Paths of Damnation - The Final Chapter (never got to the parts between)

We were gathered in the rooms above the inn. Rooms we had spent so many days, evenings and nights in talking with those gone and those still with us. I had come too late to change the battle's outcome. Five survivors. Of twenty six rash young fools, only five had lived, and we may still lose Billenius. Her breath had burnt him badly as he tried to reach Nonia to save her. Arms, legs, chest, face, all burnt. He had inhaled her breath and thus scorched his lungs and throat as well. And unless the gods would grant healing to him, or the great healer come soon, nothing would save him. 

The local priests of his kind are trying valiantly to save him, and failing. Only the gods could save them. Or that servant of my sire, if he could be found. I could feel the old lizard, even across all that expanse of sand to my east, flying here himself. He had told to guard this elf, but I had failed. I was certain that the rage I felt was more at me than the bitch of our kine up that mountain. She had withdrawn not because of my presence, I knew now. One of those upon my back was who she had feared in that moment. Rutilius was not the fool we had all thought, and his rage had surpassed mine on that ridge below her lair. 

And now, I had to play the waiting game. To see who would come first, the death god of his folk to take his spirit from his flesh, or father and his healer. Had I the knowledge of how to call him, I would break the rules of all and call upon the rider of the ass to come to his aid. 

The fear of the blue ones screamed across the leagues of desert, as my sire roared by them, I could sense them all, seeking the deepest pits of sand to hide from the rage of the heir of the Lord of the Arbitrations. And it was a terrifying rage, one that was causing fear even in the heights above this town, where the Queen of Flame lay trying to heal her own wounds, dealt more by the ones she had maimed and slain than we who came in rescue. I knew I would taste some piece of that rage, even if it were only words. 

The dwarf beside him with the arm so chewed up by servants of the beast was crying as the dwarven chirugeon sawed off the arm above the elbow. But the tears were not for himself, but his dead twin still up there on the mountain's foothills, where ever the creatures of flame had taken his body to toss aside or consume with their inner flames.

Still I feel my sire, there is no cooling in his rage, or his determination to be here in time to save those he can. This is not the beast that others think he is, but the one I know of, who does have a heart, and it is as red and loving as all think it is black and cold. Billenius was my friend, and for that father had spoken with him several times over the years. Then something else had grown between them, a respect for each other, or what they were to me. I know not still. 

There is the displacement of air outside and the rage is here, but contained more closely of the sudden. I hear the howling winds raging out from where he has teleported to, like the storms of the desert that often assail this town on the benches that rise from the desert floor. He is here, there is hope. Doors burst apart before the healer as he enters, giving commands to bring him supplies for healing and surgery. All know who Zotikos is, the great healer who serves my sire. 

None know the whole truth, and if they had, he would have been slain in that moment, out of fear he had come to ally with the bitch. The door opens, and he strides in with a pace that is nearly a run. He bypasses the three the local healers had thought to save, and approaches Billenius. He stops and hisses loudly. 

"Bahai-Luthna-Naish." With that naming, my own mind exploded. She had forged her own fate, created the thing that we dragons feared the most. Sees-Without-Eyes" that my sire's sire's sire had prophesied of. The bane who would slay the great dragons of the day and choose from those he left alive to be the next Lords of the Arbitraitions to take back our ancient homeland.

Now I knew the respect of mine sire for mine friend. 

"Blade of the Eagle Clansman" Ch8-C

There will be one more part to this chapter, as time moves on. These two characters are just being stubborn about me not skipping things, and surprising me at what they reveal to me about their world, or this part of it. -D.R. 

Galen snarled as light fled the prairie, staring incredibly at the still glowing line where the head of his mace once supported a fin. Such a thing was thought impossible, that only portions of something would be taken with a teleporting item or person, not all of it, and what it was connected to. Not to mention, this being yet another blade to snap from the head of the mace, another problem to ponder, for it's enchantments were to prevent such incidents due to the design. Without a mage-smith nearby, to look into that matter, he shelved it, mentally.

Tagrun stalked about the circle of dead grass surrounding him, warring emotions dancing across his face. Anger at the escape, grief over the deaths, and relief and worry stuttering between those, over Chanti being alive, but once more beyond his reach to save. His feet moved closer, then farther out, but rarely more than two paces from the circle, as he moved. Something seemed to keep him out of it. Superstitions, perhaps, or an ingrained sense of self-preservation.

The elven assassin glared at him, not sure if the boy's hesitation, suddenly, was cowardice or wisdom. "Enter it. Show the mage you do not fear his spells."

"I seek his footsteps, none are here though." Tagrun raged, casting about for some way to trace his foe.

"The only steps you will find of his lie outside this realm, and mortal eyes cannot trace." Galen sighed. "Fools we were. Thinking we could kill him so easily."

"When he dies, it will be at my hand. The sands said so." Tagrun walked around the circle of death again, stopping to lift up a weakened, but still alive child. "Some trace must be where eyes can see it, for me to follow."

Galen's eyes narrowed, those words too close in his memory to another student's words decades before. "Perhaps. But not where your eyes see the trace of his steps, but the effects of the passage. Like the moving of blades tells of your namesake's stalking of prey?"

Tagrun whipped his head around, eyes seeking for such in the grass, but sighed after a few moments. "No. You are right. This is magic, something beyong the ken of my eyes. Only another mage could trace the foulness he did unto these innocents."

Closing his eyes, Galen nodded silently, thinking hard. It was in the distant desert of volcanic ash and sand his mind sought the answer, amid his memories of that other student, one who did not embrace what he was, but denied it, seeking to quell the gifts the gods had laid upon him, not use them. That boy's gifts, so similar to his own, rose up as an answer.

"There might be a way. Place will not matter, I think. At least, not to find where a trail you can follow for us will resume." Galen smiled, lifting his mace, turning the radiant seam where once a blade projected to his face. "And our prey cannot block it."

"What way is that? A user of the dark powers knows all." Tagrun said.

"Knows them, but not the ways of the user of them." Galen knelt, sifting a handful of dead dust through his fingers. "Nor that a hunter can use them as well as a mage."

Tagrun grunted, still not convinced, but let the matter lie, for the moment. "We must save these, and he will use that time to flee, covering his tracks, having seen a grass stalker follows with you."

"Yes. But he has only a few places in reach, if my own schooling tells true, of a spell only fueled by a few, instead of all these. West, unless he seeks sojourn among the blood drinkers, is out. North would keep him from his goal, but confuse us, so we must consider it." Galen shook his head, standing slowly. "No, East or south is my guess. Kensorthi or Jandalin."

"Kensorthi would expose him. Most there are of the grass, and would not tolerate a mage hiding among them." The boy scoffed, staring down the valley, as the lesser moon at last rose in the east. "Jandalin also gets more ships."

Galen stared at the boy. "I thought you never left the grass of the north before?"

"Once, we traveled to the coast. Trading furs for spear and arrow heads." Tagrun smiled shyly. "I never said I had not left the grass of the Eagle, but Jandalin is on the grass, as is Kensorthi."

"You tribesmen amaze me again." Galen smiled, looking over the slowly reviving clan around them. "Take them to the river. Washing may not be a remedy for their ailments, but it will let them wash the feeling of filth this foe undoubtedly left upon them."

Tagrun grunted, sensing there was more to leaving the place to just his uncle. Galen's face left no room for argument about the decision, though. Moving gently among the survivors, he aided them up from the ground, checked their steadiness, then urged them down the draw. Risking one last glance back, the boy nodded to Galen, even as the older elf closed his eyes, holding the mace's broad head to his own. The hunter moved faster after the others, taking the arm of their shala to aid her over the rocky terrain.

For Galen, only the mace was left in his world. The boy, despite their shared blood, was not part of his true kin. Tagrun felt none of the bonds the numeni held dear, lived his life as one of the clansmen, which might be fine for him, lacking a doni so far. Reaching into his soul, in the spot he once shared with his sister, the boy's mother, the assassin teased at the powers within his mind, calling them out gently, into the mace. The trick would not be invoking the connection between the head and missing fin, but in keeping the connection faint enough to avoid alerting the mage.

Chablys being much sought after by all mages for various rites and spells, not to mention the fact that their foe might even use a magical summoning of the power to drain the mace's enchantments through the portion of it he now possessed, he was sure their prey would not toss it aside.

Reaching out his doni, Galen stirred the power inside the mace, caressing the flow just enough to create a tiny ripple in those currents. A disturbance that fled out from the center of the great ball, finding the jagged seams that once held the missing fins, trickling out them to seek missing parts. Opening his eyes, the assassin shifted his vision from the world of matter to that of energy. Flares of power and life burst all around, swirling whirlwinds of fire marking the creatures, a flow from river to hilltop marking the grass and other scrubs, but over it all, a faint golden stream, marred by darker orange ripples along it, flowed into the heart of the dead circle, disappearing.

Patience, the greatest virtue of a hunter, be he of beasts or men, became Galen's only companion amid that maelstrom of hues, as the world moved about him in ways few others ever saw. Time ceased to exist in the normal sense for the assassin, now intent upon finding his prey and redeeming the knife on his belt. When the returning ripple came, it flowed over the scenery, not through the evaporated portal opening. A long, faint lone, stretching to the south, and a bit west. A line almost washed out when the boy stepped between him and the distant fin by Tagrun's angry red aura.

"Kensorthi." One word said it all, for both of them.

"Good. But we need to get these Otter folk down to help. Their shala is too ill to tend their wounds and sickness for them." Tagrun's rage forced Galen to abandon his effort, and look once more upon the physical, not the spiritual world.

"It will take too much time to find another encampment." He snarled.

"No." Tagrun grinned viciously. "Their main band is in the port, trading. And they were making rafts to join them."

Galen smiled himself, sensing something their foe had not anticipated. The hand of the Parcae, the three goddesses of Fate, being on their side, aiding their hunt. "Well, that changes things. How much more to do?"

"Those able to work managed to help me finish their rafts. A hundred spear throw walk, then the ride down the river." Now Tagrun's face showed worry. "But the river is not an easy thing, from here to the Sandy Grasses below. Many rapids, and rains must have fallen, for the channels here are swollen."

"But swifter than one would think, for this time of year." Galen stared up at the stars, blessing them, as the clouds broke for a few more moments, then sealed them over. "Let us see your rafts, and take a day or so to make them stronger and safer. It will not matter. Our prey is grown over-confident, thinking we were but lucky."

"How would you know this?" Tagrun asked, starting down the draw to the bank of the Kensorthi.

"He did not toss aside the fin of my blade. Instead, he plays with it, hoping to steal its magic, and my life through it." Galen sneered. "Fool, I say, and lucky for us. Even the masters of yore often failed at that."

"But some did it, that implies." Tagrun scowled again, noting flashes in the clouds, distant echoes of lightning to come.

Galen refused to answer, trusting to his goddesses to grant him victory.

Okay, now I have to do some worldbuilding in advance of the final part of the chapter, the river ride you see coming. And on Kensorthi the town, and its surrounds. And the path after that... no, this is not an easy hunt, and will end in frustration, if not for my characters, at least for me. =D.R.

"Blade of the Eagle Clansman" Ch8-two/B - The first Hunt of Scorpio Kenrai.

Moving along the trail their prey left, the signs pointed to another atrocity to be found early. Yet, even by sundown, none was found, save the implication of one to come, by the number of footsteps joining the Necromancer's tread marks. This was not a single gathering, but one marked by well spread out along his trail harvesting of bodies for something worse than before, both hunters knew. Just before sundown, they found an encampment, with fires still burning amid the tents, and knew that this night, the beast they followed would feast, unless they made haste.

Worse, Galen stared at the moons in the sky, as the sun set, knowing the night would grant the one they stalked complete darkness in the hour of dark magics, midway between dusk and dawn. Such a lack of light gave the dark arts greater power. Power enhanced more as clouds streamed north from the Great Water at a rapid pace, cloaking the stars as well.

He barely noticed the boy's sudden stop, nearly running into him, stumbling into a cluster of rattle-tails, whose seed pods gave their namesake sound loudly, drawing ire from his nephew.
"Sha!" Tagrun hissed. "Over this ridge, see it?"

Shifting carefully back to their path, Galen squinted a bit, but noted the faint yellow-orange glow indicating a fire. "Yes." The word was more breath than sound.

"He waits for something. What?" The boy's head turned slowly, taking in the surroundings, eyes glittering in the dark, seeing the land's heat and auras more than it's forms.

"Midnight. As always." Galen whispered, moving in closer to his companion. "That hour marks the zenith of the ars arcanum."

"This will be his last casting amid the Grass, then." The boy's grip tightened upon his spear's shaft, knuckles popping enough for Galen's ears to register the sound.

Hand upon the boy's shoulder, Galen moved around him. "Perhaps. Or it might be he wants us there, to feast upon our anguish as well. Think of what you will feel like if a whole tribe is consumed by his power tonight."

"The only thing I intend for him to feast upon is bile and my spear." Tagrun snarled, crouching down as he slipped past his uncle. The boy's sudden burst of energy shocked Galen, who'd thought the toll of the hunt more than it now seemed. He moved slower, but kept close, hoping to dissuade Tagrun from making a terrible error.

"Tagrun, no..." In a blink, the boy was over the ridge, and sprinting at the fire, where all looked away, facing south towards the heart of the night. The magus stood with his back to them, oblivious to all but his own rising chant, violet and purple flames dancing over his extended hands, reaching out towards the tribe held in thrall before him.

Tagrun hurled his hasta, the long spear whistling through the air, seeking his prey, even as one of the long hunting knives filled his right hand. Galen struggled to free his mace from its belt loop, forced to prance awkwardly down the rock strewn slope, stumbling twice when Nature's caltrops rolled under his steps. The elf waded into the rattle-tails, stirring pods into their namesake call.

The mage turned, eyes glowing with the violet fires necromancy fueled, a snarl creasing his face. "Fool, you cannot stop what is to come. Embrace it, join me."

Streaking through the dusk, a glint of bronze announced the flight of his sister's hasta, as Tagrun tossed his spear towards the Necromancer. The mage blocked its path with a backhanded gesture, shimmering purple field summoned out, as one of the sacrifices dropped, body crumbling to dust, leaving the spear to glance away into taller blades of grass behind him. The man thrust out his right hand, left held before him, cloaked in the field he'd summoned now, pulled in tight to his chest, unleashing a bolt tainted deep blue, almost the indigo of dusk's sky, at the charging boy.

Tagrun dove into a roll beneath it, coming up to his right, long hunter's blade slicking the Necromancer's forearm with an upward slash. The hunter of beasts stepped in, trying to lock the arm outward, but gasped as the mage splayed his fingers into Tagrun's chest, forcing the boy back, gasping for breath, a nimbus of blue static spreading over his torso, abdomen, and neck.

Using the boy's fall as a blockade, the mage snarled, grasping two of his victims, one recognizable as the elven girl, Chanti. Cursing, the mage lowered his head, as the male his right hand rested upon crumbled away to dust, and the mage and girl seemed to stretch away to the south.

Galen reached them before the distancing effect finished into vanishing, swinging his mace at the mage. One blade managed to entangle in the wide sleeves of the mage's loose robe, before a sharp crack, followed by a hollow bang announced their escape. A tendril of smoke rose from the mace's head, hot molten chablys giving the campsite an eerie light. A line that marked where once a blade, now departed with the mage, had been.

Blade of the Eagle Clansman - Chapter 8 (partial)

(You be the judge, vote with comments: Do I have my chops back and have the thread of this story again?)

Three bleak, grey dawns now lay behind them, as Galen stared across the dying coals of their night's fire at the hollowed out boy across from him. Losing two so close to him, and the mess at the Burning Rocks still sore to the boy, left the eyes vacant save the occasional stirring of vengeance's flames within them. Today, the embers of the fire and the eyes were dim, but not for long, the elven assassin thought.

Something would spark a rage, a killing one, and the boy would be lost, every bit the killer the one they hunted obviously wanted to make him. The Necromancer was not just playing a game with primitives, that much had become clear. The creature of darkness wanted them on his trail, and moving through the land in a rage. Each day, near to noon, they would find his camp from the night before, a place of death, even the grasses brown, brittle, and lifeless, adorned with strange trees made of bodies drained of life, that they lost time in burning, to prevent the dead from following them.
Tagrun rarely spoke, only a few words about the trail in the morning, and nothing but gestures in the trade sign-language after they'd dealt with the foul messes left behind by their prey. His eyes died more with each night, but the hate blazed up each noon, when they beheld the new horrors of crucified corpses, some twisted into trees in their own right, before their essences drained into their foe.

His eyes drifted across the prairie around them, the soft, rolling grasslands of the place his folk once called the Eastern Deadlands, ravaged by the remnants of the volcanoes around them, and a sorcerous war three ages before that triggered that cataclysm. The grass was not the green of the northern prairies and plains crossed before reaching the Vault. Dull teal to blue blades swayed in the wind, shorter, cropped often by herds of auroch and bison, among other creatures. The tall spires of the old vents and runs of dykes left behind when the ashes of the eruptions which formed the bowl of the land cast strange shadows, as their gleaming rocks, rich in precious metals, studded by clumps of wind and rain polished gems that sparkled in the sun. Those towers, numerous, but still spread apart by stadia, left him stunned, but the boy ignored their beauty. The tribes all ignored the riches, having paid heavily when they'd overrun the land during the Age of Convulsions, as the Old North Empire collapsed, for trying to harvest such, finding them enchanted against harvest by any not of that fallen nation. Something Galen fought testing, to see if those spells still held out against the fading of power the years passed brought on all such power.

Three days of sporadic sprinkles left the trail still there, but weak, hard to follow. The delays in setting the funeral pyres merely aggravated Tagrun, the boy simmering over the delay, but knowing the cost of not burning the ensorcelled bodies, the young hunter took the time, and did it well. This morning, though, his half open eyes meeting his uncle's.

"We go about this wrong. He wants us wasting time."

Galen grunted, pouring out the last of the pot of kaf, frowning. "Yes. But if we do not find the camps, others will suffer."

Tagrun shook his head. "No. Here there are fewer night hunting beasts to fear. That is what I mean." He leaned back, noting darker bands of clouds to the south. "Tonight, I say we keep on the trail. By torchlight if necessary. Drive him to abandon this, make him hasten to his chosen place to meet us, and perhaps fail to have it ready as a trap to kill his pursuers." Leaning forward, the boy stirred the coals, letting them brighten a bit, before seeking Galen's eyes and judgement.

Galen narrowed his own almond eyes, staring across the waving grasses, noting the increase of shrubs amid the landscape, compared with further north. Sipping his drink, he thought over the suggestion, not liking it. If the clouds broke, the trail would be easier to follow, and the hunters were not known for night tracking, to those outside their lands. Ones who knew them feared the nights they hunted, for the clans proved good in the dark hours at tracking their prey, or maybe more than by the light of the sun. So far, their prey counted on the edge night gave his powers, so perhaps Tagrun was correct. But to confront a sorceror in the dark, or the dim light of dawn might just be too much for them.
"He travels by day, that we know." Tagrun now opined. "Gathering up those he finds out, for his evil. If we push him, perhaps he will not take more of the Otter clan, whose grass we now tread."
"Or perhaps we will meet the Otters themselves, at night." Galen stretched, feeling muscles still tight from their fast pace and short nights protest at the movement. "Against such as this man, we know not what they will be sending out now."

 Tagrun grunted, knowing his elder was right, but feeling his own idea worth trying. "Otter will understand. We know word is spreading, you saw the curse wards they leave, the wands in the rock piles, the staff with the burnt skull of the beast set upon one of their camps." He noted Galen's motions, knowing they meant the elf was ready to move on, but waited only for him to finish his idea. "One night, if it works, and we stop him from destroying souls, we keep it up. If not, back to the day trekking, but longer hours, camping only after the sun sets. The moon of migrations grows rounder each night, let us use that light."

Nodding, Galen admitted that one night would not harm them, if they could catch the horror they stalked. "Very well. One night of tracking him onward, but we do not approach him until dawn. Can you go so long without rest?"

"Once, I followed the tusk-cat I am named for, six days and nights, eating on the run, never sleeping. For this monster, I would run all the days and nights until the moon leaves the night sky. And into the dark, if the lesser moon lets us."

Kicking dirt over the fire as he rose, Galen met his nephew's eyes. "So be it."

Golems of Bone, Steam, and Steel Chapter 8 repost as I could not find it on the blog!

Three days of surveying had changed the inside of the wagon to something less orderly and more like what her mother kept her portion like, Elisa thought. Sketches of the current terrain were pinned to the boards by thumbtacks, under them lay maps with elevation marks from the floor of the valley. While not the standard, it let them set up a few benchmark positions to later have resurveyed for the required claim maps. Black Coyote's brief departure to make arrangements with the tribes for supplies and the right to dig for fossils left Ivan and Elisa to their own for protection, but the May weather was still holding warm, a rarity some would say on this edge of the desert. 

Foot paths broke the taller buffalo grass down, crossing again and again along the hillsides, through the valley and across much of the area around. One gully already started to yield up some bones, when searched carefully, but these were obviously disturbed from their bed, not whole, and most of them had some damage from being washed along the miniature canyons of clay and dirt. Still, it was progress, of the good kind. A rare period of dry weather had followed the rains, giving them time to mark the bones found on the maps and to label them for future reference. This was something new to the field, coming from many misassembled and poorly documented sites in the last decades leading to errors in the records and miscegenation of the bones when some made displays and automata. This failed the sciences, even if the efforts produced functional designs. 

From those bones, they gained much excitement. Some were ungulate leg bones, a few from more recent periods, some older. One was clearly recognized by them both as fossil claws of one of the thunder lizards. A few hinted at predators and the great giant beasts of an age of ice thought to have occurred in the not too distant past. Each find, every possible dig site, especially the one near the edge of the hills, where a channel was carving into the foot of the hill, and the type of stones that the thunder lizards were found in other places. Those layers were well known to those of her profession, for the larger beasts posed less problems in adding power sources to. Yet it was the smaller automata that might gain her the most fame, if her new ideas proved out. 

When Black Coyote returned, several elders of the nearest tribe traveled with him, to both make and observe the adherence to the terms in their actions. Elisa spent a day with Coyote translating for the elders, who spoke little English, working out who would gain from which parts of the enterprise, that if a mammut or other great beast should be found she would provide one automata for travel during winter across the prairies to the tribe, from the proceeds of the sale of that version. And that the tribes hunters would aid them, but guarding the site and gathering in provisions. Some of the younger tribe members, she was told, wished to come and participate in the dig, to learn the skills as a trade.

Elisa found the tribal demands and contract fair and just, though Ivan chaffed at teaching the youngsters anything at first. "They take the jobs away from we who pioneered the field!" The thundering of the old man was loud, and obviously amusing to the elders, one of whom showed some English skills, in a comment that it sounded like he had when told he was getting to old to hunt alone and take all the meat. That jibe, with much soothing from Elisa to say that it was his legend and skills that attracted the young, more than the desperation for some kind of job experience or chance at coins. It did leave here with difficulty in arranging for some way to pay the ones who would help the dig. 

Unloading the various tools of the hunting part of her trade took time, time that she worried over wasting, for to mark the first dig site, the swamp the necromancer had found. Elisa was worried, this was the deepest pit needed, nearly forty feet if her concept of the terrain were correct, sixty feet was Ivan's estimate, and he felt that other layers above would provide more bones as they dug, ones that may be just as valuable. The spot was still a declivity, along one of the few terraces still showing in the terrain despite erosion over the millennium. Such would have remained a marsh all along, or so Ivan argued. Elisa felt it may indicate they were both wrong, and this was a buried sinkhole. 

The marking out of the test trench took two days, as all wanted the site to prove out, and argued over the layout. One tribal elder mentioned that it might be best to go with the winds, which came from the northwest much of the time. Ivan felt a simple “V” trench, east west, with a southeast to northwest arm would be best. Elisa had to take charge in the end, decreeing that two trenches be dug, separated by twelve paces at their closest. The southern line went from east northeast to west southwest, while the northern line would follow the elders. 

Ivan grumbled, but she had figured out his arguments source, he believed that smaller groups worked better when learning, so he desired to split the young folk up. Once she understood his reasoning, Elisa found herself agreeing, thirty young people were too many, but having the trenches meet would be just an invitation to disaster. Choosing the differing lines made strong sense, as it allowed two profiles to figure from before the next stage if they had found a good place, the total exposure dig. 

It was nearly June when the first shovel bit the loess that lay over the site, the grasses proved to be very difficult to remove, compared to what one thought, roots spread out from each cluster, intermingling where they met below the surface, and the shorter grass between the taller clumps proved to have matted roots as well. Making wheel barrows too time too, until the elders pointed out a travios could work until the barrows were finished. 

Things went well in the next few days, though all found the sudden daily thunderstorms to be frightening as the trenches reached below the man high mark. The sides proved very unstable so steps had to be taken towards shoring the sides, which meant more labor not aimed at digging. At first their students complained, until the day a storm sloughed the side over one student who had tried to use the water to speed things up. Two days later, his body was recovered, afterwards, all wished to increase the safety of the dig, so harvesting cottonwoods from the river banks of the Elkhorn became a duty each group donated labors for.

Then came the day they reached the tuff in the trenches, it was thick, nearly a yard of the stuff covering the site, and years of water getting in, turned it to a soft concrete, one that crumbled easily, but still was solid until worked. Now things slowed down, and rightly so. Halfway through the layer, the southern trench under Ivan’s guidance gave hollers of joy, as they reached bones, switching to smaller and subtler tools. 

The next day the northern force Elisa instructed was able to celebrate even more, as they uncovered the tusk of a mammoth. With the exposure of that ivory treasure, the tribe dug with more care in both pits, now aware of the fortunes at stake for all.

“Look careful, dig more so!” Ivan now roamed both trenches, as Elisa set up a field desk to begin the first maps of the trenches, and record what was being found. She wished to have found a traveling daguerreotype expert to make the preserved images on the delicate silvered copper plates, but few of them traveled in these lands, as the glass plates to protect the images often suffered from the lack of roads, shattering or rubbing off the very images they were to protect inside their mounts. 

So sketches became the medium of choice for now, though tales of a mammoth find would bring some sightseers soon, once word reached the rails or towns. There would be no stopping the spread of the tale, already the villages of the Omaha and Winnebago tribes, the ones working with them, knew of the find. Soon their name sake town and those in Council Bluffs would hear as well. But until they arrived, all the diggers could do was stretch tarps and erect a shelter over the delicate stone bones of the elephant’s distant kindred, long since vanished from the western hemisphere. 

The dig continued, slowed, but now with a zeal they had only hints of before. The mammoth was small, young Elisa surmised. Perhaps small enough to still be near its mother and pod. Each night, she went over her notes, working diligently, and finding some of her helpers had taken schooling under the new policies of the day. Every step from this point forward would have to be careful, and the guard force doubled with out her askance. The elders knew of the dangers of thieves, and realized others would want the tusks alone, just for the ivory. 

The economics of the dig had just changed, and perhaps, so had the fate of the villages now entwined in Elisa’s project.

Paths of Damnation 5 - (Billenius)

There is beauty to a desert sunrise, one that belies the brutal day to come, but still makes it something to enjoy. The clouds, usually high feathery ones, tend to glow orange or gold as the sun begins his daily voyage, after his underworld passing the legends tell of. Then the light blooms across the landscape, turning the nighttime grays to gold or shadowy black. Sandstones blaze their redness like torches as the buttes to our west caught the sun before the ground below them. And the dust raised by the various folks using the coolest part of the day to travel the Sands were like silver bushes on the horizon around me. Shiny silver to the west and south, blue to the north and east.

I took a deep breath, having rode hard for three days across the Riparian Neck, which is a tongue of the desert that extends east between the rivers of the land. It was north we sought, as we left Radixium further behind us with every turning of the horas. This long neck of sands and desert between the rivers was not as deadly as the rest of the desert we would face later, but still worse than the gentle lands near the Amnis Radix along the foot of the Last Mountains. We had rode east, not out of need, the faster path was due north, along the edge of the eastern most of the Grey Mesas. But one had paid a price I had avoided in my fight in the city of the foothills.

Quintas Marinius Varamadis, a distant cousin from these lands, had met my foe before the duel. Despite knowing the fate he would face, he had confronted the assassin. Marinius job with us here was as the local Castrorum Preafectus, the one charged with ensuring the supplies to the outposts and one of only five animas trusted with delivering payrolls to our posts every third hebdoma. So I had one last job as a Custos, one I had been trusted with several times before of late, due to my record of service. One I did more for a lost relative than duty, and to aid out my former colleagues, then from allegiance to the Custos.

So we had ridden the river's valley for two days, before turning north again up the Valles Favillae, the long brush filled series of draws as the land climbed up to the small volcano in the center of the Callix. We were halfway up it, the point where the dense briers gave way to scattered cactus and sage, with some scrub oak and other trees. At least it was not a place loaded with fire grass, which I would have hated. Not to mention having to dig into the supplies I had for the desert crossing to come yet. We had at least six or seven leagues of sand, depending upon the winds and recent eruptions of the volcano, to ride over. And those would be hard milles to make in one day.

But for now the worst of it all was the four extra pack animals. Marinius had no skill at choosing animals, and these four tried my patience at every stop or turn of the draws. Skittish, mean tempered, and if Pater thought Turbator kicked too often, he should try to shoe these beasts. Not that shoes were needed on a vartengi. Their clawed feet had thick pads of tough scaled leather. Claws that Marinius never had covered with blunt sheaths, but at least we had muzzles so they could not bite us.

Yes, us. Didius Lorcius was with me, as he had promised. Thankfully. These beasts were more than I could handle, for my doni was not of calming animals. Barely pack broken and every night they looked over my onagers with hungry eyes, ready to leap into their dinner, or chase it down. While the pack beast was one they scared, Turbator just gave them the look only a stallion of his kind can. The one that says "I can out run you, and come back and kick you into a pulp". When we had mounted up before first light, the Triari kept me from letting Turbator have his go at all four at once, and help me fix my left boot as we rode. One of the vargenti had stepped on it and tore the outer leathers to shreds. As well as the linings, and my socks.

Luckily I had a concoction from a alchemist in Vepresium, who had noted the beasts. It was a reddish liquid he said prevented wounds from becoming gangrenous. It smelled awful and hurt like the fires of hell, so I was fairly sure it was real medicine for a change, not some snake-oil unguent. Then again, some said snakes were put on the world to aid in cures and healing. People that believe that way should be tossed into a pit of snakes, and see how they feel afterwards. I admit to using the oil, venoms and even shed skins in the field to preserve a life, but not to the point of worshiping the legless lizards.

As we rode, I noted that despite my own skills at leather working, developed by trial and error over my decadi here doing my own repairs, Didius was better. The touch of the Lorcius was swift and deft. Fine little stitches of his repair, almost perfect as new, gave the boots a new life beyond the next town. Pulling them on, I barely noted any tightness. It made me wonder where the Triari had learned such a skill, or if my own fumbling would improve with age as his must have.

This left me worried again about why he was with me. He had not again brought up the subject, but I knew he felt that the call of the gods was upon me to return to Jai’ and serve them in the temples. Not just any temple, he had mentioned the imperial ones, up above the desert, further north from my home ranges. Jugosium was a place I had gone to only by need, carrying messages, taking my oath. The city of hills and broken dreams, some called it, others called it the fog bound island town it once had been.

Regardless, it was not my intention. The Desert and the Plains were for me, not an island on an inland sea of fresh water. Folks on islands eat more fish than I care to taste. What can I say, not all folks like all foods. To each is a taste that is unique to them when it comes to foods. I knew my family would have horrors at my love of dwarven pastries. But the Pumillo's made such wonderful ones. That more than anything else I would miss during the journey. The ovens and special cookers for making such could not be transported easily, nor used very much in a desert with little fuel, save that which could rage into a wildfire around one in the space of a sneeze.

Two days of struggling up draw, the ground began to shake from time to time, with sounds accompanying the motions I knew too well from some anni spent upon the patrols of the edge of the Rima Magna, that great cliff that was the boundary between my home plains and this desert far to the north. Cracks and booms of rocks breaking. The beasts were jittery, I was worried. Even Didius seemed to have lines of concern around his eyes, but that could just have been the fumes that were filling the draw.

The winds came from the west most of the time in the desert, but this was a rare calm spell, when the air had only faint and erratic motion in it. That could just be from being below the vast flats of the desert as we climbed into its realm, or something more dangerous. One thing I knew for sure, this draw would fill with the fumes of the volcano, for that smoke did not just rise, but more often sunk into low places around the portals to the Realms of Fire and Lava. Fumes that formed clouds and fogs known to kill entire civilizations in the past. We needed to be up on the hard-pan of the desert, where we could move as needed to avoid the rage of the volcano. If the gods allowed it.

East and West there were draws, Didius was too busy keeping the vargenti under control to speak, so I would have to make the decision. East lay the Head of the Sands, the Callix, a dangerous area of shifting dunes, known to be filled with dangers. To the west was hard-pan of the Shallow Sand Arm, a place where only a few dunes and little sand accumulated, reaching to Amnis Radix to the south in a narrow plain between this valley and the Campi Fornax used by the desperate herders when they dared the fire-grass to feed their beasts. It widened as it met the Neck, but the Arm was my best choice. In this season the winds most commonly blew west to east, so passing west of the Favilus Vulcan was the safest.

Unless I was wrong. Much depended upon my choice, but I made it.

"Sinistra, Triari! We have to get out of here." I shouted, but it was already too late.

A cloud of hot ash rushed around the bend above us, telling me we were statistics, as my cousin and companion of my youth Norbanus would say. That was a tomb maker coming towards us. I had helped dig out hamlets and caravans from a hot ash avalanche before, it was not survivable, nor was it pretty in its aftermath. Such a blast could be confined to the draw we were in, or spread across the whole of the area if the mountain was viscious. I could ask the gods, or my donum of foresight, but these were things I was not eager to try. The gods were fickle, and my doni were untrained.

The vargenti needed no encouragement to leave the draw, just herding to keep them from spreading out into every gulley out of the place. Lorcius raced by me, disappearing into the first stinging wall of the ash-flow. Driving the lizards and back beasts before us, Turbator and I entered it next. Thankfully this was a light one, but a darkness to the north and east boded ill for the next part, as the eruption continued. Inside the ash fog I was reminded of the great wildfire my cousins and I had caused in our younger days. Cinders burned into my flesh, the tang of iron was in the air, which was not a good thing. There were many villages of my folk nearby who could die if exposed, or suffer long illnesses. Turbator hated dust storms, and was trying to race ahead of the others, which I could not do, lest the pack beasts turn back down the washout.  As we rose up the gully to its head wall, luckily one all the beasts could leap up. There I yelled into to air, driving the beasts west from the lower ground we had left.

It was a good choice, as the wind rose at last. Or so I thought as we broke out of the cloud. Only to find that Didius was not stopping, but urging the beasts further towards the west, looking back in fear every few beats of a heart. Looking towards Favillus, I knew my own fear. We had been lucky, already the earth shook more, as a pillar of fire, ash, and ruined mountain climbed into the sky. This was not a small blast, and already i could see the outer edges of the column of destruction falling back to the ground around whatever would be left of Favillus.

The distant buttes to our west and north marked the cliff above the Campi Fornax were suddenly very inviting, I just hoped that the devastation did not reach Statiheranae and the rest of the hamlets scattered around the Callix and the few safe havens within it. We would have to detour north and mak a longer crossing than I had hoped. But the Desert never co-operated with the plans of any save the gods, and some say it fought even them.

Turbator bunched under me, then showed his strides

Paths of Damnation 3 (Billenius)

Its disconcerting when your plans go awry right from the beginning.

 Half a hebdoma's delay was not something I had planned upon. But it had taken that long to recover from the poisoning, and face the inquest. The latter had been just a formality, Urbania crushing any attempts by her staff to make the charges of murder stick, which the poisoning had made mute anyway by law. Assassins and their ilk are as damned in our legal codes as in most others. That the fool from the islands had made it one of the old formal duels, but broken many of the codes his gens claimed to support, had made it easy to quash. The verdict of {nolo culpa} had cleared me of any fault, but still, it bothered me that only a few of the folks in town stood up to speak about this one.

Yes, assassins tend to be silent, but this one had not been, and the few who spoke for me had stated he had bragged of his commission, and tried to intimidate those he spoke with to silence. Still, one could not fault folks for fearing the threats of an assassin of retribution if they spoke of him.

As I broke down the tent the night before, and loaded it up onto my pack onagera, I noted that Didius was loading a similar beast's packs, balancing them as carefully as we of the Custos did. This was not a skill one expected of a man known as a foot soldier and temple guard, but then again, logistics is the lifeline of an army, and several times over his lifetime, Lorcius had commanded such gatherings, not to mention unknown smaller groups of men.

Each time I looked at him, he was looking back, smiling softly. Only the old man was packing, others were helping him, getting last instructions, and the like. The longer it went on, the more it became apparent, he had come here just to settle in these members here for some reason. Now he was headed to some other place, to check the needs of the guardians of the temples, or just the temples themselves to see if they had needs they did not voice to their superiors. That was the job of the Triarium, to care for the needs of the priests, who were too often focused on the spiritual and forgot the physical needs and comforts that made one more able to perform one's tasks.

Like me, he unloaded his onager after getting the load made even, so he could run free one last night to find sage and grass to eat before the long run of grains with little fiber to come. Turbator, my mount just sent from home a few weeks before was upset. Another stallion in the area was a challenge to his self importance. And one thing I did not need as I balanced his packs. Luckily, the pack beast of the Triari was older, more sedate, and far too interested in grass over the mare I had for a pack animal to cross the Sands with. He wandered off into the twilight, seeking some of that sweet blue sage that grew in the riparian areas of the desert's edge.

It did not make my troublesome steed any less ornery. Turbator was full of energy, mainly kicking a lot, and with six legs that made saddling and balancing a load on him a chore. But his line had been my pride for most of my life. Pater had other ideas about the lineage, which he said was too mean-spirited. But I preferred spirit to a broken nag.

As the night closed in, I sighed and let loose a simple prayer to Fortuna that Didius was headed any direction but west. That fickle goddess answered swiftly for a change, and my luck had turned. As I settled down to some tea and grilled beef and peppers, the head of the Triarium walked over.

"May I join you, Augur?" My back went up at that appellation. Among my folk there are special ranks of the priests, and an Augur is very special among the various flamenis. They are the voices of the gods, whom they speak through to give us their ruling and our fates. And with my gift for foresight of things to come, the priests had thought I would instantly bond to a temple as such a conduit of the gods. I was tempted to turn him away, just for the naming of me, as he had during the aftermath of the duel, as one who served the gods.

My parents had raised me better, not to mention the manners my avia had pounded into my head. "Very well, but leave the talk of auguries alone. I have rarely had dreams from the gods or sight of the future that any would care to hear. And I think we both can agree an augur would not have gotten into the mess I did this hebdoma."

Didius took up the other log, where the other riders used to sit until the day I said my time was over here, and they began to choose who would now be their leader, conscience and confessor. All jobs too close to the priestly ones that the Triari was hinting I should have chosen. He opened a roll of cloth within which lay something far different from my dinner, yet similar. Skewered tomatoes, baby peppers, and a white meat that dripped grease even before being cooked. It had to be Vartengi, the local horse sized, two legged lizards used as mounts by so many here on the southern desert, where beasts of thunder oft crossed the lower passes in the heat of summer, seeking more food or a nesting ground.

Vartengi is technically forbidden in the dietary laws of our kind. Beyond forbidden, even, as its meat has toxins it that can kill a Numen. I shuddered at the thought of the great warrior eating such a food. I had never dreamed of him being suicidal, or wanting to die. I looked at his face, as he chuckled. My face had given away my thoughts, something I had thought my years in the circuits here had sealed away.

"Relax, Billenius. This is for one who will join us in a few minutes. And try not to be too upset. He is coming to speak with us of something we, or more precisely you, need to know." He set them over the fire from the skewer hooks on the tripod I used to keep my teapot over the pile of coals. "I came here on a rumor, that one blessed with the gift of foresight was marked for death. This one who will join us has the details of the contract the fool you faced took."  He took out a collapsing brass cup, and pulled it open, the segments singing the bell tones of their metal that was one of the few our kind was not allergic to.

I sat in silence. There was nothing I wanted to say, I was not an augur, the gods did not talk to me, I merely had that touch of the foresight so many had, just a little clearer than the population at large. But the visions sent by the gods, brought to one by the Parcae, I had seen one in the throes of such a vision once. And she had died from the Truths she had been forced to see and give to the world in the end.

I was glad the smoke from the fire was blowing away from my gear, even the grease of the soot of such meat could contaminate my gear had it crossed it. But then, being of a more stable and polite generation, he had noted the wind, the fire's location, and been polite enough to let me see the food before laying it on my fire. He had even pulled out the coals to cook it over to allow them to not be part of the main fire, and thus my responsibility to cleanse afterwards.

The Triari poured some of my hot water into the cup, and set a steeping ball for his tea in it. The aroma was of the stronger leaves of the actual plant the dwarves call cha. I shuddered at the thought of not sleeping for a week. But Didius was used to such I was sure, having served in the Legions. But still the smell of the lizard wafted to me from time to time, roiling my stomach. I tried to think of who could have information they would dare share with others about an assassination. If it was an amateur job, there was the chance that the assassin or his employers would try to eliminate those who could tell the tale. Professional job, even more frightening to me, and we could all be dead in seconds, with no warning.

I knew a professional assassin, back a few years before. One that had walked from the shadows for a while, not to escape, but as research on how to get closer to his prey. I had tried to stop him, turn him from his path. But we had both come to a point where only our own views of the target had mattered. Or so I had thought. When I found out why the assassination needed to happen, I had stood aside, something I still regretted. And yet, I could never bring to justice one such has that monster of a person had been.

That made me remember I had other donum, ones that would let me be safer, even if I had not used them for years. Oh, the sense of knowing a falsehood I had used, and the sensing of danger near me was not a thing I could easily lock away. But the other sight from the third eye, that I had locked away for ages, as too disturbing to me. Knowing the real self of those around me, seeing the inner flames of their anima tell me the truth as they tell my eyes and ears lies. That had been too much to see, for me at least. But there were times I opened that eye, to save lives, or gain knowledge. Shutting it was something else, an effort best described as heroic, or by some as self abuse.

Lack of use can atrophy an ability, and thus it is with me. What I had fought so hard to sequester away proved as hard to awaken, and hiding that effort from one I had earlier denied using such to was more difficult. But something deep in my own anima was stirring me to do such a thing. That prickling of the hairs on the back of ones neck feeling, the one that says danger is near. The one that failed the great warrior in that moment, just as my inner vision slowly was awakened and focused.
There was a darkness around us, but to that vision, the world is lit up even at night. The glow of all that lives, has lived or is touched by the elements and magic glow with the power within them. That glow blurs within a short distance, one of a constant blue haze like the sky to my way of perceiving it. But against it, behind the gold fire that was Didius life force, was a dark area of coal black flecked with orange and red spots of heat of life. And a familiar feeling to that darkness.

It was worth it, to be taking that calm sip of tea as the veteran of many wars next to me suddenly leapt to his feet in startled rage as he felt the cold of steel against his arm. Steel that burned him, as it affects all our kind, save a few blessed by the gods with the tolerance of iron. Didius has some such protection, but not enough to not be burned by the metal we find so deadly. Smoke curled off his arm as the poison burned the flesh it had touched, grabbing the spear from the spot he had spiked it to push out at...nothing.

Already the one that had attacked him was beside me, and finding Specula's point at his abdomen. "Hello Jinatozu. It has been a few years, has it not?" I kept my voice and blade steady, the training of many years in a dangerous profession being useful at moments like this one.

The rough chuckle, like the burble of a stream over rocks came from our guest. He sheathed his blade slowly, leaning out to take the meal that Didius had made for him. This one was small, barely a gradus and a half in height, grey skinned, with darker patches under his onyx eyes, and scars of stark silver on his arms and face. Some looking as if they were newer, still tainted with the red of his blood showing through them. A red so unlike the olive green we Numeni have coursing through our veins.

"The joys of being one of the best at your job is you get more information if you do not pick up a blade offered you." This was a daring insight into the world of the assassins' guild. Daring for him to even mention how a job is offered to one of their guild. Such an admission would bring death to the speaker if word made it back to his masters.

Didius settled back upon his seat, still wary of the one who had joined us. Nor was I any less alert. My acinias lay unsheathed across my thighs, my sinister hand near her hilt at all times. This was not a friend we sat with, just an acquaintance, and one I still was not sure of where his true loyalties would lie. I stayed silent for a long time, still sipping the tea from the large mug made for me by a friend long ago as payment for saving her children. A mug of carved silver and simple amethyst inlays in the pattern of the symbol of my gens. It held great value to me, despite being of simple crafting.

We sat there quietly, each enjoying something, as Jinatozu ate, I drank and Didius filled a pipe he had produced from his belt pouch. Soon the air was filled with the aroma of fine tobacco burning slowly in a intricately carved briar. It was something that I rarely dared in this dry place, but it had rained two days before and the winds had been light with coolness of the mountains in the air this evening. It was a strange thing, this cold spell we were in. Some would call it an omen. I called it weather, and ignored the climate one would normally expect from the desert.

When he spoke again, it was softly, the rough voice strangely like silk with the words it delivered. "There is a dagger issued on your life, Billenius. Few will take it, for if you wait and the masters tell you of who bought it, it comes from the west. The Queen of Flame has some fear of you." He let the words settle over my mind like a kerchief of the fabric they had sounded like. Another long pause in the words in this deepening night of suddenly revealed intrigue.

My own voice spoke to him then. "I recognized the mark on the blade, before someone stole it. But enough folk had seen the blade, the red of its hilt and blade, and those markings. The mark for my gens and profession at the blade end of the hilt, the center mark the flame wreathed crown of the Queen of Flames, and the hilt mark of the single black onyx inlaid dagger. Even I could read some of that code, the draka had bought a blade to take my life, one try only, by one person.

But I knew there was far more in those symbols on the hilt, a code I would never know in this lifetime, unless I betrayed the way I had been raised and turned to murder to support myself. Not that I would, but sometimes, I found myself curious as to what the other side of my profession did. Curious, not driven.

I puzzled over the implications of this threat. I had no love for the Queen of Flame, the draka of fire who sat above Pelori, and had brought so many of the creatures of her element into this world, and thus by her proximity to my homeland, my native grounds. But I had never seen her as a foe I would be able to face. I know that the draoconis have the ability to see into the future with greater accuracy than even my doni allowed. That meant she saw some threat coming from me, one that made her fear facing me directly, or allowing me to reach her territory. What that threat could be was beyond my comprehension at the moment.

"I know this, Jinatozu. I saw the dagger that fool bore." My words were soft and paced, delivered with a cup of tea between my face and his. I was testing for another knowledge, for this one never moved at loud noises, so I had a theory he was deaf or hard of hearing.

A theory dashed by the rapid answer and chuckle. "I have heard that you have seen, and also your latest theory of my ability to ignore noises, Varus. Not a bad thought, wrong, but it would have explained things."

We shared a smile, and I began to realize there were those involved in the criminal activities who had honor and ethics enough to become a friend, or at least deserve my admiration. He was here, breaking rules, as he felt rules were being broken in the attempt on my life. A quiet settled over our fire for a spell as Didius thought, and I considered getting out a deck of cards and the board to try once again to catch the sleight of hand that had tipped me to Jinotazu's profession that fateful night.

Typical of the general he had been and still acted as for the temples, Didius had questions he needed answered. As he broke the silence to get them, I absorbed which ones were and were not answered as best I could. Which was not as well I would have preferred, but still better than others could do I hoped. It seemed strange to me that she would fear me right after I left the Custos, not before. Was it that I was assigned east and her territory the west of the desert? Or something more dangerous to me, that something had changed in the Fates recently.

The two others began a conversation, one that seemed to be conducted upon two levels, as if they were trying to either hide from me or any other ears that might hear their words. I did my own thinking as they talked, listening with one ear, as the saying goes, and using the other to listen to my inner voice tell me what it was figuring out.

At last something was said that I partially caught, yet rang in my head. "What was that, the bit about the prophecies of the Wyrm?"

Didius shifted uncomfortably. He obviously had hoped I was not paying attention to what had been said. "Nothing," was his terse answer.

Nothing that meant something, I could tell. I leaned into the fire, and started a fresh pot of water for my tea. The warmth of the fire was not painful, at least not normally, but suddenly I feared fire. A fear that came not from the reasoning part of my mind, or the survival part, but deeper, in the mystical portion I tried so hard to keep walled up in a corner. The place that now screamed for my attention like an alarm bell on the walls of a city. There was more here than either of these people wanted me to know of.

Something I needed to know. I dug in my memories to see if I could roust out what had reacted to those words. Which is not something I would normally do. I had been a Numen of action for so long, turning into one of thought was not my style. Or had not been since I and my deformed and outcast cousin had parted ways half a century gone by now.

Then I found the thought, and pinned it like an eel had to be pinned in the river not far away, when one hunted eels for their skin or other organs that had so many magical and other uses. Those creatures are slippery, elusive, and very hard to get to land without ruining the very things you are after. And sometimes my thoughts are like that as well.

I focused on the thoughts of the tales I had heard of from Umbradinor, and the books in Avia and Amita's libraries where I had studied as a youth. There was a set of scrolls made ages ago of the dreams of the last of the Lords of the Arbitrations, Tragrilom the Black-hearted, that foretold the future. And key to those prophecies was the coming of the one called Bahai-Luthna-Naish, "Sees without eyes", who would herald the coming of the new draconic gods and the next Lord of the Arbitrations. None were sure who those would be, but every time the omens seemed right, every dragon in the world would see itself as the next god or Arbitrator, which is the goal of them all deep down it seems.

I laid down my own scoffing at the prophecies. "There are many who have eyes and still cannot see, so I am not sure how the words of some ancient prophecy could mean anything several ages of the world later."

This got me a chuckle from the assassin. The head of the guardians of the temples was silent. The disapproving kind of silence, long and filled with a meaning not needing words to be conveyed, as his face told me all I needed to know  The Triari felt I should not mock the words of warnings from the gods to mortals. But that was part of his charge, to protect the image as well as the personages and relics of the temples.

We spent the night sitting there, talking of many other things, and I found the insights of both of these individuals to be enlightening. As well as entertaining once the tension from my earlier skepticism had passed. I was learning still many things, one of which is tact, something that may take centuries to develop, according to my father's mother. Avia has always had a low opine of my learning curve.

Perchance, deservedly so.

***

With the rising of the sun came the moment I had waited for many turning of the seasons. I rode west, not alone as I had intended, as the Triari was with me. But it was west, to my love, my home, my future. I had a pouch of messages from the outpost for the various places in the west, and Turbator was anxious to move on, He could sense we were not coming back, and being an exploratory sort, was ready for new places to roam, new grasses to taste, and more important to him I was sure, new herds to take over.

The trail was dusty, the long ago laid down ashes of distant volcanoes trying to climb again into the sky, casting an ominous paleness to the dawn, and that redness of which sailors fear, as the gods gave the warning in the sky of rough weather to come. We should have heeded the sky, but both of us had schedules to meet, I with my last duty to the order of the Custodi, the Triari to the temples, and our steeds to the their own desires.

Someday, perchance, I shall explain why we all should have known better from our own pasts, but that is a tale for another evening around a comfortable fire with friends.

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.