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 She had withdrawn not because of my presence, I knew now.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. 

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.

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 of the Shadow - A Billenius tale - chapter 5, as far as I got.

Settling back, holding that cup of kaf tight, Specula on my lap, I pondered where to start.
The Triari must have sensed that, and chuckled. "The Augurii I have dealt with tell me to just take things in the order they are seen, boy. The gods and gifts use that order for reasons, even when it leaves us confused and clueless."
I let a puff of breath out, inhaling slowly afterwards to find that point where normal dreams turned prophetic last night. They let me do this in peace, uncle from lack of knowledge, and Bentarius's experience with priests and seers obviously guiding him in waiting. Eyes closed, my ragged shields held tight against the intrudiong auras of my companions and those nearby, I at last spoke.
"These night-visions center of late around brooms, scaly beings, flames, darkness, and pain." I admitted. "Each starts differently, but at some point the theme of the last few years worth..."
That got me cut off fast. "Years. Gods, Billenius." Uncle gasped. "You said only the last few hebdomae."
"Pacio! Let the boy speak." That command voice, something the Praetor apparently never lost, rumbled softly, but with authority. "Continue, Varus."
I swallowed a bit, knowing matertera's next missive to me after hearing this from uncle would be one of advice, chiding, and sharp words. "The juncture of roads centers around hooded figures, some scaled, some not, but all with a taint of darkness around them. Seven figures move about, amid a throng of folks, doing actions that border on... evil." I used that word lightly, and kept the actions I knew to myself. No sense leaving uncle spun up about the town being host to such soon.
Two long sips of the kaf gave me the calm to move on, despite the jitters that brew gives me. "These robed ones, they move towards a place. Given the hints I see of mountians and walls, I believe it is here. Each walks along different roads, but all those roads come to one town, on the edge of the Shifting Grey Sands. No hint lies in when, but I see the blades of the butchers, as the walkers in darkness enter the town, so it must be a Carnifex, the slaughter day.." That got a reaction from Bentarius.
"Perfidio." His soft whisper interrupted my relating of the dream. "Too close to what I've already heard, son."
Letting my lids open a bit, I handed over Specula. "This is about the point she struggles to hold control for me, when walking this dream." Clearing my throat to get his attention, once noting his hand pressed to his own eyes. "she fears these walkers, for some reason."
Accepting my acinicas after a moment of confusion, the Triari nodded. "Go on."
Another long swig, draining the cup, which I set upon the desk. "Once in that place, they meet, not to unite, it seems, as there are conflicts within this group, but in the end, they all depart together. Under a set of claws grasping in the skies above them, casting a long shadow over the world. Scaled claws, red, blue, grey and green scales, some mingled with other colors. Two loom larger than the others at this point, one of sapphire and onyx, the other flames, gold and smoke." That evoked a his. All knew only one of the draconis scales held those three hues. She already held enmity towards me for foiling several of her plans.
"Anathi-Faruth-Glathin, Blaze-upon-Angered-Mountains." Uncle's words barely stireed the air after a moment. "Billenius, given your history with the Queen of Flame..."
"Let it rest for now, Mattio." Bentarius injected. "We'll parse it out after we have it all."
Yet, I could almost hear the wheels turning in his head, unable to preven the roils in his aura driving upon my perception. I dared not stop, after this bit. "I see myself then. I know, you cannot trust visions of your own future, but I see me, out on the desert, seeking a trail of one walker in particular. Yet, other hunters seek this one as well." I shook my head. "Then it really turns on me, beyond my control. I see the Dunes, footsteps leading into them, under the long shadow, with me following that trail. Through it all, onagers dance along beside me, wild beasts of the desert, not the tamer ones from home."
I tapped the cup. "Mind if I refill this?"
Uncle grasped it before I could. "Dammit. Sorry Billenius."
"I'm the junior here, sir." The laugh at uncle being the servant in his own office lightened the darkness I was about to deal with. "Besides, this is the only part that I feel to be imminent."
"As a soldier, I'd tell you to trust that gut feeling, boy." Bentarius spoke softly, words nearly drowned by the rush of kaf back into that mug."The last few years leading the Triatium tend to speak differently, though. Too often, seers over-estimate their ability to understand what the goddesses show them."
I let the nod of ascension be my only answer, accepting that cup carefully. The next part would be something more disturbing to them, I was sure.
Three long, slow sips later, I took up the dream again, fortified against what I'd seen. "There comes a period of long blackness, then faint light, under which I see a time when Pelori lies in the hands of Athalanic demons, allied with the Flame Queen, and Radixium falls to raiders from the Sands. Over it all hovers a number of spathas, repeled only by a constantly fading number of spears. In the end, the spears fail, the swords descend upon the lands of the Empire, destroying the peace, upending the world as we know it. Then, once more, hunters come into view, fighting the blue and black scaled claw seeking dominion over the central lands, two daggers rise against the sunrise slicing darkness with their shadows. When it all settles down again, there lies before me a choice of paths. My decision leads to a place of flame, smoke, and pain, then utter darkness. There was no more." That last a lie I intended to stick to.
A lie, I knew, the Triari was aware of. His solid stare tried to pry more from me without asking directly. I met his eyes, daring him to ask.
Remarkably, he looked away first. "Not good omens. Nor all of the dream, I dare say. Keep the part you refuse to speak of, boy. I have hints from the temple augurs enough to sense that the Ordo Triarium will suffer in times to come."
Finding one held holds their own breath often is surprising as the reasons to discover it. Given his history with the Centuria Sinistra, I expected him to press for more details, not to mention the omitted portions of the dream.
"This is why you call your doni curses, rather than gifts?" Uncle whispered.
I held my peace. The time to deal with my reluctance over training was not after dealing with those powers lain upon my shoulders. Or so I hoped.
"Given this vision, and the echoes of fear I sense this blade still resonates, boy, I'd say you saw much more after that." The Triari grumbled. "Things my sources hint at. Like a scepter lost amid grass and rocks, the claws of other draconis you dare not speak of here, and a darkness that never lifts."
Too close, I thought. I opened my mouth to discourage the line I sensed he would walk, only to be silenced by a gesture. "Your face says it all, Varus. Perfidio." He whispered.
Uncle sat back, confused by his face. "Bento?"
"Later, Mattio. After the boy decides if he dare trust us." His gaze came back to me. "One thing he does not mention is which spears hold off the spears. That speaks volumes by itself."
I sighed. He knew already. "The greatest spear falls from hands here. Soon, sir. Sorry."
That snort made me smile despite the bad news. "Knew that before coming here. But, the hand to lift it up again may be here. Or so Doma Velina warned me when I left her."
That small reminder, that his own lover suffered the same curse as me, to know the futures, possible and probable, chilled me. His refusal to marry her, or her to marry him, often figured in court gossip that managed to travel to this distant borderland.
When he spoke next, I almost missed the warning tone. "Caution I admire, but you tread on the edge of rebellion against the godesses, boy."
I let it sit a few fingers of sand before answering. "Somethings, I am not sure I should speak of yet."
His nod let the matter drop. Though I was sure he would bring it up later. "I will only ask one more thing, then." His eyes locked to mine as he spoke. "Do the spears break, or go into hiding?"
My brow crunched up. That question I failed to anticipate. "I will say that I see a time they arise again, when light perhaps returns. But that part felt uncertain, Triari."
His face held worry. But no further did we speak of the dream. I wished later he'd pushed more.

Crossing of the Shadow - A Billenius tale - chapter 4

At least they let me drink half the cup before beginning the big discussion. While not tea, many meetings with the dwarves left me innoculated against the kaf. Too many of their negotiations were held over the brew from ground beans, not enough over the gentler drink tea leaves make.
But that respite ended too soon for me, even given the beverage.
"So, which of our eastern kin managed to convince you to accept training at last?" The Triari asked.
Uncle stirred, having some idea, I am sure, but not all the details. I laid a wager with myself over what other extra duties I'd wind up with by day's end, for omitting such details in my report on the issues in the Grey Mesas five hebdomae ago.
"Galen and Amoria of the Brasidius gens. Orientii, though one of the Sylvani assisted them in what they taught me." I admitted after a few more sips. "Amid the Mesas, something stirred up my donum, the foresight doni more than others, but I wound up seeing only auras for a while again." I grimaced, remembering that last time came from events during a visit from the former Praetor. "No head injury this time. The powers just surged up, on the heels of the foresight dreams. Powerful enough to leave my eyes useless to reality."
"Boy, I warned you it might happen, as did your family." Bentarius handed his cup to the Dux. "This probably will take most of your urn, Mattio. Start another."
"Drink an elf out of his kaf? Still hard on your former subordinates, Bento." My uncle's laugh belied his displeasure.
"Teach you to keep more on hand." Bentarius waved his hand at the rather barren room. Then he sombered up.  "Those Brasidius twins are damned fine teachers. Anything to break even a little training from them must be bad news."
I refused to answer for a few moments, hands cupped around the cup, much as at a campfire amid the Mesas, when the Brasidius siblings offered me what little training in my donum I possess. Memories of those days, disoriented at the lack of real sight, forced to deal with my ability to perceive auras alone, I'd relented, taking just some basics, nothing more, during those many days of confusion. The shields against such, raised with such difficulty, held for a time. But over the last two hebdomae, the erosion they suffered led to my current problems.
"Their teachings worked. The dreams just over came the barricades and controls they taught me." I admitted. Looking up, Bentarius met my gaze with a nod. "The dreams are random in timing. No connecting triggers in life, or so it seems to me."
"Often is the case, Varus." The older man shook his head. "So, shields and grounding. Barricades against dreams. And yet..." He reached to the desk, turning uncle's notes about. ".. storng enough to make you seek dream walking to find the source."
"I'd thought Specula, being a spirit bonded weapon, would be a sufficient focus to keep things in check." The deep olive of my face burned brighter, as the blood rushed there in shame. "Obviously, she made things worse."
"Or the visions proved beyond her ability." The Triari whispered. "Happens, when the Parcae touch we Numeni."
The mention of the goddesses of the Fates, ordainers of the will of all our gods upon us, made me shiver. Twice before, this elf guided me past such touches.
"Guessed it, did you?" His voice rose back to normal.
"Yes sir." I admitted. "Suffering their brooms into my life thrice, I have a good idea which stokes are random, which are theirs, by now."
Uncle sat silent, his brow taking on the aspect of a field being plowed, furrows of worry across his forehead. His duties in the Custorii kept him absent through much of my life, though I am sure his sistes, my mother and aunt, posted him updates and the tales of my troubles.
Bentarrius broke the silence after that admission. "Tell me of these dreams, my vagrant Varus. Somehow, I now believe my journey here involves consulting your doni, not delivering a warning from the visions of others." His eyes narrowed, the thin vertical slits his pupils  creased in the golden eyes just a trace wider as he thought this aloud. His hands gestured to Specula, asking without words to handle her.
Reluctantly, my hands unfastened her sheath from my belt, sending warnings through her hilt to behave, before handing her over. "Very well." I held out my cup to uncle. "Please, avunuclus, this will take a while."
I used the few falling sand grains in the horarium behind him as he poured me a fresh cup of kaf to draw forth the dream and other visions of late.

Crossing of the Shadow - A Billenius tale - chapter 3

Avunculus was correct, the only person I might trust with my visions re-surfacing would be the Praetor. Quintillius Bentarius Damaticus Nerva knew my gens well, from that long war mother and father served under him during. A relationship that continued to the recent past. In many ways, I owed this position now, as my uncle's aide, to his final actions as Praetor. In those last days before the first of the Decuria's purges, he moved to ensure the Custos last recruitment cycle before that purge included not just those of the Insulae. After his removal from office, all we received proved to be just fools from the islands.
Despite his leaving office, he still wore that gold inlayed armor, marked with the Imperial Eagle, the Spear of the Triarium added sometime in the last few, over his right breast. I noted, though, that there seemed to be a coat of tarnish unusual for him on that lorica. Given a recent transit of the Sands, I bet it was just from his journey, not lack of attention to detail or wealth to spruce up.
Which he proved by his first words.
"Not like you to keep me waiting, Mattio." Delivered with a warm grin, a tense edge still lay under the comaraderie. "Nor allow some ide to be the reason."
"Disciplinary action, amicus." My uncle's grin of pleasure at being reprimanded lowered my head in shame over arguing on my own. "But something came up in it that you need to be aware of."
One glance, and the Praetor's grin faded. "That Varus boy. Your nephew, if I remember correctly?"
"Yes, Praetor." A glance at me, urging silence, I respected. "Judging by your look, not someone you wished to see?"
Bentarius never stood on formality, and took the chair opposite my uncle's desk. The less than perfect posture spoke more of exhaustion than sloth. "Not immediately, though my trip was to contact him for the Flamenis, in part." His  gaze upon me forced a shifting of my feet. "They claim the Augurii speak of tough times ahead of him. The kind that try one's anima."
The Dux took his own seat, wearily. "Ill news, Bento."
The Praetor shrugged. "What else would you expect me to bear, Mattio."
Both then looked at me hard.
"Out with it, boy. What has you in this office being called out on the carpet?" The Praetor commanded. "Best not be another gathering of the Tris Triconis."
Uncle laughed. "That will come with the end of the hebdoma, Praetor."
"Triari, please. Would not want the Decuria thinking I still believe I command the Legions and Custorii." His gaze relaxed a bit. "Visions, again boy?"
"Yes sir." My murmur barely audible.
Running a hand through his white mane, still with hints of fading red at the temples, he sighed. "Damnatio. I'd hoped this was me bearing warning, not a mission to try talking about getting you into a temple for some training on that doni, Varus."
"Ran into a few of our eastern kindred who offered me such, sir." I shrugged, wishing for a chair for this conversation. Standing left one feeling you still stood on the carpet, as the old phrase went. "Given how things have moved since, I'm not sure my donum, any of them, witll ever respond to training."
The Triari's cheeks puffed out as he exhaled between closed lips. "Not a thing that offers promise, given the skills the Sextus and Sylvani hold in the use and guiding of those seeking such." He motioned to the urn of kaf uncle kept in the office. "Pour us a round of that foul stuff, son, Then grab a seat. This sounds like something I better deal with right off the bat."
"Sir." I nodded. "Need room in the cup for cream or sugar?"
"Don't blaspheme, boy. Never profane the bean. Drink it straight or stick with tea." He chuckled. That gave me a strange insight into my uncles own tastes to beverages. Myself, I preferred tea, but I knew better than to ask to leave the room to gain a cup.
"Dux, it might be best if we post my extra duties first." I tried delay tactics, not wishing to suffer the discussion to come. Especially the lecture over my long reluctance at harnessing my doni in a temple.
"Call in that orderly, Mattio. Little snot-nosed Islander never offered me a drink during that hora and half I cooled my heels out there." The old elf's snort reminded me of Umbradinor's own expressions of contempt, bringing a reluctant, and rather guilty grin to my face.
"Billenius, call Sticcius in." His frown of anger burrowed new lines in his face. "Sorry, Bento. The Legion stuck him on us three hebdoma ago. I have no other duties for one recently injured, beyond that desk."
"Injured, my ass. Sticcius is a lazy fool. And a bully." Then the retired commander grinned evilly. "He also is not Legion. Get him to mucking out the stables, Mattio. About the only thing the Sinistrae are good for. And it will let him know you have been tipped he's here to spy on things here."
"Perfidio. Bill, get the kaf." He rose. "Sneaking in one that way under my nose is irksome." He glanced at the Triari as he strode around his desk, holding the revised duty roster. One already amended with my own extra duties, I was sure. "Thought he looked like one of Strabo's serpents."
"Glad to out the prick to you formally, then." The Triari saluted uncle with the cup of the brew I handed him. "Invite the ungracious fool in. I'd love to see his face once he knows he's been outed."
The half-grin uncle tossed us left me nervous. Unlce's hatred of the Centuria Sinstra made my own look like mild distaste. "Sticcius, get in here." His roar shocked me, but the Triati chuckled at it.
"Sir?" Decimiviilli Daetlius Sticchius asked, entering smugly. "Need this vagrant or that joke of a aide of your's removed?"
"Strabo may have foisted you upon me, Centurio, but I feel no need to keep a spy in my office." Uncle barked. "Lose that crutch, and post this list of extra duties on the board outside. Then, if you feel the need to do something useful, there's a whole stable that needs the shit shoveled out of it over on the west wall."
I admit to taking pleasure at Sticcius' sudden surprise and unease. He tried to throw around his own rank, a foolish thing in my uncle's office. "My orders say I stay in this office. And Sir Strabo outranks you, foolish little Dux."
"The only fool here is one who thinks he slithered in like a snake to eat the eggs in the henhouse." The Triari said, taking another sip of his kaf.
"You were dismissed, old man." Sticcius sneered. "Shame you could not have been judged guilty of the treasons you've committed. I'd have cut off your head myself."
That triggered a snort from me. I'd seen this brute on the practice field. His sword work focused on sheer strength of the blows delivered, lacking the skill to hit a mark. "Doubt you'd find the neck at all, Sticcius. I've seen you practice. Best you could hit would be a back or head blow."
The implication of back-stabbing went right over his head. "Silence, little Custos. We'll deal with you soon." He snarled, more insulted I even spoke to him than at being called an assasin backhandedly.
Uncle Mattio spoke before I could stick my foot deeper in my mouth. "Well, Strabo only commands the Legions, not the Custorii, and definitely not my Catervae. So, either clean the stables, after you post this, or leave the Campii." That voice I knew all too well. Uncle rarely expressed anger vocally, normally he just used dark looks or glances. "Now, do as ordered, or leave."
Looking at the duty roster, he grinned. "Well, at least one of ours will oversee the little prima donna in the extra duties." Then his face fell. "Why is he being rewarded with command of the East Gate for two hebdomae?"
"I trust Custos Varus. You, the other choice for such duty, have yet to earn such. And never will, given your lies about your status." Uncle said flatly. "Now, post the roster, and leave. Preferrably the Campii, but at least vacate this office unless I send for you again."
The Triari tossed a nasty comment to Sticcius over his shoulder. "Send my regards to your commander. Tell him I hope to catch up with him soon."
That comment sent chills down my spine. The Praetor, never known for holding grudges before, implied he nursed one now. Knowing his ability to take vengeance when needed from the affair with the Flame Queen when I entered the Custorii, I feared the repercussions to come.
Sticcius got that message, apparently. He left in stormy silence that followed.
Uncle stood looking out the window, grunting with surprise after the front door slammed.
"Amazing. He actually obeyed me."
The grunt from the Triari said more than his words. "No other choice. At least the rumors about the Centurion in their midst should keep his sabotage to a minimum from here out." He gazed at me. "Not really encouraging gossip, boy. But some times commanders need help from the scuttlebutt."
I nodded, realizing this was more lesson in command than an order. Which let me relax a bit. You never give such schooling to one without a future to use it. When my uncle took his seat, I grabbed the spare chair off the wall, and settled in for the part I feared might change that.