to build a fortune for their future. Gambling wrongly, I fear." Leaning his head back, he exhaled a large stream of smoke.

"Cavus. Which Cavus?" Didius tossed a glance Bentarius' direction.

The Triari drew out his own pipe, lifting out a leather pouch containing a heavier black tobacco, filling it slowly. "Decimus Zaeluci Cavus Lucius, which means this is some fight within the Decuria over power. Urias gens is far more open to outside trade.' Lighting the pipe silenced him for a few breaths. "He despises those not of the Decuria. No chance for work with him for Rico or those caught in the decimations they staged these last years."

Glancing at the Custor, the Legionairre spoke softly. "Well, that would be a good chance. Get you away from those dragons you stirred up."

Cethegor smiled. "Only if I can be to your shield side in fights. This nose really shouldn't be broken again."

Smiling, the Triari looked over the two numeni. "I can put in a word for you both. And I intend to head towards Pelori, along the north route. Nothing in the codes about taking a paying job to help save costs."

Three sets of eyes met. Didius spoke first. "Might make more problems, two centurions and a custor, known to be on the outs with the Decuria."

Cethegor smiled. "But we have a chance to give a small payback for our being cast out."

The former general stood up. "Guess I should go speak to Jarthuna, if I can catch him running around town."

Didius smiled. "That clansman loves his fresh bread. Go sit at Pilatus' Bakery. Sooner or later he sneaks in for a loaf and butter."

Nodding genlty, the Praetor left.

Meeting Cethegor's eyes, Didius spoke softly. "Getting tired of this stuff with the Decurians. Be nice to undo one of their plans."

The filthy Custor nodded back. "Indeed." Looking at his former comrade in arms, he asked a soft question. "Where are your weapons, Optio?"

"Caldus is holding them for me. I did not sell them. Or my armor." Stung pride at the implication stained his eyes.

Cethegor smiled. "Sorry, I was thinking about a small demonstration as part of our application. Say taking out a few of Brule the Brute's better men?"

"Actually, I know where the Cavus guards drink. Giving them some lumps might improve the chances as well."

Both elves smiled, reaching across the table to renew their past partnership.

"Crossing to the Shadows" Chapter 5 - raw first draft, reason Crossings became a Billenius story.

"Decimus Hantia Urbana Mithrias"

She jumped at the use of her full name. While Urbana demanded it so often in the past, hating the informality permeating the frontier mentality the small town reveled in. This was not the post her uncle promised, no chance for glory, money or meeting a suitable mate.

Turning slowly, her breath ran out in a soft rush. The numen standing there proved not who she expected. "Dom Strabo." She gave the Legion salute, arm out, angled between level and upright, palm turned to her own face.

"Custora Hantia." He returned the salute sharply. "Just a courtesy call upon the local commander." The smile told the words certainly lies.

"His office is two buildings towards the mountains. Not here in supply." Eyes narrowing, Urbana let her suspicions show. "Courtesy? Surely the Decemviri need not show such to that lowly Quintilus barbarian."

Chuckles from outside warned her others listened. Not Custos, not locals.

"Indeed, it is a courtesy, to remind the fool who rules all Numeni affairs. No member of the island clans should be relegated to the supply depot as a posting." Meeting her gaze with one taking her measure, he adjusted his tunic slowly, proudly displaying the blue "C" on the left shoulder.

Urbana bit her lip, holding back a sharp retort. That letter marked the elf as a member of the Centuria Sinistra, the conservatives' bully-boys. Three purges of the Legions and other Centuries, the elite units under the Imperatrix's command, carried out brutally by the one unit never looked at in those pograms. Even though she'd been born on the islands, Urbana feared the man suddenly. Cato of Strabo clan led those purges, each time his arrival marked dark days for the units visited.
Cato looked around the room, dust from several recent procellae pluvis coated most surfaces, stirring off the floor with every step taken. His sour face spoke volumes about his feelings about one of her gens being reduced to such a job. The jangle of metal told her that beneath the tunic lay chain mail armor. Not surprising, this Cato generated much animosity from other gens. At his hip, a sheathed gladius rode, positioned for swift use.

Daring speech at last, Urbana cleared her throat, summoning up memories long disused. "In the service, all are equals." Not the best justification for her being relegated into supply, though surely one he should accept.

Hard stare tossed at her told her otherwise. His fingers ran over armillae of brass protecting his forearms. Bracers carrying the seal of the Decemviri, the ten clans ruling body. "Those of the Insulae should command, not follow." Terse words, sharply delivered stung her pride.

"Even you started as a simple miles caligatus, if the tales told about you bear truth." Urbana took a step toward the numen, refusing his insults, but letting her anger show her pride for serving. "This is not the Insulae, this is Terra Prima. Even if in drudgery, service in the Imperatrix's name must bear some merit." Urbana saw his eyes shift uneasily. She'd scored, perhaps even drawn figurative blood.
Now his face bore contempt for her, not the place. Urbana winced, knowing enemies made early in one's lustre, the five years one agreed to serve, followed one to the end, and sometimes beyond. She tugged on the sleeves of her own tunica manicata, revealing her armor also lay hidden as her own armillae of leather peaked out. Her acinias rattled against her chair, still behind her, unused today.

"You stain the blood you bear, allowing others this use of your superior skills." Sniffing the air, he turned away. "I can only stand the smell of mouldering material so long. Such odors irritate my sinuses." His stride defiant, Cato left her behind.

Urbana blew out a held breath. Inhaling slowly to calm herself worked only marginally. Others might grasp at  the rope Strabo dangled, she knew better. Too many tales reached her ears, stories about betrayals or prices too high weighed against the rewards offered. Turning back to her desk, she once again began her inventory from the top. Anger chased off her memory of where she'd reached in the list.

The horarium on her desk rotated twice before her next interruption, red sands barely beginning their flow down the stem, seeking the empty flask below. This pest proved polite, which stayed her anger from flaring up again. Knocking at the door before entering, waiting there for her to acknowledge entry. This time, she marked the sheet for her spot, then turned. A young numen she only knew by camp rumors stood there. Dark haired, soft brown eyes, and a smiling face. Dressed much as her, though the materials spoke rougher origins, wool instead of silks, plain common leathers where she wore embossed hides of rare beasts. One from the prairies above the desert, a Quintas, related to the commander, acting as his aide-de-camp for a short time.

"Varus Billenius, correct? What equipment lost you this time?" His mouth formed a sly smile, one making her regret her accusation. Of all the Caterva, he alone came here once since her tenure as gubenatrix began. Thinking of that name for her position made her own mouth curl up in mirth. A naval term for a land-locked unit still amused her to no end.

"Oh, I recovered that missing saddle. Quite a bit of other items reported missing lately. I have them outside for you." He nodded when shock stole over her face, making her blush more. "Seems one of our light fingered cousins, a Colacarius from the eastern tribes, took a loose view about ownership. Unfortunately, he suffered serious losses in a game of stakes last night that some kinsmen and I attended."

Morning in the cibus hall buzzed of tales of the ones called the Tres Triconis, three mishcief-makers. It seemed the Legion rotation from the east passing through carried a member, who met another on the road outside town. Later they gathered in this one, at least according to the gossip, for a night of mayhem and adventures. Urbana felt her joy fall from her face. While the books would balance for now, she doubted the tribunis aerarius' attitude would improve when the damage bills arrived.
"And will the tribes seek vengeance for these returned goods?:" Laying all her Decimus accent into the words, hoping the boy might flinch a bit.

He laughed. "Oh, no need to worry. His blood stayed inside him. Well, most of it. His coins and the goods did not. Marcus Urias asked I give you the funds won. Something about bolstering our supplies for winter." Swift paces carried him to her desk, where he negligently tossed not one, but six large bags of coins. Each bag was open, spilling drachmas, tungsten semi-obals and even a few local staters across the oak desktop.

Coughing her surprise, Urbana reached out to the coins. "There must be over a trimester of pay here. I find it hard to believe Urias let that slide."

Again the light-hearted laughter. "Oh, he took out two trimesters for pay already. Very pleased with this months books, our Marcus appears." One eye winked, adding her into some conspiracy, she assumed. "So pleased, I earned a bonus bag of vittlium for my self. Enough coppers to buy wine and pastries for the next few hebdomium."

Mentioning few with the plural of the fourteen day numeni week caught her off guard further.

Urbana's head shook, disbelief in such chances strong among her people. "Remind me never to take chances against you, young Varus."

He waved off such an event. "Oh, and the dux wishes your presence in his office." Now the mirth faded. "That fool of a Cato is there agitating for you. Unfortunately, he overstepped his bounds. Rudely, by my uncle's sour disposition." Black mane stirred around a shaking head. "Never try to pull rank on someone not in your chain of command. Mother told me that as a boy. His mother must not spoken as wisely to him."

Urbana laughed. "I am sure I will pay the price for Sextus Strabo Cato's meddling, Custor. And do so gladly, just to see him swallow his bitter medicine."

Winking one more time, the young numen bowed elaborately, with more skill and flourish than many at court, the years she attended at her mother's side. "Indeed. Well, that bodes well for you, then." Rising up more somber, the boy nodded to her. "May I take leave, letting you hold these funds, or wait until your staff returns from lunch?"

A grimace twisted her face, painfully so. Then the muses gave her a light inspiration. "No, I think the Dux would prefer that I discharge my duties faithfully, even if it keeps Stabo cooling his heels in his foyer." Taking a risk, she winked back at him, hoping the boy would not assume she flirted. "That is, if some songbird in the camp could sing such outside his window. Or inside it."

The scamp gave her a broad toothed smile, setting a finger along his nose. "I think I know where those little birds take their lunch, Gubenatrix. Considered that song sung."

 The coins took her attention away from his departure. Shaking her head, she took a seat to enjoy adding them to her small account for goods not normally provided by headquarters. When she sat back, another turn of the horarium to the blue sands marking the fading of the hour, her face held shock. Nearly a five hundred drachma lay before her, and even more in the obals. Another pile held coins she never saw before, currency of lands distant or small. Securing them in her desk, she smiled. The Gubenator himself at last arrived, taking the inventory list from her.

He spoke softly. "I see we regained some gear outside."

"The Dux's aide recovered it. He also gained us some coin. Here is the list of coins I know. Your left drawer has nearly a quarter stone I have no idea the values of." Urbana shrugged at his raised eyebrow. "Sheltered life we ladies lead in the islands. I am supposed to report to the Dux as well."

Her boss's mouth turned down at that. "Seeking a way out?"

She smiled. "Actually, someone else thinks this work is beneath me, so I let him stew with the commander until you got back." Glancing at the coins on the desk, she sighed. "That left-hander probably screwed up staying here. I hate the dust, but no force can operate until you know what they need."

When her eyes met the Gubenator's, there was a twinkle there. "I saw Cato. It pleases me to hear your desires may not be what he works for." A sharp arm motion shooed her along. "Go, I am sure any delay is enough to infuriate that fool. You are relieved, Custora Hantia."

Urbana smiled, gave him a sloppy, but honest salture, leaving behind the dust, in eexchange for the unknown before her. The walk across the open muster ground challenged her coordination, a turma returning from patrol forcing her to weave amid fellow Custos dismounting or removing saddles. Of the twenty who left two hebdoma before, only fifteen returned. That left her wondering how somber the meal would be that evening.

Entering the small office the Dux kept, the smallest in the compound, she looked at those in the outer office, A fellow islander, one long in the desert by the looks of him.

"Took your sweet time, Hantia." No rank, no acknowledging her service to the Imperatrix. Just contempt. The boy sat behind the desk, a look of worry on his face over the words the other spoke.
Urbana found her attitude souring rapidly from the joy dealing with just young Varus set in her heart.

"Custor Dives, is it not? I find you lacking in manners, for one who claims Insular blood." Hand rested on the hilt of her acinias. "Care to greet me properly? Or would you prefer a duel out in the dust of the muster grounds?" She kept her voice soft and level, something not normal for her.

Contempt twisted the filthy Custor's face. "You may wish to rethink that. I am the best swordsman here. No Numen can beat me."

"This young elf here could whip you, one hand behind his back." Varus started at her praising him before his elder. Doubt tinted his eyes, wrinkling their corners in lines he was far too young to possess.

Standing, her challenger laid his hand on his own hilt. "Proud of your blood, suddenly. Good. Your death will be long and painful."

"Enough!" A deep voice intruded from the office door. "Take your seat Custor, and both of you remove your hands from those blades. We lost enough people this season. Especially under your command, Dives."

The Dux stood there, short even by elven standards. Light brown hair bleaching into blond from years in the desert. Hints of grey lay in his neat goatee. "Custora Hantia, I believe I sent for you half a glass ago."

Turning with a shallow bow to her commander, Urbana apologized softly. "Forgive me, Dux. I could not in good faith leave my post until relieved. Someone turned in a considerable amount of recovered gear reported stolen the last few days. Not to mention having a large amount of funds left for the Gubenator to secure when he returned."

The boy at the desk shrank back from the harsh glance the commander tossed at him. "So I heard." Eyes hardened a bit, as his face sought her eyes. "Very well. Good thinking. I could use more of that, not the reckless plunges some take." Only his eyes moved towards the still standing Turma leader. That glance proved enough to make the arrogant numen remove his hand finally, taking back his seat along the wall.

Urbana looked at the boy, still worried about the discussion he knew to come over his antics. She gave him that conspiratorial wink he delivered earlier. "All life is a risk, sir. Some take them to get the job done. Others do it for the fame the acts garner onto their name." Her eyes darted her nemesis along the wall, even though her voice stayed even.

"Get in here, we seem to have an issue over your posting." The Dux performed a parade ground about face into his office. Urbana followed him there trying to hold her bearing, but the smile she tossed at the boy ruined that.

Inside, Cato waited. His eyes spoke the anger in him. Waiting for others definitely irritated him, and upset his schedule. Good, Urbana thought.

"At ease, we don't deal with formalities in this office, Custora." Despite the command, she stayed upright. Just to make a point to the meddler. Noting her stance, tossing eyes towards his visitor, the Dux sighed. "Very well. It seems you have never done any tours in the field as yet. This is an issue for some factions in the government, apparently. So, you will be released from supply to take a special mission, under the tutelage of an experienced member of the Caterva." The long pause apparently left for her to fill stayed silent.

A hint of a smile touched the commander's face. "Very well, you will go out with Custor Dives, to ride with a caravan as surveyors and guards. You will go on this, if you are wise, or so I am told."
The harsh glare the Dux tossed at Cato warned her not to question her orders.

"Yes sir."

Cato stood suddenly, a warrior looking for his fight. "Leni, enter!"

The commander's face twisted at the presumed authority the Centurion took in his office. "That man still serves under my command."

The stressed word bit hard on Cato, who turned to him. "I speak for the Decuria." The body of the ten elders mention did nothing to the Dux.

"And I take orders only from the Imperatrix or the Praetor. Keep that in mind, Sextus Strabo Cato." Voice level, the Dux met the Centurion's venomous stare."I do this only as a favor. One you will return later, or pay the price in blood or coin for."

Eyes narrowing, Cato nodded after a moment, acknowledging the debt. "Very well."

At the door, Dives smiled grimly. "She is under my command? Totally?"

"No." One word crushed the Custor's look of satisfaction. "She is your student, but independent on her work. She reports back to me after this." Glaring at the slovenly dressed numen, the Dux refused to budge further. "Take it or leave it. I feel this is already giving you both more than you deserve, considering I am not under the rule of a body that is only for rule over the Insulae, not the rest of the Empire."

"For now, you are correct. Someday soon, we will rule. Then you will pay for this insolence towards your betters." Cato stormed out after his tirade.

The Dux now met the Custor's eyes. "Accept it or turn in your resignation, Decimus Dives Billenius Orestes. I care less which happens."

"For now, I accept. But there will be repercussions some day." He glanced towards Urbana. "After I have washed this dust off me, I will speak with you about our mission." Dives departed more peacefully, stopping to make comment to the aide softly.

Urbana let her gaze roam the room before speaking. She noted few decorations, much like the rooms the troops lived in. Even the cot was standard issue. Upon meeting his somber gaze, she bowed her head in shame. "I did not ask for this, Dom."

Letting her comment sit several fingers of sand, the Dux sat easily behind the desk. When he spoek, it was just as soft. "I was not sure. Thank you for that honesty." When she raised her eyes, somber brown orbs met her gaze. "He will twist you out there. Be true to yourself and the codes. Don't trust him. Most of his loses in personnel rise off his rashness." He held her regard for a moment longer. "Make sure you return, Custora Hantia. Dismissed."

In the outer room, Urbana found Dives and young Varus, standing, faces flushed a deep olive from anger. Her new teacher gave her a grim stare.

"Tomorrow, find us a caravan to travel with. We have the crossing to map and the northern trails." Dives turned away, stalking outside to find some other to inconvenience.

Looking to the young man, she saw regret mixed with the anger in his eyes. "He took out his anger on you?"

Shaking his head, the boy took his seat, pulling out several old maps from the desk. "No. This is an older argument, uncle thinks. He desired a certain numena, she rejected him." Meeting her eyes slowly, he said words she never thought to hear. "Once he was a great man, Custora. He served with my parents in the Crystal Wastes. But something has changed, even since I was a child. Be wary of his recklessness. The risks he takes are with the lives of others, not his own."

Nodding, she accepted the maps. "Any more good news?"

"I know where you can get an equeis for this trip. A good one."

She turned to him, puzzled at the generosity. "Where?"

He smiled. "I will loan you my stud. The mare is gravid, so he is getting cranky here. Good runner, Excellent  speed, and best of all, it will irritate your teacher, as I never let him even buy equeis of my string."

Cocking an eyebrow was all she needed to convey her question.

"He abuses animals, people, and equipment. You have no such tales told of you. I will loan him to you, just bring him back. I have plans for the line he is siring." Standing, the young man held out his left hand. "Good luck, Custora. I hope to serve with you someday.