Ricky came to consciousness from the overwhelming scent of smelling salts. The odour was competing with the cat stink still clinging in his sinuses.

He tried to sit up. Esther prevented that with a firm hand and words. “Just hold it there, brother. Everything is under control. Praise Lanaril’s blade it was cudgeons and not dirks.”
He relaxed with relief trusting that his sister’s assessment would be valid. He had never known another so honest. Closing his eyes, he dealt with the pain, square breathing until he could speak one word “Update”.

As she plied his eyelids open and shined the cold torch into his eyes, Esther sketched out what had happened.
“Returning from the Riverfront with Zepata and Jazabole, we three had caught up with Rick D. and Steev and a drunken Charalot at the horses.”
She grunted as she cinched his armour tighter onto his torso for his ribs then calmly went on.
“When Zepata and I came checking back here, Chazzz, Ear and Greggy had one on the ground.
He, actually she, is over there now. Jaz and Zep have her held there.
The other two, they got over the fence. Chazzz, Ear and Greggy are after them now.
That arm is gonna hurt for a while.”
Indeed, Ricky thought.
She finished with, “Everyone else is saddling up and headed around to the back here.”

Getting up on his elbows, Ricky looked around with a throbbing head. Jazabole sat on her haunches watching the hogtied woman. The woman was middle aged and breathing heavy but did not struggle.
Zepata had moved over to the back wall and locked gateway. She moved slowly looking all about, sniffing and pondering. As one of the better trackers in the platoon, she was hopefully getting something.
I should have done some intel on this Winston character. He thought as he watched her. Then his thoughts began to wander.
This voluptuous yet muscular woman moved with the grace of the fox that her hair matched.
The word callipygous came to mind. Her scent of estrus was prominent. Her lips on his came to mind. “Now is not the time.” his inner voice tweaked his rudder. Amber now. Zepata later.

Grummlet District, Naurlinz
12:18am
Chazzz and Earman stood still below the second story-window where a candle had just been lit. Gregones had already bound, gagged and hauled off one of the two they had followed. That one had stayed outside on watch while the other went inside. It had been easy. The scared winded boy that was maybe nine years old, surrendered without a peep.
Wether they were actually going to where Amber was, was any ones guess. If one was keeping watch it was unlikely to be their safe house.
They had decided not to interrogate the boy yet.
Gregones had taken the boy, slung over his shoulder, back to the saloon to get the others.

Shortly after Gregones left, Chazzz heard sounds. Above he could barely discern Winston’s whispering voice.
“So…” There was a pause as the candle was snuffed out.
“…you failed and then you came here.” The whisk of a drawn blade whispered.
“Thus, I have made a terrible mistake in trusting you.”
There was a faint whimper from someone else.
Winston continued. “If I can’t trust you and you know things, that makes you a liability to me. I will need to correct my mistake.”
A nasally man voice whined. “Oh, please!”
“Shhhh.”
The whining quietly continued. “No, please. I will do anything. Oh no, no, no. Please. I’m sorry. Gaaa…aaagh” It was cut short with a gurgling gasp and a soft thud.
Shuffling and padded steps, a few low whispered but not understood commands culminated in a door opening then closing. The sounds of steps, two pairs(?), faded away inside the building.
Communicating in the near dark with hand signals, Chazzz and Earman moved into ambush positions near the door where the now likely dead man had entered.
They waited listening. After a good while, Chazzz heard sounds. Straining his sight into the darkness he saw two shadowy figures emerge from another door, a gateway from the courtyard, further down the alley. The taller one led a horse. It was them, Winston and Amber.
Winston closed the gate and paused as he helped Amber mount up. Even in the dark it was obvious by her movements that she was cuffed.
“Psssst.” Chazzz got Earman’s attention and pointed it out, signalled he was going to stealth up and for Earman to get ready to cover him and or block Winston should he bolt this way.
Once mounted, Winston pulled out a hank of rope and began to tie her wrists to the pommel. All of this was slowing them down.
Clutching his new amulet, Chazz stalked forward. When he had covered about half the distance, he kicked a broken bottle. It wasn’t loud on the packed earth but it was loud enough.
Winston hastily sped his actions and was quickly on his steed with Amber. Putting heels to flanks, he drew a pistol and fired at Chazz. Its percussion and flash were brilliant in the dark and quiet back alley. The bullet grazed across Chazz’s side causing him to miss a step.
Chazz drew his amulet and charged towards Winston.
“By the light of truth!” He yelled and began to levitate as blue glowing armour pieces appeared around him.
Winston fired his pepperbox at Chazzz again. This time missing. He then whipped his horse around. Amber sat affront of Winston holding on with her thighs and being held onto by Winston’s left arm. She was wide eyed and gagged. Her eyes and Chazz’s connected briefly.
Guiding the mount with his knees, they galloped away.

Chazzz landed clad in glistening silver armour without breaking his stride. He raced at a full sprint but his speed could not match the horse. Chazz was losing him but kept his pace.
Earman was hupping his hulking frame up behind. As the quarry escaped he began to slow.

Ricky had just stood up with Esther’s help when lantern light flooded into the back courtyard of the Portico Saloon. The angry proprietor stood pointing accusingly at them. He had come with several City Guards led by the Aoelian officer and debutante, Sergeant Perfluous. Her crimped blond hair was glowing from the lantern behind. The two forward guard had their muskets at ready.
She had a grave look. She raised an eyebrow as she observed the hogtied woman on the ground.
“Sergeant.” Ricky said as he stood straight and gave a quick nod.
“Dink..er…ton. Esplain zis, pliess.” She signaled for two more guards to take position.
Zepata leaned casually against the now unlocked gateway with a hand inches from the latch.
Jezabole had stood up with her hands showing. Esther stood next to her brother scowling at the soft handed sergeant.
“I was assaulted ma’am. I had come out to the loo and this woman and two others assaulted me. I know not of their intentions other than to rob me or kill me. If it were not for my friends here, I may have been worse off or even dead.”
One of the guards, one that had been at the explosion aftermath a few days ago, spoke quietly to Sergeant Perfluous.

“Copowell, Derwin ere, saez tis woo-man, Gabaya, issa well known ne’er do well.” She stated. Several of the guards gave enthusiastic nods. Pushing up a pouty lip she stood looking at the woman. Seeing how derelict and foul the hag was led her high-brow nature to reluctantly confirm it could be no other way.
With obvious disappointment she shrugged. “Verzy weell tszen Wicky. Zou getsa off tis a nitetimes.” She directed the guards to get the woman.
“I ain’t done nothin’ these people are crazy! You gotta let me go!” The sparse toothed hag droned. Esther could tell the despicable woman could not even believe her own lies.

Zepata now stood with one arm out the cracked open gate hand signalling the other members to hold. She flashed Ricky a hand signal - In coming allies.

“Ooya! Hapenen now hee-ya.” The proprietor piped up. “Woots ‘bout me compensensations?”
Ricky could not understand why the proprietor needed compensation but tossed him a couple gold dollars anyway, a hefty sum. Not worth the fuss.

Ricky watched as the guards took one of his would-be assassins and potential leads to Amber away. Corporal Derwin gave Ricky a firm nod and wink as he passed.
Once the guards were gone, Gregones came in with haste. He had arrived as the mounts did and had left the boy with them.
“We gots to go Ricky.” The furry Gensii urged.
Jezabole handed Ricky what she had confiscated from the woman. He held a razor knife, a garrote, a pouch of coins, a pendant on a chain and a rolled cloth bundle. He knew what the bundle was, lockpicks. This was indeed an unsavoury player. He checked the razor’s edge. Yes, it would have slit his unconscious throat with ease.
“Mount up. We ride. Steev and Jinxy, you take Charalot with you back to the hacienda. Esther, Zepata, Jezabole, Gregones, Rick D. with me. Gregones, lead us there.”
They were a posse.
“No!” Charalot belched out. “I can…hic… find her.”
“You are in no shape for this Charalot. You will be going back.” Ricky commanded.
“No, I won’t” she said intractably.

This was extremely unusual behaviour for the meek maid servant.
Ricky really didn’t need this now.
She held on to Steev for balance while pushing her chest out and lifting her chin defiantly.
He walked up to her and quietly spoke. “Charalot, there is nothing you can do right now. We will get her. Now don’t worry.”
She leaned in close to him, stretching up she whispered in hi ear. “I haff a secret. I can sense her if she can shummon me.” She breathed warm, heavy bourbon fumed breath on his neck. “I haffa go. Jush in case.”
“No.” Ricky said firmly. “You will not.”
The maid pulled back a bit then pulled back her head scarf and exposed the side of her neck. Just behind her ear was a small tattoo of a bell. “Yesh. See this?” She put a finger on the tattoo. “It’s maaagical. Lady Aylmira jush needs ta tap her heart. Then I hear this bell. I know the direshtion frim whish it comes. Please you must let me! Look! I heard her juss a bitago! I wass tryna tell Steev. Thaa way!” She did point in the right direction.
Ricky gave in. “Right then, we all ride. Steev, she is on your horse with you.”
He shot Jinxy a harsh glare. “You will be dealt with later.”
Jinxy hung his head in quiet drunken shame.
A splash of light appeared at the alley’s end further past Winston. The cool bluish glow of a cold torch gave a sparse indication of several riders. They were accelerating into a gallop towards the bounty hunter.
Winston spun his steed around with deft horsemanship and burst towards the way he had just come, towards Chazzz.
The crusader swept out Padillac his glowing bastard sword and crouched ready to intercept. Earman moved in next to Chazz with a large knife in hand. Together they threatened the breadth of the alley. It was lined on one side by shrubs and wooden fences. A mix of two-story adobe buildings with recessed balconies and high adobe courtyard walls ran along the other side. Walls crowned with broken bottles set in mortar.

Yard dogs were beginning to bark and bay.
Soon Winston would be bearing down upon them with their team hot on his hooves.
As he did he levelled his pistol at Earman’s chest, wrenched Amber to his right using her as a shield between him and Chazzz’s intimidating blade. This while pushing the mustang to leap high between the two.
He fired. Earman staggered back into bushes. Chazz came in tight to disembowel the horse but had to hold back in fear of taking Amber’s foot off as well.
Then Winston was past.
“Bruh!” Ge gasped. He had remembered too late the blade is magic and hurts but does not cut. It can stop but not kill. Dropping the blade he turned and lunged after the horse. With his heightened strength from the armor he surprised himself as felt his hands grasp onto the back of a saddle. The rest of him was skipping and dragging free behind and to the side of the horse. His greaves and cuisse were being hammered by the back kick of hooves but did little bodily harm.
Dude…this armor is magestic…his positive vibes encouraged him.
He felt the hardy mustang dig in and barely lose momentum. If he could hang on long enough, the beast would slow.
Looking up at the rider he saw naught but the six holes of a pepperbox inches from his face.
He let go and pushed off to the side as a flash of flames burst out aside his face.
Rolling, slamming then sliding on his armor till he came to a skittering halt on the cobbles. His ear was deafened. His vision was hazy and blurred.

Esther had had stopped behind to tend to Earman. Steev lowered Charalot as he stopped for Chazz. Zepata and Ricky rode on in pursuit.
Winston fired off two shots. One hit Zepatas horse. It reared up with a blood curdling whiney. It would have thrown a lesser rider but Zepata’s powerful thighs clung like a baby possum to its mum. Still, Zepata fell behind as the horse cantered and half bucked.
Then Ricky saw the orb with the sparkling string that Winston had dropped behind him. He hard-stopped the horse as the grenade burst.
Ricky did not stay on his horse as it panicked and threw him. He smashed through a wood fence. In a dark space with splashes of moonlight. He heard growling and snarling dogs. They immediately pounced and then lunged.

Steev had managed to intercept and control Ricky’s horse while holding on to his own startled steed.
Esther, squatting in the glow of her cold torch as she attended to the bloody bare chest of Earman, stood up and looked for her next patient. Not seeing anyone down, she squatted and resumed her healing craft. She had just saved his life.
Chazz was up, surprisingly unphased, standing with Charalot. They peered at the smoked dust glowing in the moonlight, an opaque cloud obscuring where their quarry had gone. The breach by Ricky was hidden in the cloud.
Zepata had dismounted and absently held her horse’s reigns as it jittered about with blood pulsing from its shoulder. Her focus was on scanning for Ricky.
Chazz sprinted into the cloud. No sooner had he entered than he came flying back out backwards and under the hooves of Winston’s horse. Leaving Chazz down and behind, Winston barreled onward, pistol pointing forward, first past Zepata who did not have time to react.
Next, was Charalot who held her ground for a bit but buckled and leapt aside at the last moment. The pistol was tracking her head but did not fire.

Then suddenly three more horses with riders came riding out of the cloud. Rick D., Gregones, Jinxy and Jezabole, under Ricky’s order, had gone around to the other end of the alley.
Steev, with two horses presented more of an obstacle.
Winston fired at Steev and missed. As he came closer he fired again. Grazing Steev’s shoulder.
Steev was half Gensii and Gensii are incredibly acrobatic.
He leapt up using one of his horses for purchase. As he came up and over the riders, he grabbed onto Amber, dragging her from the horse. But she kept a pace as her wrists were still tied to the pommel. She grunted through her gag as the bindings dug and twisted into her wrists.
Winston was still moving through the chaos. He had managed to stay on his saddle. Then his saddle began to slide to the side.
Amber’s shackled and roped wrists with her and Steev’s weight on them had yanked the already harried saddle loose.
An accomplished rider, Winston jumped from his horse to one of the others, which were not attended. Steev was desperately clinging to Amber. The both of whom were being dragged under a running horse. Charalot was running after them screaming. By hanging on, Steev was making the situation to Amber’s wrists much worse.

Ricky scrambled up as a dog bit into his already smashed arm. He could feel its weight. He punched it in the head, dropping it with a sickening crunch and a whimper. A second smaller but not small dog clamped onto his pant leg. With a flicking kick he sent the pooch flying along with a piece of his pantleg in its teeth. The dog did not come back for him but began barking in earnest.
A lamp ignited in the house.
In a flash he was through the fence and back out into the settling dust.

Winston had just got his new horse under control when Rick D., Gregones and Jinxy surrounded him. Gregones had his own pistol pointed at the bounty hunter. He also still had the restrained boy draped over his saddle.

Esther and Jezabole caught Winston’s mustang. While Jezabole held the horses, Esther and Charalot began untangling and ungagging Amber.
Steev, feeling a hero, hustled over to join the others surrounding Winston.

Winston dropped his pistol. He raised his arms. Then he disappeared. There was an astounded pause of disbelief broken by a rustling in the bushes nearby. The four of them converged on the spot only to find nothing.

Ricky showed up directed everyone to get their shit together in short order for a hasty retreat. They let the boy go. They had Amber. The mission was complete.
He quickly reloaded Winston’s pepperbox and handed it Amber.

“Keep this handy.”

“Whaaaaatt!!??” Yelled Gregones as his head popped up out from behind the large crate that he was tacking shut.
The east facing double barn doors to the warehouse (HQ) were wide open flooding the dank warehouse with subdued afternoon daylight. It backlit the group. A dozen people mounted and leading a handful of loaded mules. A large pointed eared shepherd dog, black and tan trotted to the front.
The others in the space heard the exclamation, looked, stopped their packing and came to greet the newly arrived as they dismounted.

It was The Finders, the other half of the Eyes & Fists Squad. The other half of that squad, The Flaming Os (except Gregones) and The Puff Adders from The Octagon Squad were with them. The latter two groups had ridden out the previous day to meet the former group, as they, The Finders, were expected in Naurlinz soon.
They were actually quite close, thus the one night turn around for those that went to meet the team of scouts.
The Puff Adders, except Frigman, remained mounted and with a quick hello/good-bye they headed off with a curtness akin to duty.
Knaballah hung back briefly. She leaned over to Zepata said a few words and nodded towards a corner of the warehouse. The corner where Ricky stood.
Frigman dismounted and went straight for Jinxy. The two had been close friends since before the war.
The dog barked once as he bounded to Marley. The Nandernii cartographer in the blue suit had stopped by to accompany Ricky and the culverins to the Metamew. Marley, down on one knee and smiling, stroked the sitting but excited dog.
Ricky stood there bare chested caked in sweaty dirt. He leaned on a spade jammed into the pile of soil he had been shovelling into a large hole in the floor.
The complete roster at HQ was thus:
• The Finders (4): Jazabole, Jinxy, Tadashi, her ocelot companion Garibaldi and Zepata
• The Flaming Os (8): Gregones, Rick D., Steev and Earman plus their hired domestics Cider, Delphi, Toni and the beloved Mamma Kass.
• The Puff Adders (1): Frigman
• Cardi: Marley’s dog.
• Creek (5): Koli, Esther, Emmylou, Pan, Ricky and Chazzz.
• Amber and Charalot (2)
• Beadle (1)
• Pfidipilli Spoonslipper plus 3 teamsters.

Pfidipilli, the Governor Maritus’s Steward, had been sent with the teamsters and their wains to assist the move to Hacienda Bambata.

The Finders had their 8 horses plus 3 mules, baggage and the head of a very large crocodile as long as a man. This trophy explained Jinxy’s missing left arm. They had been travelling overland along the sparse track from Safeshore, more than six hundred miles away. They looked it.

The group meeting coalesced into old friends catching up.
Garibaldi and Pan, two old friends proceeded to rip around playing chase.
Cardi watched the two wagging and lunging then wandered around checking people out with Marley as he personally welcomed everyone.

Jazabole, Gregones, Earman and Koli all leaned against a crate with ciders in hand laughing. Yes even Koli was lsughing. Jazabole was telling some ridiculous story in her calm gentle manner. Her soft hand over mouth titters contrasting with Gregones honking guffaws.

Frigman, Rick D. and Steev watched nodding as Esther changed Jinxy’s bandages. Jinxy was retelling the story with wild gesticulations that annoyed Esther who was none to gentle at these moments. Jinxy and Esther had a teasing, feigned religiously intolerant relationship. He was a devotee of The Noble Church. She was of the cloth of The Holy Church. The truth was, Jinxy could make the churlish chaplain chuckle. She hated that.

The domestics were ensuring refreshments and vittles kept coming, as well as, providing wash basins for the travellers.

Pfidipilli watched the scene for a bit as the teamsters began erecting a gin pole out front. With a nod and tip of the hat to Ricky, he mounted his pony and trotted off.

Tadashi and Emmylou sat on Emmylou’s ‘nest’ huddled over tea with heads touching. They were looking at sketches in Tadashi’s journal.
The two were close and it showed. They had bonded during the war when stranded in the mountains during a hasty night retreat from a terrible skirmish. Emmylou with a broken leg and Tadashi half blinded from lye grenades, they fought and skulked through enemy lines and endured fireless nights of freezing rain until they found their way to their Company’s camp.
Those freezing nights were only survived by them and their critters clinging to each other for warmth…and comfort.
The ordeal had taken five days. They both had had chances for advancement if they had been willing to abandon the other. But they didn’t.
They had confided their deepest fears, greatest regrets and wildest dreams to each other. As stated, it showed.

Chazzz, Amber and Charalot unloaded the mounts and joined Jazabole and the others of that afore mentioned group.

Marley took off with Cardi saying they would return shortly. The impression was that they really just wanted some alone time. Cardi was beyond a war dog, he was a bit of a legend. They were called The Army of Two.

After washing her face and arms, Zepata walked over to Ricky. Standing close and peering into the hole she asked “Are these the ruins Knaballah spoke of, Corporal?” The last word came out with a lilt of commendation.
Ricky contemplated: Knaballah must have told her of his promotion also.
Knaballah didn’t care much for Ricky. So Zepata must have been asking about him. No, they probably just gossiped about all the goings on.
She lightly laid her fingers on his muscled shoulder as she leaned in to look deeper into the half-filled pit.
He noticed her nostrils pulsing as she took in his scent. He could smell her travel sweat, horse, leather and the fresh lye soap. He also smelled that she was in estrus. She smelled good. The warm lantern light gave her mahogany hair even more warmth. Her thick wide lips parted showing the tip of a pink tongue poking out between her strong teeth.
He blushed as he sputtered. “Ya…there is…a hole…yes.”
Trailing her fingers down his arm she brushed past him and leapt into the pit. “Interesting.” She approached the bit of ancient carved stone wall sticking out of the soil.
Bending over, as Ricky watched not watched, she studied the glyphs for a long minute.
“I really need a bath and a decent meal. Smells like there is plenty of good food heye bouts. Could you direct me, Corporal?” she had stood, turned around and was reaching up to grab Ricky’s hand for a hand up.
Their calloused hands met. Her movement paused. Their eyes met. Ricky dry swallowed. Her nostrils flared, pupils dilated.
Surprising him, she planted her feet and pulled HIM down. Catching him in her arms, she fervently mashed her lips into his.
Ricky, surprised himself as he gave in to the moment. Then he gently pulled back with consideration. With a deep breath, hands tight to his sides and a flushed face, his halting words gathered, “Zep…Ur…Private Zepata, it is so nice to see you again…I didn’t…uh…” and faltered again.
Ricky felt fault crashing into the exultation in his heart. Intimacy was allowed amongst the troops. At least, as far as he knew, there were no prohibitions. Such occurrences were expected to be respectful, consensual and not be a liability to The Company or a mission. Having witnessed dozens of such connections ranging from brief trysts to marriage, he could understand that trepidation was important.
“We must keep things professional. I must stay focused on the mission.” Ricky softly said as he stepped back tight against the pit’s soil wall.
Moving with him, looking into his eyes and still holding his shoulders, she smiled wistfully at him. “Ricky, our directive was to not behave like trained soldiers. This gives us freedom to… to try being ourselves, like regular people. How better to bolster our guise than to play as… lovers, maybe go for a nice dinner?” She backed up looking him down then up. “Ricky, am I wrong that you might enjoy that? Perhaps the rumours of you and Gregones are true?” she raised an eyebrow giving a mischievously imploring look.
Ricky stood a bit dumb-founded then blurted. “What? No…wait. What? No. I mean.”
“I never believed it, Ricky.” She chuckled. “Hey, I apologize for making you uncomfortable. This long, mostly uneventful horse ride gave me much time to think.” Her smile faded to a straight face. “Ricky, I like you…a lot. Not because you nursed me from the doorstep of death. Not because we laughed and screamed and fought and saw our comrades die together. Because through it all you were as steady as a rock.
You have respect and honour no matter how hard the decision. I remember when you let that enemy officer go because you knew that he was the only one that could get the refugees to safety. Then you ratted yourself out when no one but me, Emmylou and probably Koli knew and we agreed. We were complicit. You ratted yourself and exonerated us. Took the punishment without protest, self-pity or complaint.” Looking down she kicked at a dirt clod “I am willing to put my ‘career’ on the line to have a chance with you.” Still looking down she took a slow deep breath and let her gentle smile return. “Having a dinner date would not even come close to jeopardizing that.”

In the old hacienda that Governor Maritus had generously leased to the platoon, Tadashi slept curled in a spooning constellation around Emmylou, like a mother with a child.
Tadashi was a petite Xapii woman but compared to the petite Flirnii woman, she was big.
The women’s bedrolls were combined on the packed earthen floor of the adobe walled room just below an open window. Their load out was piled at their heads, feet and door facing side. Muskets and such ready for action lest that fiendish gargoyle returned. Although its focus, Chazzz, had gone in with Ricky to check on tardy squad members, who knew.

Garibaldi (Gari), the ocelot, and Pantalaimon (Pan), the pine marten, stalked in slowly at intervals adding to their pile of night kills adjacent the sleeping companions. The long-abandoned complex would provide game for long to come. This was exciting to the two consummate carnivores.

A shaft of moonlight coming through the window slowly crawled across the floor towards the sleepers as the night progressed. As high moon came close the light fell upon the sleepers.
Emmylou languidly tossed and moaned until she had squirmed onto her back out of Tadashi’s embrace and into this moonlight.
Her eyes were moving rapidly under their lids.

The Secret Garden
Untime
The young witch sat next to a round pool perhaps thirty feet wide. It was ringed with rune riddled alabaster cliaked in splats of lichen. Closing in around the pool was a thick and unkempt leafless hedge bespangled with blossoming datura stuffing the air with its aroma, at first something akin to honeysuckle with an earthy almond undertone. Heady.
No paths approached. No traces of there ever being a path. It felt concealed, secret.
The sky was devoid of any moon yet the pool was reflecting the moon. It nearly filled the whole surface of the water. The magnified details of the moon’s textured surface were clearer than usual.

The universally apparent “Woman in the Moon” face was blatant instead of requiring a bit of imagination as it normally did.
She could almost make out two calico koi leisurely swimming below the surface. Each was spiralling in then out, one going clockwise, the other going counter clockwise.
Hundreds of tiny black specks moved in random paths across her face.
Emmylou first thought were water striders. Then she realized they were part of the reflection. Due their miniscule size the detail was near impossible to make out but they almost looked like ships sailing about or above the moon’s surface. Some left faint dark streaks or tracks behind them.
The largest concentration was around her right eye.

Emmylou watched fascinated.
Pan stood upright across the pool with his arms reaching up to the dark and starry sky. He was pure white. His eyes glowed bright white light. The strong empathy they shared told her it was something akin to rapture he was experiencing.

The fascination exploded in her head when The Woman in the Moon’s face twisted from serene to tormented. It, she, was looking at Emmylou with pleading eyes. Eyes that that darted side to side as if conspiring. She slowly began to move her lips. She was speaking but had no voice.

Emmylou noticed the moon repeating each phrase three times and pausing between each set.
Time felt it had stopped or expanded. She could subtly feel the rotations and revolutions of the cosmos, oddly soothing but unsettling.

Emmylou attempted to read her lips, managing to make sense of most phrases.
“I need your help…
When…(unknown)…from the triangle…
…(unknown)…my powdery (?) gift…
…(unknown)…ships…
My captor shall come…
Please… it is for the good of all the…
I implore that…(unknown)… promise you will help…
I have known you for so long…
…(unknown)…is brought to you this way…
Help me before they mine…(unknown)… the magic.”

The Woman in the Moon’s face scrunched in sadness.
She spoke between sobs. “This is for my suffering children…”
A tear fell upwards from her face. It was like a pearl.
“…may it calm their rage…”
Emmylou watched it fall up towards the jewelled blanket of stars.
Pan floated more than leapt up after the pearl. Grasping it, he clutched it to his chest.
He then exploded in a blinding burst.

Emmylou awoke with a start. She was crying. Pan looked down at her with his little head tilted and a squirming bloody white* mouse in his mouth.
Not so far off, she heard the long lonely howls of a wolf.
Sadness, fear of the unknown, urgency and confusion began to submerge her.
Tadashi reached over without waking up and pulled Emmylou close. The love dampened her anxiety and she began to drift.
“No.” she said quietly with conviction.
Forcing herself out of the comfortable cocoon, she dug out her notebook and recorded her dream. In so doing, the worries came back but now she was facing them even though she didn’t understand them.
Yet, she knew this was the only path now.

*white mice rarely appear in the wild, <2%.

The Flaming Os (less Gregones), Jinxy, Frigman, Amber and Charalot sat at the rear of the saloon. Amber and Charalot were almost unrecognizable. They had swapped clothes with some of the domestics. Mama Kass had used herbs to dye Amber’s hair a rich nut brown. Charalot was wearing a colourful headscarf in the local Treole style with garish makeup that was becoming smudged.

All of them were crowded into a dim lit booth cluttered with heaps of oyster shells, a platter of fried okra and hush puppies, a third full bottle of bourbon and tankards of ale at various levels of consumption.
They were yelling and laughing at a volume that attempted to overcome the jaunty music.
The gaggle of musicians exuberantly playing cigar box fiddles doing double stops, a washboard, mandolins and a gut bucket bass merged with the dancers. It was all held together, somewhat, by a concertina leading the wailing lyrics and the staccato of spoons played by half the, mostly drunken, audience.
The verses were something about a wooden Sovani but the accent and inebriation obfuscated further comprehension.

7:19pm
It had started a few hours earlier. The group had been the last to leave the warehouse on Stockmans’ Way for Hacienda Bambata south of town. As they plodded on their mounts through the Fawnday throngs on Haver Street. Jinxy, riding in front, turned his horse into the muddy courtyard of the Portico Saloon when Frigman pointed it out.
Although he had been directly ordered by Ricky to not dilly or dally, Jinxy, the ranking officer of the group, dismounted. Jinxy had a reputation as a hooch hound and had been dry for his whole trip. He grinned and whispered, “Come on. Just one beer and we head to the hacienda.”
“Is that an order?” Frigman asked.
“Of course, it’s an order.” Jinxy scowled sarcastically.
Earman, Steev and Rick D. looked back and forth at each other pleasantly defeated with palms raised. Amber and Charalot looked dubiously at the saloon and their guards.
Jinxy looked at the two women, “What? Just one beer.”

The saloon was empty, quiet and cool when they entered a relief from the stifling mugginess. The first round of beer served with spicy wings was refreshing. As was the second… and the third.
11:57pm
But now they had lost count of beers. It was getting late.
Charalot, having never really drank before, had passed out. Jinxy had hopped out on the floor and was gamboling with the crowd. Earman and Rick D. picked at the fried okra as Steev sat half out of it with a big stupid smile.

11:57pm
A pair of thick muscled hands slammed down next to the platter. The three Flaming Os looked up. Worry suddenly replaced their drunken countenances. Steev gave a last slow chomp on his hush puppy.
Ricky was standing there looking quite cross.
Shifting his gaze to the unconscious Charalot but speaking to the men in a low calm voice full of potential malice. “Where… Is… Amber?” The edge of the table cracked a bit as he squeezed.

Rick D. was the first to compose himself. He half stood looking around. “She wus juss here! Sir!”
Gregones, who had come up behind Ricky, looked to the heavens and let out a long whistle. Chazzz stood a bit further off in a wide stance with arms crossed looking at the revelry without comprehension.
Jinxy came swinging by, all smiles, and waved with his one arm. As his pass continued his smile turned to an open mouth and eyes as he noticed the scene at the table.
“She mussa gone to the loo…Sir.” Steev added, failing to bluff casualness.
“Sir, mebbe sheez off with Frigman.” Rick D. Added.
Frigman was also nowhere to be seen.
Earman sat staring down and twiddling his thumbs with pursed lips and hunched shoulders.

Ricky closed his eyes briefly, sucking air into his flared nostrils with a clenched jaw.
“Chazzz, Gregones, you do a rapid search of the building perimeter. I’ll check the jakes. Stay together. Report back here.” The two took off pushing through the crowd.
Quickly reaching behind him, Ricky grabbed a simping Jinxy by the scruff and pulled him close. “You stay here with Earman. Stay. Duffer and Steev…” his voice lowered, “Stop it with the Sir shit.” Voice raising again, “Take missy here. Get her solid on a horse, get ALL your horses ready. Stay there. Understand?”
All four nodded.

As Steev began hauling the limp waif, Ricky began sniffing the gyrating drafts about the room. He instinctively headed towards the back courtyard, the loos.
The air was dense with the scent of a hundred sweating bodies, of the mixed clades of the great unwashed, the cheap perfumes and colognes, rum, tobacco, bourbon, ale, the spicy foods, sawdusted floor, the manure filled front courtyard and some Gensii’s burning cannabis.

Then there it was, just a trace, Amber’s clean and peppery aroma. He followed it and realized his intuition was right. It came on stronger as he came into the cobbled back court.
Half a dozen men stood pissing against the adobe back wall. A few candles burned in jars on rounds of cypress wood. To the left were three small alcoves with canvas curtains for the women. Candle light lit the shadow of an occupant standing and adjusting her skirts in the left alcove. The figure and height matched Amber’s.
Ricky felt himself relax a bit. He followed his sniffer a bit closer. Her scent was there skulking under the earthy smells of the baños.
He stopped about ten feet off to wait for her. Turning his back to the baños out of decency he clasped his hands behind his back and enjoyed the new breeze that was picking up. The full moon was glorious. It framed the silhouette of a sprawling live oak.
Peaceful.
He heard a wolf ripping out lonely howls far in the distance. This was a most unusual sound in these parts. Probably why people think there is a werewolf around, his thoughts rambled, likely just wandered in from afar or someone captured one up north and it got loose here. probably misses its pack.
The tavern odours had faded. Magnolia, rosemary and jasmine scents came from the clumps of foliage. Clever, Ricky mused, around the shitters. There was the obligatory smell of cats.

Women sure can take a long time… He saw the candlelight brighten and start swaying from over his shoulders as he heard Amber coming out. He turned. “Amber…” he stopped speaking. He was going to say “Amber you had us worried.” But it was not Amber. Not even close. The lady looked him askance and gave him a wide birth as she scuttled into the saloon after setting the candle on the stump.

He went on high alert.
He zipped to the baños with nostrils stretched wide.
The strong smell of cat piss hit him as he came to the middle alcove where Amber’s scent trail led. A stench hit him. It was overpowering, nose blinding.
He reached in his belt pouch searching for a cold torch with his left hand as he opened the stall’s curtain with his right. Pulling the cold torch out, he cracked it on and placed in his mouth like a cigar.
As the light began to glow it showed nothing remarkable. Then he saw the dark streaks of a yellowy clear oily substance on the curtain and walls.
He was having a hard time focusing due to the intense smell. Realizing it was the substance giving off the stench, that he had gotten it on his hands and shoulder as he had leaned into the stall looking for clues, he began trying to wipe off the stink oil on an untainted section of the curtain.
Something hard cracked against the back of his head. Before he could react a second blow struck him across the lower back. They were well placed blows and niw his head was swimming. His kidneys sent wracking shudders through his innards.
He turned tearing the curtain in his grasp along with him. He staggered. Another blow came across his ribs followed by another coming down on his forearm as it moved to guard his head.
He tried to toss the canvas at the clubs from the shadows.
Another barrage of bludgeoning came down on him.
Barely putting his arms out, he fell hard as consciousness left him.

She was still in front of the Altar of Lanaril, a place of safety and peace. The terrified scream, now quiet, had clashed with the location. She pushed away her blissful mental fog.

Had she dozed off? It had been a couple of wild days. 
She saw the scrawny Xapii acolyte backing away. With this, her senses instantly tempered back into the space of no known threats. Her guard was not down.

“Oh, you startled me Chaplain.” The pimple ridden pubescent acolyte said in quiet relief. “I…” he paused looking perplexed, “I didn’t notice you there. May you be peace.” Taking a deep breath and holding it, he continued sweeping the small, tucked away, transept chapel dedicated to the Lady of Valour they were in.
“Pardons acolyte, I was deep in prayer. The Lady must have taken me so far.” Esther explained. 

These waifs of the temple were endlessly intimidated by her. Itinerant, militant and Nandernii; a chaplain of a mercenary company with an unknown agenda or allegiance in the morass of church politics.
He let out a deep breath “Praise and blessing sister. It was almost as if, as if you were… invisible, immaterial even.” He paused staring as the real possibility washed over him. “I did indeed sweep where you now kneel.”
They held each other’s eyes for a long moment. Esther released her hilt and rose with a stern penetrating gaze that held then humbled the boy.
“Think nothing of it. Dendritii is it?” Esther calmly whispered with a smile, patting his shoulder.

“Yes Chaplain, I am Dentritii. Like the river.” He said as he unconsciously shrank away.

“Blessed be those who walk in the truth.” She replied.

He gulped.
Esther’s gut groaned with hunger. The both looked at her belly and chuckled.

The long slanting sunbeams indicated it was late morning. She must have dozed off. Indeed, the floor was swept of the dust she knew she had brought in. She had noticed and had felt a tinge of shame. Now, where she had kneeled and prayed, was as spotless as the rest of the floor. 
She heard someone singing the hymn Glory Is, the hymn of Midday. 
“What day is it Dendritii?” she asked. 
“Midday Chaplain.” He said a bit perplexed obviously wondering how could she not know this. “Just before lunch.” He added as if in case she was that daft.

Curtly saying “Good day then Dendritii” she hustled towards the nave.

So, she had been there for 27 hours… Her spine tingled and goose bumps rose as the disturbing revelations of the previous morning came to her. 
She realized something divine had also just happened. 
Twenty-seven hours in prayer, twenty-seven, the sacred number of Lanaril. 27 hours kneeling in her brigandine armour and presently feeling fully rested.
She quickly patted her chest rig with the conflict of sin and righteousness tearing at her feeling for the stolen book. It was still there. The scents of the Bishop, his whore and that strange powder came from it as she patted her chest. Still, she looked into the pocket. There is was a small red leather book that held such threat. She had to believe it with all her senses.
Books and writing were still a mystery to her. She vowed to learn reading and writing. Two things that seemed impossible to her.

She had memorized scores of verses and many scripture from listening to her mentor Chaplain Barthoom, may he rest in peace, long ago… during the terrifying nights of that cursed war. 
One holy verse then came to mind. 
Edict twenty-seven (Routing Out the Wicked); verse 27 from Edicts of the Warrior Maiden:

Their desires and their implements of ungodliness are precious to them beyond all else. 
With the right bait, patience will reveal the hidden actors and their hierarchies. 
The hunter with the right bait moves hidden in silence ready for the prey to come searching. 
Cowardly are the wicked, they will send minions first. 
Stay hidden and follow them. 
If discovered take them. 
Beware their clever ruse and appeals to mercy.
Convert them, make them confess and keep them ever guarded.
If this is not possible, then, without guilt, extract what is useful and Break them.
Beware their children, with them have no mercy.

With a sudden sense of needing to be away from the Cathedral, she skulked out a side door alert with paranoia. Once away from the Cathedral she went, like a homing pigeon, towards Stockman’s Row. When still a block away from HQ, she stopped and blinked a few times. 
Leaving HQ was a person that didn’t fit her reality. The face, the gait and the figure were of her half-brother Ricky. The outfit was not. 
It was a more ridiculous version of one of the already ridiculous outfits the local dandies wore.

The ensemble: A flaring crimson waist coat embroidered with pink flamingos, tight leggings one leg blue and green argyle with the other leg in black and white stripes, high heeled white boots, ruffled white shirt, white gloves, an orange and brown paisley ascot and, most absurdly a small white bowler cap with a gaudy explosion of feathers perched askew atop a voluminous wig of ebony ringlets clashing hard with his blond beard. 
Over his shoulder he twirled a pink lacy parasol ringed with sky blue dingle berries. 

Paralyzed with befuddlement, she watched him move away and disappear around a corner.
She jotted briefly in his direction almost calling his name before feeling the weight of everything on her shoulders. This was too much. To find out more would crack her egg. 
Ricky wouldn’t do that without a good reason.
She knew she could always trust him. They were on a covert mission after all.
Now she needed to rebuild; prayer, food, prayer, bath, prayer, sleep, prayer. She had a feeling that there would soon be plenty of tests to embrace. 
She knew her duty to report. She questioned if this was even where she should be now. Perhaps she should be in hiding… or starting an inquisition.

As she approached HQ, the smell of corn bread, hibiscus, cumin and simmering tomatoes came from within. Her stomach made the decision for her. “Go with your gut. It is the Nandernii way.”

11:11pm, 16th of Seedsprout, 1221 CE

What was at first alarming became an uncomfortable pleasure.

Blood coursing into her face. Her nostrils and sinuses were become swollen with it. Her lungs filled with it. Her whole body became bloated with it.

Smooth, metallic and coagulating seduction.

With her eyelids swollen shut she felt the hot heavy wetness crashing against her. What seemed to be heavy waves were beating against her numb body and rolling her numbed flesh on sharp stones.

Blindly she crawled and rolled in the surf with hanging lanks of flesh bleeding and streaking the swirling skim of water red.

She felt no pain.

The clouds cleared and the wind calmed as she came first into sandy dunes. Sand caked her wounds.

Warm sun as she landed on the moss and lichen of the barrens above the beach.

Soil……

The carpet of this micro forest crept over her and clustered about the most grievous wounds.

It, for indeed it seemed an entity of its own, seeped a thin honey like liquid from their roots. It cleansed and sealed the injuries, the sap drying into a flexible amber plaster.

Then it started to quiver in a sort of excitement. Pins of energy entered her pores and laced through her from the root matt on her and down into the soil.

The freakish situation happened faster than her response. It was too much too quick enough to react to. She was emotionally held with grotesque wonder. She was held physically with thin roots.

She began to quiver in rhythm with the fungal blanket.

Her skin blossomed in a sheen of what she first thought was sweat. It was actually blood. Intuitively she knew it was not hers but that which had coursed through her intermingled with hers.

The carpet and the soil below suckled it from her like a thirsty towel.

Her senses were pushed aside by a force overtaking her mind.

Silent darkness without temperature or scent.

It could have been days or a few seconds. She remembered nothing more of that moment or that time as it may be, have been.

She lay at one with the verdant carpet as she gazed up at a morning sky. Vultures circumaviated high above.

These ideal conditions would wane as their world warmed. After mid-morning they would keep to more northerly slopes, where the world warmed slower, or where the drifts had sintered. By these choices they could go for hours longer.

Occasionally, the treks ended by late morning when the snow would become wet and heavy. When what could be walked upon would devolve into waist deep clumps that clung, or, worse, a saturating slush by the early afternoon.

The additional threat of avalanches kept them on guard. Even a small slide could be a threat in certain terrain like narrow gullies or steep traverses above chasms.

Being stuck below heavy and stiffening snow in a small ravine or at the base of a great mount had the same end result. Death.

Large jumbled plates of ice along the small mountain rivers would gradually shatter in long thin shards of candle ice. The soothing tinkles and susurrations like hymns in celebration of the bright sun.

During these times is when Asrid began to feel a lightness that came ftom the sunlight itself. As if it was gently tugging her upwards. This began to happen to a lesser extent in the moonlight as well. A literal weightlessness. With her light step she would skip across the mushy terrain only sinking to her ankles, at most. Or she would flitter up and down steep clines live a downy feather.

She contemplated leaping from cliffs with the falcons as they traversed soaring ridges.

The resulting humidity of the thawing world became a mild concern at dusk when the cold came quick.

Wet footwear and clothing was wrung out and tucked into armpits and groins to dry in the night as they all, except !Nka, cuddled against the copious warmth of Asrid.

They all noticed the changes to her, the light steps, the gradual steady increase in warmth, the sparks in her eyes.

Her heat was like a worrisome fever. No sweat or delirium. She was comfortable, never hot never cold. Only wearing clothes for effect and modesty.

The godlings were all beginning to change.

Surma’s strength and stamina was undiminished even after the most grueling days. Indeed, he seemed to thrive on it. His appetite grew proportionally.

Baebae and Kren were mostly in their own world as the surly and gluttonous wolverine was unwelcome. But they moved and acted as one. Baebae dropped ptarmigans and snowshoe hares with her sling while the angeline fed the carrion of winter’s victims encased in snow and ice or of the offal from Baebae’s hunts. Kren had become double the size of a normal wolverine, nearly the size of !Nka and likely many multiples his strength. Surma was quite intolerant of the beast. No one wanted to see the two clash.

When they dropped below tree line, Holver kept a near ongoing conversation of sorts with grosbeaks, magpies, and chickadees. He would relay warnings of weather, of game and predators alike. This lessened the potential for their greatest fear, encountering cave bears irritable and ravenous after a winter’s torpor or smilodons and their crafty ambushes.

This time of year brought great transitions as warm sunny spells alternated with sharp rebounds of winter heralded by squalls of snow and rapid dips in temperature. Despite the sky’s commination, the spring weather and longer days united with the gang’s confidence, youth and freedom. This sprouted into a giddy halcyon.

Laughter and singing rang through clear still air.

Broad smiles and looks of wonder were the norm.

About five days along in the journey the southerly exposed stone reliefs were clearing of snow.

When not too steep, they afforded some dry rapid movement.

Rills and tiny linns went spattering across the talus of frost fractured granite, sharp and glittering with feldspar. Even clear crystals were found. There were scores of them. They each decided to take but one of the five sided gems. This one kept changing as bigger or better were found.

It was upon one of these slopes that Gion brought them along a high route at the base of a soaring cliff and above a steep slope of spring snow pack. Dark shale sloughed into the deep crevasse. An icy blue darkness dwelt there at the top of the snow pack. It had hugged the crumbling mountainside all winter and had now pulled away an arm’s length from the sun warmed rock face. Drifts of the talus were slowly spilling down into this cleft that descended and curved beyond sight. The clatter of dislodged stones indicated a jostling decline bordered by jagged stone on one side and smooth hard ice the on the other.

Asrid simply walked ahead along the crest of the icy mass slipping a tad on occasion but feather stepping back on with ease.

Holver had strung everyone together with their rawhide tethers. And they moved along like an inch worm with Gion in the lead backed by Surma. The remainder followed in this order: Sikisi (who was, with greater frequency, positioning herself alongside Surma), Thoun, Klekly, Holver, !Nka, lastly Baebae followed by an untethered Kren.

When Kren fell into the crevasse with terrifying growls, the lot of them stood with mouths agape.

Just like that, Kren was gone.

Baebae’s scream of anguish and the defiance of reality itself echoed down into the chthonic cleft bathed in it’s darkening blue light.

Baebae looked as if she was about to leap after Kren.

!Nka had a small obsidian blade out quick into his right hand, ready to slice the cord. The left clung tightly to a rocky hold.

Instead she slowly began to climb down, trembling like an aspen leaf. A fear any wise person would have entering such a precarious place. Her thick strong fingers gingerly testing each hold on the rotten rock.

“It is not wise, sister.” Surma said in a deep calm voice.

She stopped. !Nka let out a held breath.

Asrid sent her owl up in the air as she, herself, looked down the sloping snow field below her.

She began laughing. All but Baebae, down in the hole, looked at Asrid as if she was mad and cruel. Then Holver began to laugh and point.

Soon everyone hooted and laughed as Kren had burst through the hard pack in a spray of snow. She began scampering up the slope. Despite its steepness causing frequent backslides, she hustled towards them in a shower of encouragement and rejoice.

Despite best attempts to avoid them, they had moments of nearly swimming in deeper snow. This was when the physical difference in strength and height between the six orphans who were all at age eleven. The three non-orphans were fifteen plus.

When it was sunny, the reflected sunlight was intense enough to painfully blind.

They all realized, they had come to a level where they could move about this vast untamed world despite and with its challenges. They had become more or less independent… adults.

As per usual at this naive stage of development they had become quite confident.

They boasted of the successes they would have. Surma and Gion were especially boastful. The exception was !Nka who remained subdued.

The nine young initiates took this time of slush and blinding light during mid-day to mend gear, knap points and maybe (if there was anything to burn and since it was a world of wet snow, the worst time of year to be On the Land in most peoples’ opinion) they would have a drying fire. It was a time to eat leftover meat and Nun-ja; the goose fat cakes crumbly with dried lingon berries, powdered lichen and guides’ herbs. The food they needed for keeping warm and maintaining stamina in these cold trackless foothills. 

For two of the days they travelled in a broad low valley full of willow behind a large herd of muskoxen shedding their qiviut. They gathered the valued wool that the just returning migrants, various nesting birds, had spared.

Holver worked on taking the fluffs and working the drop spindle, building a collection of skeins. At camp he wove some budding willow fronds into vase like fish traps using cordage made from the bark. It was placed and replaced throughout the evening providing grayling to their sup.

The route of plenty ended abruptly as the muskoxen huddled around the young atop a knoll. This was the sign they felt threatened and the initiates knew significant predators were about.

Gion routed them along a precariously corniced ridge that ran up onto a half mesa then away and above the valley. Sure enough, they saw a pride of smilodons, four adults and three adolescents, with nappy manes on thick necks, powerful shoulders and forearms. Stout leapers built to grab large prey, sink its saber like teeth in, lock on and rake with its rear claws, preferably on the under belly. They were maybe three times the weight of a person but were built for taking the blows and slams from tackling steppe bison, woolly rhinos and mammoths. Prey like muskoxen, wild horses and caribou used group tactics against the smilodons’ equally crafty group tactics.

Below, on crouching bellies, the seven circled the two dozen or so muskoxen adults circled around another nine young.

It was felt like the gang and how their spirit ancestors guarded them.

Luckily, like most of the top predators, attacks on people were rare. Often it was an old or injured beast that would make such assaults.

At evening the shadows lengthened and the temperature dropped. The snow would stiffen again, affording a few hours of travel. Their trek would resume with an eye out for a grouse and a good campsite. 

They had travelled thus for several long days. with only one nearly lethal mishap. 

By the end of the fourth day of trudging through snowy buck brush with its surprise wells dipping into a tangle under heavy snow, they were exhausted. 

The last steep bit had taken longer than expected. Without much debate they stopped after finding the first relatively flat spot on the hillside.  A transition at the base of a greater mountain with a boulder strewn depression.

They put about with the usual duties; setting up their hides for shelter using their spears as poles.

Holver found a significant pile of relatively dry mammoth dung under the snow. Asrid dried it further with her supernatural warmth. They would have a fire tonight. Cooking would be much easier than with their stone oil lamps plus their gear could be dried. No more forcing on frozen anoraks and sleeping with their icy high boots to dry by their body heat.

Taking first watch, Surma went upslope to sit on a boulder in the mountain shadow turning ubiquitous as the sun set. Crackling and thumps cackled in the still air as the snow refroze and settled.

He pulled out his bundle of dried mushrooms that had been carefully prepared by Sthethna the wise woman. Surma had received them from Deadroot, the old berserker who had begun to show him the martial and spiritual ways of a Jev.

Deadroot had not been seen for months and thus the lessons young Surma craved had not begun.

The smokey sun mushrooms were used. Harvested just after their veils had separated the white dots were carefully lifted off. The tool cleaned after each dot. Then they were slowly dried on a hearth. Next, they were rehydrated in mother’s milk, then dried again.

As the thick saliva began to mix with dried fungus an elixir filled his mouth and he felt a yawn that was ever manifesting.

The stars arching overhead stuttered with streaks of shooting stars. The adults said these were gradually increasing each year. That when they were young such tears in the sky were rare and thought of as omens.

Whatever they are they are beautiful, he thought. Looking over it all in the starlight he was filled with a sense of communion with the land. The love for his comrades gathered about a low orange glow below warmed him as much as the fire warmed them.

The rising, just past full, moon charged the landscape with a grey glow. The smouldering dung smoke rose unprotested a spectral ribbon climbing into the sky.

Calm.

Hours passed. Below the orange glow faded as the party retired.

The Jev believed that the mushrooms bonded them with the Ouatch a mysterious and elusive animal people said to be tall bipeds covered with dense shaggy hair. Considered shy and usually non-violent, sightings were typically rare and brief. The giant beast men could mysteriously elude contact with even the most skilled hunters. The few stories of conflict told of savagery and strength. It was believed that people and Ouatch were once the same beings but when the gods shared the secrets of fire and blade with them, the Ouatch did not accept. Thus, they kept the deep magics that mankind gave in exchange for convenience and comfort.

More common were stories about rescue of solo travellers in blizzards, avalanches, swift water and even saving the unfortunate from predators. This is why a hunter would leave a beast’s pancreas behind as an offering to the long lost cousins.

They shared human’s revulsion of metal, buried their dead and sang complex melodies in their shrill nasally voices.

They would pull off aggressors’ limbs and even heads. Rumour was that the fur would stop and entangle blades or points in its felted mats.

To kill one not in self-defence was taboo. To eat them was on par with cannibalism.

It was believed that long ago they were allies and friends of humans but that bond was shattered during The Great Sorrow.

It was believed that a Jev could channel the Ouatch spirit and that a great Jev could be sensed by the Ouatch as if he was one of their own. They may even befriend and aid a great Jev. 

Surma desired such a relationship more than almost anything. 

The mushrooms were said to put a Jev in the same spiritual world as the Ouatch. 

He pondered such as crinkling sounds and retorts that should have alarmed him. Instead, under the mushroom’s effects, the sounds were like the bursts of insight and revelation that elusively ebbed and flowed in him now.

His thoughts soared pleasantly, albeit ambiguously, along with the stones whizzing past. Deep rumbling from higher up the mountain vibrated along with his spirit. 

Sometimes not distinguishing the thin border between visceral and spiritual realities is deadly. 

This was the case now. 

In a snap he became imminently aware that an avalanche was rapidly growing and headed for the swale cradling their camp. 

Action, immediate and without caution, subsumed the neophytic Jev. 

With flying strides and controlled slides down the hard packed snow he into the camp with a spray of sparkling snow. 

The behemoth wall of sound accompanied him.

Panic broke out as the initiates awoke and attempted to flee the oncoming annihilation.

‘How could we have been so careless’ they each thought as they went from sleep to terror.

The land and its dangers did not suffer fools. 

Sikisi immediately rolled her ankle with a sickening click. 

It was a hundred strides to safety. 

Little Gion's not quite tame bison bolted away and ahead bellowing in desperation. Gion vaulted onto the beast as it passed. He tumbled across and off it. Immediately on his feet he raced behind his steed taking full advantage of the furrow it left in the snow. 

Nimble Holver was close behind then ahead of Gion. Using boulders as leaping platforms as they presented themselves. 

Snarky Thoun was moving well enough behind the others. His typically proud scowl erased in an emotionless focus on survival. 

As the camp deflated by the exodus. Two remaining adolescents, Baebae and Asrid were still confounded by the situation. 

Sikisi had pulled herself up and was floundering in a hobbled fashion towards safety at a pace that would never find it. She collapsed in the snow with a whimper of pain and hopelessness. 

Suddenly she was lifted. Her breath was squeezed from her labouring lungs as she was hefted onto and packed over Surma's shoulder. 

The jostling movement continued as her rescuer ran on. She could not breath for it all. Despite the desperation, excruciating pain and alarm she found herself cherishing being held tight by the heavily muscled man/boy, her secret desire. 

Quickly realizing she could not outrun this, Asrid conjured aid from the flame in her heart. Unconsciously she had imagined a fleet beast. With a loud grunt, a caribou manifested adjacent. She imitated Gion and clumsily mounted the bolting beast.

Baebae, nearby, joined her without pause, clutching to Asrid and the caribou’s antlers.

Neither had control nor a secure position.

Summoned creatures are under the summoners control but did not confer skills to the summoner. Asrid had never ridden before. The moments it took her to sort out what to do were precious and induced anxiety. The beast cavorted about. Despite effort, the girls had not moved from danger. 

The bison, Gion and Holver had reached the rise that may be a safe zone. Then a blast of powdered ice crystals reduced visibility completely. 

Finally, with caribou riding sorted, the riders charged into the deep gray haze hoping to get out. 

When the wind increased, the visibility improved slightly garnishing more hope as they neared the safer side. 

Suddenly the caribou was on its left side and thrashing as a surge of heavy snow engulfed it. The riders were ripped away and carried on and in the tumultuous mass. 

The unburied recovered Baebae and Asrid. They were battered and shaken but intact and breathing. Then they found !Nka blue and stiff and unbreathing. A pall descended upon them.

He shuddered in spasms as colour swelled back into him. The rime on his skin began to melt. His eyes opened in an expression of deep regret and relief then a confusion betwixt the two. 

Klekly was never found by them. A month later a cave bear did have a nice meal.

What little of their gear they could find in the dark was gathered before they moved to a safer locale, where Surma had sat in meditation. One that lacked wind protection or level ground.

They spent the last hours of the night huddled together under their hides, sad for the loss of Klekly but grateful for life and for Asrid’s supernatural warmth.

The only two patients were my wife and our one-year-old daughter. The concerningly high fevers were serious enough for bedrest. The technical side was to just keep the liquids coming, sponge sweat and change diapers. Mom had had the worst of it. Daughter was still nursing and had been languid but content.

The hostel we were in was just off Cuzco’s tourist area with its colourful and engaging chaos. The large residence was clean, safe and homey. This was our third stay there in as many months during our wanderings about the Andes.  

Once the fever had seemingly broken for good, the symbiotes were comfortable and nourished, I went into the city for a walk about. The pretense was to pick up some fresh fruits. The real reason was to refresh my spirit. It had been a long four days.

Wandering downhill into the Plaza de Armas enjoying the ambience in Cuzco as evening began. I scouted for the healthiest looking food vendor (tip: when travelling always choose the healthiest and happiest food vendors) and got some Papas Huancain. Here, after all of our visits, there was a vague sense of familiarity. I sat people watching while I ate the creamy spicy potato dish.

The most obvious people were a minority of young international trekker types weaving in small clumps amongst huckster locals, traditional (semi traditional?) workers and visitors from the hills, the odd awkward looking yuppies on a quest, the smooth boomer ‘enlightened’ once hippies now Yanquis that smuggled coke and worse while posing as art collectors and exporters, wealthy Cusco born players and the lurking hungry souls (mostly international) ghoulish victims of the kook-a-louk-a cocaine disease.

After picking up some mangoes, avocados and an alfalfa/pineapple juice for my fam, I was passing a crowd consisting primarily of the aforementioned young trekker types. They loitered around the staired entrance of a second-floor nightclub, Mama Africa spilling out onto the old Spanish cobbles betwixt buildings stacked upon their ancient Incan (possibly older-much older) bases. The ubiquitous Ace of Bass smudged the ambience.

Lars and Emma (can’t remember their real names), a swiss couple we had run into in the northern mountains several times, popped in front of me. They had just arrived and wanted to hit Mama Africa’s. They wanted me to join them. After weighing the duty of getting back to my family against time with some semi familiar folk after months walking in the Andes as a stranger and then four days bedside. My hedonistic side prevailed. It usually did back then. I went up the stairs.

‘I will come up for one drink.’ My guardian’s alarms went off. It knew what ‘one drink’ usually meant.

I can proudly say I kept to that one drink. It was a Cuba Libre’ (never a soda fan, that was the last time I ever drank Coca-cola or any pop) We chatted and laughed. They teased me into dancing with them.

We sat back down and I set to finish the drink that I was not actually enjoying.

As I looked about, I noticed two nice dressed Peruvian men closely watching me.

Those who have adventured out of a back pack on a shoe string in unfamiliar and gritty lands understand the sixth sense that activates, especially in crowds and doubly so in clubs. This was a sense reasonably well developed in me. These two anomalies were noted.

 I finished my drink and bid farewell to the couple. As I headed out, these two men got up also. Thinking to maybe head back in if they came out (and then back out if they followed me back in) I waited in the soaring stairwell down to the street exit. They came out, noticed me, went back in.

‘Fuck’, I thought, ‘I don’t feel like this shit.’ Honestly, I was beginning to feel a bit guilty about not being at the hostel with my family and wanted to return ASAP.

Deciding to bee line the six or so blocks to the hostel, I hustled down the stairs and onto the street. A taxi driver smoking as he leaned against his car spotted me and began pestering me to hire him. I refused with great suspicion and headed into and across the Plaza proper.

I slipped into the crevice of Siete Culebras street. It had a chthonic charm; narrow, pedestrian and lined with old Spanish buildings atop bases of said ancient Incan(?) structures. It was the carving of serpents on these ancient walls that named the street. Bluntly, that street was the flavour of adventure.

When I arrived at the T junction with Siete Diablos, I was halfway ‘home’. At that corner is a fantastic sculpture carved into the wall. A bat like demon face with a font of water flowing from its mouth into a bowl it holds. From the bowl the water flows down into a drain hole at its feet.

This is a great spot. One can drink, wash their hands and piss at the same time.

I did such. A sense of calm came over me…at peace with the richness of the spot. I stood Grounded.

That inner voice spoke. Take Siete Diablos. And, I ignored it. Why? I do not know. It would have only been about an extra block.

After going through a smaller courtyard of sorts, there came the last stretch of Siete Culebras. A dark and dank cleft punctuated with a halide orange glow at the far end. As I entered a wave of unsteadiness befell me. Again, I had had only one Cuba Libre’. I shrugged off the feeling with a ‘that it must have been a strong one’ and continued.

With each step the unsteadiness increased. Adjacent to it was an uncomfortable euphoria.

Then I realized I was lurching and swaying in wide measured steps. I knew I had very likely been drugged. Having done a wide array and mixture of drugs (mostly pot, booze, acid and shrooms but had tried all the hard stuff and most popular pills).  

A nicer dressed Peruvian man approached me rapidly.        

“Comos esta?!”

He smiled as he offered his hand.

Time was speeding up and slowing down.

I unthinkingly, like Pavlov’s pooch, extended my hand. That action completely ignored my inner voice that watched with eyebrows raised.

First shake.

Second shake.

I recognized him. He was one of the men from Mama Africa’s.

Then I knew trouble was coming.

It would also be unusual for that person to be friendly towards a scruffy backpacker in a dark alley.

Third shake and as I let go he did not.

Just as I was realizing this was going to happen. He tightly gripped my hand. He began to brace we locked eyes. He was fucking serious and he was realizing two things. That he was about 2/3 my height/weight and that I might not be as affected as he had expected. I mean I probably was but I was also a veteran of substance use extremes, the control override was engaging.

Somehow, in my now fucked up state, I take initiative. Grabbing his hand tighter, pulling him in, stepping up with my left foot and grabbing his right arm. Then planting my right foot and swinging him around as hard as I could into the ancient stone wall of his ancestors head first. He dropped with a quiet grunt. I was surprised how well that worked.

Then Inner Voice said “Run there is likely more.” Not in a panic. It was alert and calm. There was another twenty yards of dark and narrow to the lit street. I sprinted towards that light. Expecting an ambush, I flicked open my Spyderco. I was ready to defend myself without discrimination.

As I came into the lit but abandoned street, a man lunged at me from my left with a small knife. Avoiding this I turned to him as I continued to move forward.

Something hard smacked the back of my head. I fell forward, dropping my knife as I caught my fall. It skittered into a grated storm drain and out of sight, out of reach.

Instantly there was a knife tight on my throat from a man behind. I was given the universal ‘finger to lips’ sign from the man in front.

I was then punched, kicked and dragged with a knife still on my throat back into the darkness of Siete’ Culebras. The man I had tossed was there and standing. He looked very unhappy. He had a bloody forehead.

They then held me down in a baño tucked into the side of the alley chasm.

For those unfamiliar with Latin America this is often a hole in a concrete floor and this was that. Its exception was that it was clogged and about two inches deep in third world shit, piss and who knows what. My whole backside from head to feet was soaking in it.

I only had twelve Inti ($3) on me. They took that. Passport, they took that. Laminated photocopies of wife and daughter’s passports, they took that. They persistently demanded my American dollars getting frustrated that I insisted that I did not have any (I had left many thousands with my wife back at the hostel). Their frustration was giving murderous vibes.

Retrospectively, each time we had visited Cusco we did the same routine for accommodations and money exchange. They had cased me.

Still fighting off the drug daze, I found myself thinking ‘Life of an adventurer…this isn’t too surprising’. I was facing death almost without fear.

Then my daughter’s face filled my mind. It wasn’t just me that was threatened.

The legendary adrenaline rush happened.

I literally shit myself.

With little clarity (drugs) I remember scolding them in Spanish more fluent than I think I have ever been. Somehow, I jumped up and they backed off. Somehow, I forced them with intimidation to return my passport. Which they did and then they ran off.

I had turned into a feral stark raving diarrhea soaked giant (6’4”) with bruised ribs, a nice cut across my neck, a growing black eye, a lump on the back of my head, covered in much shit and deadly furious. At least some of the shit was my own.

A bag of fruit lay abandoned somewhere.

I felt stronger for it all as I marched madly laughing the rest of the way ‘home’.

Pan, the marten, moved amongst a forest of moving legs in dim light. Boots all about many almost crushing him, some intentionally. Those ones often accompanied with the yell of “Varmint!”. He scurried in zigs and zags, frantically sniffing and looking about.

There were too many smells amongst the rowdy crowds. When he did find his charge’s scent, he would pick it up and follow it. Repeatedly he would end in the same spot. She was gone. It was like they had been carried away by an eagle. “Always got to watch out for eagles”, he thought.

In desperation he back tracked to Madame Fem’s. He would wait there, hoping that maybe she would come back there in her search for him. He needed to get there quickly lest she had already come and gone.

He slunk down the arched pass way and into the quiet courtyard. A Gensii servant dressed in white livery leaned against the wall next to the sigil encased and charm curtained stairway. He was smoking a cheroot. Against the wall next to him was his unlit lantern hanging on its crook pole. Next to him was a tan Borbelle, the regional breed of mastiff used as a family/livestock guardian and slave retriever. It outweighing the servant by another 50 pounds. Its cropped ears giving it a devilish look. This was juxtaposed with the pleated red ruff it wore. Unphased by the hidden cats the monstrous dog was half dozing.

The clowder of cats was on alert. Most had taken the high position on the mezzanine. Others lurked in the shadows of the container garden. Their tails tik-toked in near unison, showing their collective unease with the canine visitor.

Suddenly, a tuxedo tom, large and muscled, appeared in front of him. It moved forward in a crouched position with ears back and sharp teeth showing. Pan knew what this cat was about.

He turned and fled in an undulating zig zag and up along the wall. “RRRRRRrrrrrrrreoww…” Tuxedo Tom pounced past him, turned in mid-air and landed blocking the marten’s egress into the alleyway. The mustelid scurried further up the peeling stuccoed wall and a quarter way onto the arched ceiling. There he leapt high above Tuxedo Tom again towards the alleyway. The cat, bigger, stronger and quicker, shot up like a champagne cork, not just grabbing Pan but smashing into him and carrying him back into the passage. His teeth sank into pan’s neck. Front claws grappled his shoulders and the rear ones positioned to rake his belly.

Like cats, perhaps even more so, mustelids are supple and agile. They also have sharp teeth, claws and more so than cats, a strong musk. Spraying oily musk, Pan managed to bite onto and hold the tom’s cheek. He began clawing at the cat’s eyes as he tried to flip his torso around out of harm’s way.

Before he achieved the latter, the cat’s rear claws hooked, yanked and pierced through skin into muscle.

He bit and scratched harder.

With another powerful rake Tuxedo leapt off to preserve his face, clear his senses of the overwhelming musk. The tomcat repositioned to a puffed-up sideways stance. Other cats, growling and set to leap in, were beginning to gather.

Again, Pan sped to the alleyway, dodging around Tuxedo Tom. About twelve members of the clowder rushed at him with hisses, reows and ensnaring claws. The musk seemed to forestall the bites. Yet, he was overwhelmed. Wound after wound was inflicted. Grapples were wrested against. There were too many.

They had his neck, back, legs and more.

He felt his strength fading away as he struggled and began to lose blood.

“Woof!” the Boerbelle suddenly leapt into the fray sending the cats flying like billiard balls. Pan heaved himself up and clumsily tried to flee again.

The Gensii servant was standing with a look of ‘oh shit’. He then gave a sharp whistle. “Come Tucker. Come boy.” With a “Woof!” Tucker snapped up the bedraggled marten in his mouth.

Pan struggled but this adversary’s strength was beyond him. Teeth and claw seemed ineffectual against the floppy skin bred to not know pain. The pathetic assault by the weakened marten went unnoticed. Pan’s next strategy was to play dead. That was when he noticed that, albeit that he was firmly held, the powerful jaws and teeth were not crushing and rending him. They were merely holding him captive…and quite gently at that. The less he squirmed the less pressure there was.

He was soaked in dog slobber. The musk was causing the already drooly creature to salivate profusely.

It was time to conserve energy until a realistic opportunity of escape came.

It did not come.

The dog, with the servant, resumed their waiting. From his toothy prison Pan watched the cats return to the courtyard and their vigilant monitoring of the Borbelle.

Eventually the servant’s master came down the stairs accompanied by Ol’ Scratchy. The man was well dressed, wearing a bright red ascot, a sable top hat and a monocle. His diamond willow cane clicked on the steps. His well-trimmed grey beard relayed his age.

Ol’ Scratchy stopped about half way down and watched from a safe distance from the dog. Once seeing who Tucker had in his maw, the nasty grin spread across the monkey’s face. “Have a good evening sir.” Ol’ Scratchy said and headed back up the stairs.

“What do you have there boy?” the gentleman said in a kind voice. The Gensii servant replied with something in a Wisana Treole accent too thick to comprehend. The master responded in the dialect, not as thick but still beyond Pan’s skills to decipher.

The master squatted down on his haunches with one hand knobby hand gripping the brass dragon handle of the cane supporting him. He eyed the marten closely after removing his monocle.

Speaking softly to himself in Mercantile he queried, “Looks and smells like some sort of mink it seems.” Looking into Pan’s eyes he added “Well, little friend, we shall get you fixed up.”

He stroked the dogs head and praised him. Tucker did not open his toothy prison.

Following a few words in the unintelligible tongue between master and servant, the lantern was lit and they left. At the street a brougham carriage waited. The dog, with Pan in his control, and the master loaded into the conveyance. The servant got onto the front bench outside and took the reins.

Mr. Monocle’s residence, north of Naurlinz, South Wisana 7:34am, Sowenmoon 25th, 456 NE

Pan watched from his large cage where he had awoken. The cage was in Mr. Monocle’s well-established study. It had a upside down wood box with a hole cut to get in. Stuffed with straw, it was quite comfy. There were some tree branches to climb around on, a dish of water and another dish that the man with the monocle had filled with meat scraps. Later the master had a servant boy catching mice, whom he had instructed to bring to Pan. That was fun and tasty. But none of it filled the void he had without Emmy in his life. That and his true master, Emmy’s patron, did not sit well with a familiar who failed in its duties.

Despite imprisoning him, Mr. Monocle was very nice and spoke pleasantly with Pan. Tucker seemed to think Pan was some sort of pack member, a pup that needed affection, play, training and boundaries. The first days the mastiff would snuffle against and wiggle his tongue between the bars. On the third (?) day Mr. Monocle let Pan out for a while with Tucker as a chaperone.

This became a regular event. Pan began to trust Mr. Monocle, Tucker and the various servants.

Not only was the dog powerful, it was quick and attentive. It was also playful. After a few attempts to sneak off and quickly being playfully thwarted, Pan decided to join in the fun. Great fun was had, with Mr. Monocle as referee to tamp down the rambunctiousness. After five Pan had taken a liking to Mr. Monocle and his dog. Mr. Monocle praised him in his rapid learning of tricks and had the mustelid leaping, fetching, riding the dog and more. These games would go until the little marten fell deep asleep curled upon Mr. Monocle’s warm lap as the gentleman worked at his desk.

The chapel of Saint Gilrith, the patron saint of woodworkers, was a space of intricately carved wooden panels become dark with age. It was an affirmation from the long-buried hands of master craftsmen. An attestation to the Saint’s realm.

Hkelga, the woman in the linen surcoat, knelt in an alcove praying in front of a twice-sized statue of Matageita, The Divine Matron. The Goddess commanded the space with the warm glow of the handlamp casting dramatic shadows.

The statue was carved from an ivory coloured and fine-grained wood. A cascade of storm tossed black curling hair and a cloak of carved walnut flowed down together about her body to continue in a fan out across the top of the polished cherry wood altar.

The idol was squatting, naked, voluptuous and pregnant. Nobly bearing down with fists clenched and arms braced. With some sort of magic the Matron’s delicate face wavered between the intense grimace of child birth and one of profound sagacity. 

Below a glowing golden halo hovered unattached a few inches away from the upside-down head of the infant. He hung half born from The Mother. The babe’s eyes piercing but calming, forgiving, peered from a beatific face. An ivory hand proffered a yellow rose carved from the palest of amber

Hkelga prayed for her husband and herself. She prayed for him to renounce his oath of celibacy at the altar of Saint Deindel two years after the twins were born. She also prayed to carry another child.

They already had six children aged from fourteen years old down to the last two, twins, at age six.

She loved her children, being pregnant and bringing life into the world.

She loved motherhood and everything about it. Even the hard parts. It completed her.

Her dream had always been to birth a dozen children and raise them to be faith filled, hard-working servants of the Greater Good. Her desire to help birth and hold her grandchildren and great grandchildren. To be abundant and surrounded by innocence and love.

The sage green shawl about her shoulders was stippled with multicoloured tufts, like a field of summer blooms. Each one was for a child she had helped into the world. The pure white were for the stillborn. It was a vestment of sorts showing her renown as a dedicated and experienced midwife. 

Standing up, she moved to the plain marble stoup at the altar’s side, scooped salted holy water with cupped hands then poured it over the idol’s widespread feet. She then dabbed some on her own brow before leaning in and kissing the left then right foot of Matageita.

After patting her hands dry upon her apron, she pulled out a plain linen cloth bundle from which she unwrapped three crescent shaped biscuits. These she crumbled onto a silver platter between the feet of Mother Matageita.

She stiffly lowered herself again and resumed silently imploring The Great Mother to recognize her dedication.

She had been doing this more or less nightly for over four years now. Nothing had changed. Ashamedly, she admitted it was wearing on her conviction. 

After her 81 iterations she arose with reluctance and sloped shoulders of her dismay.

As she opened the door to leave she had a hollow feeling and, maybe for the first time, began doubting her faith. 

A damp chill wind checked her as she walked out the side door into the moonlight and onto a landing that overlooked the lake to the east. The blustering extinguished her handlamp.

She took a moment to close up the small lamp and stow it in her basket. Grimacing into the wind she adjusted her head scarf and buttoned up her collar. Soothing scents of oak and birch smoke waxed and waned as the wind tussled in shifting gusts.

It had turned from chilly to almost balmy while she had prayed.

Perhaps spring has sprung she thought.

Her eyes adjusted to the dim moonlight. It was slanting, diffused, through a low hanging cloud threatening to become fog. She flinched when a yellow orange streak made pastel by the haze briefly flashed across the horizon.

Ahead, a vast field of snow and windswept ice glowed in the moonlight. It was the deep lake that ‘her’ village was built around.

Crisscrossing the lake were grey streaks of the ash scattered walkways. There were a few dark silhouettes, fuzzy in the quasi fog, that ambled about. Some with lanterns making luminous blobs to contrast with the dark cold. Others bare shifts of shadow.

The homes around the north side of the lake were dark hulks with eyes of glowing windows and wigs of dark leafless trees on a backdrop of smoky smear.

To her left, at the marshy south shore, she could barely see the grey comforter of fog creeping over the lich yards where the pagans, what few were left, lowered their dead into the tannic waters among crumbling cairns.

Thinking of the pointed cap pagans of old, her mind wandered to the stories she had been told about the pagan fertility rites during her great grandmother’s time. These occupied her mind as she navigated the icy switchbacks of the walkway down the bank then out and onto the lake.

Guiltily, she found herself fantasizing about the bawdy old rites until another and brighter falling star streaked overhead.

She paused looking up hoping for another.

A third streak flared overhead.

Three so close together was a rarity worthy of a wish! She giggled at considering such nonsense. Yet, she did close her eyes and wish a wish that matched her earlier prayers.

For a long while she stood star gazing until the haze interrupted.

Like the wind, her mood had shifted. She had hope and acceptance. She felt peace.

Looking down a bit confused Hkelga realized her feet were wet and getting cold. The ice pan around her was sinking. Again, her emotions pivoted drastically to alertness.

Decades of attending births had left her epically cool tempered.

She squatted then pushed up with her legs attempting a mighty leap to a safer place.

Instead they pushed a circle of ice around her feet down.

Not unwisely as she fell forward she spread her arms wide sending her basket sailing across the winterscape. She hit with a guttural grunt and lay still for a moment.

She attempted to drag herself up but the ice broke in a plate about her. It tilted and dumped her into the cold dark lake water.

The momentum pushed her down. She slipped below the surface with a moderate kerplunk. Such was her focus that she had not screamed. No one was near. No one noticed. 

Not knowing how to swim, she struggled to reach the surface. Her bulky winter robe and layers of clothing were quickly becoming waterlogged and pulling her down. Hanging heavy and restricting movement. Trying to remove her garments only entangled her. 

Sinking in blackness a competent and wise woman accustomed to stoic pragmatism was essentially helpless.

In time, she compulsively let out her last breath.

Soon her consciousness faded with her last thought; Goddess forgive my audacity and doubt. 

A gagging gush of water spewed from her with gagging and a bit of regurgitation. Then came a raspy moan as she inhaled, her eyes wide open roving in the very alive transition from the terror of death to the gratitude for life.

She made no effort of her own yet thrashing movement accompanied by the violent sounds of splashing and breaking ice were all about her.

The one fact she could breathe now was all that mattered and it was sacred.

Still in water but not dead. That is good, was her first coherent thought.

Confusion returned.

She was moving through the water as if someone was pulling her. Someone large and warm swam on their back with one arm holding her against them. Her chest against their chest. The heat from the large and heavily muscled body contrasted with the cold water.

She had been rescued!?

Rescued by someone that could rapidly swim through ice with ease while holding her. She thanked all the saints. With the movement and the increasingly thick night fog she could not see who this phenomenal rescuer was.

Is this a strange death dream or something? This thought kept crossing her mind

It only got stranger.

After an endless brief time, the astonishing swim ended as they arrived on shore. From there he, yes, she was sure it was a he. He lifted her and held her cradled in his arms against his warmth that began to steam. The titan rapidly moved with long strong strides to the nearest house on the shore. She knew the home and the family inside, indeed, she had delivered three children there. The Minkstedths were a successful Ehosan merchant family.

He shouldered the door with an air of complete agency. The locked latch snapped like a twig. Then her and her saviour were in the foyer. Oddly, no servant, nor others, not even their garrulous hound, Livia, had greeted them.  

He set her gently down upon her feet while supporting her. She was shaking but could stand. Soft rose pink light spread into the room from nowhere.

Really seeing him now, she was flabbergasted. A very tall and thick muscled man with pale blue skin looked down upon her. The blocky face wore a smirk mantled by rich golden eyes beaming intense passion.

He was bald except for a long black topknot. His only raiment a well-worn red fur kilt held by a broad belt.

The belt itself was remarkable. Tooled and sculpted leather made three faces of creatures.

To the right hip was a red scaled dragon with its horns arcing up over and around the man’s hips. In the centre a lion with a golden mane. Upon the left was a charcoal furred goat also with its horns arcing up, over and around the man’s hips.

Somewhat alarmingly their exquisitely crafted eyes moved as they panned back and forth across the room.

Finally, the man's right hand rested on the butt end of an upright long hafted great axe the head was the size of a cartwheel and made of something clear like crystal or diamond. 

Leaning his axe against the dark wainscoting, he stepped towards her holding her in eye contact. She became alarmed at how desperately she wanted him. It was as if those eyes spoke every word in the truest and simplest way with a glance and now they entered into her.

He reached towards her pulling her close in one fluid movement. While looking down into her eyes he shucked her wet outer garments one handed like some magician.

Taking a step back she glared at him for his impropriety.

He smirked capriciously as he also stepped back. His warm smiling eyes slowly worked downwards from her face. They lingered on her heavy breasts with their big stiff mama nipples and the maroon saucers of her areola. The gaze slid down to her abdomen, her broad hips, her thick thighs. All enticingly emphasized by clinging wet linen.

To her own surprise a guffaw blurted from her. She paused looking at him wide eyed mouth agape in awe verging on fright. He dropped to one knee and lowered his head down. It seemed humble enough at first but his hunger was apparent in his sub movements and breathing braced with the constrained vanity of a youngish god.

They were thus for a while before she slowly looked down, reached out and ran her fingers across his scalp and down his thick neck.

A shudder of pleasure rippled through the deity’s body. His shoulders relaxed. A soft grunt moan puffed out of him.

After a few moments of caresses his arm came about her gently pulling her forward as he raised his head and nuzzled her soft belly.

The heat from his body flooded the room and her goose flesh subsided into a fuzzy warmth dissipating what remained of her stunned anger. Any propriety was being crushed by her own hunger.

She felt she should feel ashamed or alarmed. Instead, she felt safe to be reckless. Which further aroused her.

The blue man stood again then began pulling the fine furs and wool cloaks of the Minkstedths from their rack and one by one began layering them into a bed.

As he finished he spoke with an unknown accent in a deep soft voice that resonated from his chest. Hkelga found incredibly this seductive.

“I asked the Great Mother herself who was most befitting to bear my child. Whom of all down here would best raise the child with love, in safety, with wise guidance and ample opportunity." He moved around behind, as close as he could be without touching her, continuing in a whisper

“I desire YOU, HaChelgka.” Something about how he mispronounced her name stirred her heat further.

“For you, you are a vessel of exquisite dimension and thus worthy of portaging the embodied soul I leave in your safe keep. This towards a vital destiny. Even as this abstraction of you is necessary, neccessary far beyond you or even I, I am filled with gratitude that the Unseen Woman, and the Wizened have sent me to you. You are exquisite beyond my dreams.

I long for the moment none too soon when I shall immolate you in the furnace of my desire.”

When he finished he moved to the cloak rack. With his back to her, he removed his meretricious belt and crimson kilt. Carefully hanging them, he patted the beasts and their six eyes closed. When he turned about she could see that indeed, he was quite obviously aroused.

His way of speaking was from some higher place. It left her alienated but with a desire to be included, to glimpse that sublime state of existence.

Despite his odd cant, Hkelga blushed, butterflies and arousal displaced the last protestations of adulterous guilt. It had been years since she felt wanted in this way.

Anticipation began building as the naked blue hulk sauntered closer. 

With haste she began pulling off her unwieldy wet garments that remained until she stood with her rotund white curves glowing pinkish in the dim light.

I must have died. This is the afterworld that awaited me. She thought as a mix of terror and excitement joined her already intense emotional state dissolving all she knew and opening her on every plane.

I can only give in to this current.

Visually the world shifted. Imagery overlapped in fanning iterations that her heartbeat followed in flutters and her breath would stretch into transparency.

Then, without further words, she was pulled into him. On this higher plane it was like the tendrils of a tempest or the steady draw of a vortex. His strong arms wrapped around her with solid gentleness.

Hands moved down her large frame below her massive buttocks and lifted her up as if she were a child. Her legs wrapped around his hips as her arms wrapped about his thick neck.

Becoming lost in an urgent sense of passion with her womanhood pulled wide and glistening she hugged him tightly. She could feel his huge phallus hot and pulsing as it pressed against her thick bush and up past her navel. 

He lifted her slightly. He then slowly brought her down onto him a bit then up again then down a bit deeper with calm deliberation.  In time, it filled her completely and then some. With this mothers and midwife’s experience she also knew the sensation was something she could breathe through. After she had, it felt perfect. It was her turn to turn the mortar on the pestle.

The two continued thus and in many other constellations for near an hour. At the end she was a quivering whimpering mass of sweat sheened bliss. 

When he finally came it was a near torrent that lasted minutes. Copious amounts flowed out of her, down her legs and onto the tussled furs and cloaks. 

Through the glow of her own ecstasy she could see him with muscles tensed, head thrown back mouth emitting a roaring hiss interrupted with gong like sounds. His skin split in a fine web of white light. The fine lines cracking like the mud of a dry lake. The cracks releasing more of this pure white light until it filled the room and her.

She climaxed again, to the point of complete dissolution.

He stayed unmoving inside her until they both collapsed wrapped in each other.

Later he sat cross legged next to her caressing her arms, chest and especially her belly. Her growing belly.

"I will eternally be grateful for this. You have done and will do me, several other deities of The Fulcrum and indeed all good people a great honour. Yet, there is one more thing I ask of you. This child will be special, extraordinary. Yes, great midwife, all children are special. But, as you shall see, he will be superior to others in most if not all things for he is a godling. Beyond this, his existence is vital to many. Therefore, it is of paramount importance that he be kept humbly, that you keep him unknown, until he can fend for himself. For when his destiny manifests.

Furthermore, my lovely HaChelgka, only you amongst mortals shall hold these, his, truths. I, we, he and I, need your promise in this.”

So, he knows I bear a child and it is a boy and he is special. She pondered with her mind going to the statue of Matageita and the pale infant prophet. Could it be so incredible? Do I carry the next prophet?

As his words planted themselves she felt her abdomen warm and begin twitching as a certain nausea and heaviness overtook her, a sensation of pregnancy.

This had to be a dream or the afterlife she thought again.

"I will, I promise all those things." she murmured. 

An hour later she was in her element of giving birth. The father supported her as needed but was mostly hands off. The large babe rapidly came forth, hale with thick black hair and with surprising ease.

The babe did not cry, it bellowed, it howled.

After it had vigorously suckled to its utter contentment the father took it up and cradled the mite in his powerful arms yet mindful of the bundled umbilical and placenta still attached as was the custom amongst the women of Kytharl.

He looked upon his son with intense admiration and hope. Their eyes locked for a long moment. The newborns vernix smeared face showed a deep solemnity as if his father’s wisdom had been transmitted in the exchange. The little one nodded slightly without breaking eye contact, then yawned grandly and dozed off.

The father gently kissed the child on each eye and its forehead. Then quietly chanted in an unknown tongue with a resonant polytone. After he placed the babe back on the mother's chest. 

Hkelga smiled and closed her eyes as well and dozed off herself. The man kissed her and sang a different but sill hauntingly beautiful hymn.

She awoke still unsure if any of that was real.

The blue man, The Father, was gone. Wonderfully, the babe was not.

To her initial alarm he had somehow ended up on the floor. Then, to her amusement she watched him crawling about and contentedly wrestling with a boot.

A newborn doing any of this pushed her back into the ‘this is a dream’ camp. Deciding to follow the dream she enthusiastically tended to the cherubic newborn.

Morning light diffused by clouds illuminated the oiled parchment windows of the foyer. She could see the mess of amniotic fluids and semen smeared across the cloaks, furs and floor.

Briefly her mind queried of the Minklestadts but only briefly. His subtle magics must have hidden the wild event. They seemed so irrelevant now anyway.

She felt sated and simmering with the energy of a new mom yet unsure if this was real, a dream or the afterworld.

Regardless, the here and now with this blessed newborn was transcendent of all those realities.

This is indeed a special child. The fact filled her mind as she marveled at the wee babe sitting up picking at the tufts of her shawl with his wee thumb and forefinger. The mother/midwife in her was fascinated. A babe doesn’t do that until much later.

Guilt niggled at her as she realized the profound love for this babe was somehow greater than the deep love she felt for her other six children.

The hefty babe was alert and tracking movement. His empathy was growing as well, as he knowingly was charming her with his bright eyes and smiling coos.

Hunger pangs caught her suddenly, this godling was a big eater and she would need to replenish herself soon. She would have to leave their sodden nest. Damp was becoming cool. The foyer had slowly cooled after her divine paramour had left. She could see her breath.

Then a suddenly burst of heat and orange light filled the room.

Looking up at the sudden illumination she saw another man. This one was red skinned and lithe He was also incredibly handsome despite the small horns. His image wavered in its self-generated heat. 

This extraordinary being had a scheming look about him. Her lioness hackles were raised.

Just as the unease his look gave her set in she fell over paralyzed. She became hysterical but being paralyzed it was a panic that the body was helpless to do anything about. This amplified the terror.

This entity had done something.

She lay numb on the floor unable to move. Weak pitiful garble came from her throat through her drooling slack mouth.

He strode forward and plucked the hale babe from her limp arms.

NO, NO, NO! She wanted to scream. HE IS MINE! HE IS SPECIAL! The words failed to manifest.

She pleaded with tearing eyes. 

The babe itself twisted and squirmed in the kidnapper’s arms but did not cry out. Such was the babe’s strength that the red man struggled to hold it.

With a crackling smooth baritone, the man said "Yes, he is special, but know this; The Father of Flame himself has sent me, one so exalted and ancient even this child’s ‘godly’ father is but a gnat. No actions of a mortal shall sway or obstruct me.

It is unlikely can trust me now but trust me you must. I am told this child will be safe where he is going. Safer than with you. That he will be loved and cared for. Always remember this and find peace from it. This is all the consolation I afford you." 

Without further word or action the figure, with babe in arms, turned into a thickening red smoke that sucked into itself with a loud hissing to naught.

Hkelga was alone amongst the mess of the room and her own conflicted feelings. Truly alone.

She had almost or did die. Conceived and brought to term a god’s child, birthed it and had it stolen from her all in one night.

Still she was unsure if it was real. That she had perceived being chosen, glimpsed those realms and held that marvelous babe contented her. This despite a gaping hole in her heart for the loss her most beloved child.

Sitting back up red faced on a simple but comfortable bed he ran his knobby hands over a faded and worn, but clean, grey quilt. The thick appendages moved in slow wide sweeps while he twisted his neck in an attempt to decipher the heraldry embroidered upon it in bronze and teal.

It had gone ambiguous with wear and neglect. I can relate old friend. He smirked at what may have been a manticore when new but now looked like a childishly drawn image of a surprised old man in a pile of… well, shit, made more comical with its look of surprise akin to being kicked in the nuts. Chuckling, again he thought, I can relate old friend.

His passively cynical mien resumed as he studied the ambiguous image. It was just some donation, a forgotten bit, from some noble that had passed through this backwater some unknown time ago.

Despite being in the middle of nowhere it seemed all men of note in Rhenos passed this way at some point, many leaving cast away mementos, such as this, lying about the unassertive keep.

It was clean, dry and in a warmish room. To him now it was a luxury.

On the tiny side table there was a battered copper ewer, a chipped earthenware mug and a tattered leather log book that he was tasked with maintaining. He pushed the logbook aside to put down the dirk and meagre coin pouch from his belt.

Lifting the earthenware mug he peered into it with a slightly disappointed look before he took a long draw of the plonk wine.

The throbbing of his feet drew his gaze down to them. They looked as bad as they felt after the long march. Blotched with filth was a charnel house of raw blisters, angry bunions, dark webs of dead veins and crooked toes capped with mangled nails roughly trimmed by his dirk.

He was grateful no infection had come. Perhaps the crone that advised him to stuff yarrow in his boots was right. Surely, it had helped with the odour. 

He was not used to walking that much anymore. Cavalry had been his way of it for the last twenty years, or so, not marching for days on end on a neglected twisting track through bogs of knee-deep muck or pushing through thick boscage amongst tangles of ankle snatching roots.

Despite being considered hale for his age of fifty and seven, the four decades of these endeavours were taking their toll. Moments of comfort, such as this had become sacred.

Slowly placing his feet, one by one, into a well-used copper basin half-filled with steaming water, he wiggled his toes about. Leagues of the brutal march dispersed as a burgeoning cloud of grey funk dissolved off of them. He breathed a long ahhhh.

 Lying on his back his thick fingers twiddled a pendant tethered about his neck by a blood red leather cord snaking through the tufts of grey hair of his chest. A chest littered with pink and scarlet scars and tattoos turned to ambiguous blue splotches.

It was a double-bladed axe carved of crystal, a periapt of Thalgrom, the blue skinned hero god of old. Scratches and patina showed its age. He studied it briefly. Memories of the old friend who had given it to him. One of the few men who had been a true friend. A man who was possibly one of the last Thalgromic priests. His friend’s words marched through his thoughts.

WITHOUT FEAR, WITHOUT HOPE, WE FIGHT AS WE MUST

Blowing out a long breath through pursed lips his gaze went unfocused at the cobwebs that skulked across the dark roughhewn beams of the ceiling. 

"She was a fine mount." he quietly said to himself a bit teary eyed.

He reflected on the dappled grey mare he had recently lost. Her attentiveness and nimble mind, he admitted, was a crutch. Indeed, she knew him well, his temperament and his needs, likely better than he knew himself. It was a crutch he needed these days.

Commands were rarely issued as he had navigated the life of an itinerant knight, a patrolman really. Just him and his steed together. The hard travel, the constant risk of life and the tensions of being judge, jury and executioner that his position demanded of him.

Niama, that was her name, was also a confidant and a councillor. Her arrival had been a blessing as he entered his golden years. The one boon fate had given him since his grand blunder long ago.

Not that he deserved it to begin with. Definitely not after she had been wasted by a stupid accident crossing a stream a stupid accident he could have and should have avoided.

A horse with a broken leg was a hard fact he never had enjoyed. Often people were easier to put down.

Niama had stood at attention on three hooves showing an awareness, almost a resignation, as her barding, tack, saddle and other trappings were transferred to the squire’s steed.

She had stood devotedly with only a slight stamp and a whicker as the aged knight expertly slipped the long narrow blade of his dirk into her loyal heart. A skill he had learned from Edugent nomads on the Jalair Steppes long ago but had never performed. Theoretically, if done properly with a shaving sharp blade, the horse never feels the steady insertion. Either it worked or Niama was that stoic. He suspected the latter and hoped for the former.

Regardless, he had pragmatically faced the reality and did what needed doing. It was one of the most challenging murders of the hundreds he had committed.

Or, was it one of thousands? Yes, it was thousands really.

There was not else to do than leave her to the six-legged weasel-like frilfths and the other scavengers of these tangles.

Thus, began the walk. Seven days of a wet and weary trek. If it wasn't mud it was jumbles of cobble and those damnable roots. Few words beyond curses were spoken between he and his squire. 

They had arrived at Hawkhorn on the Shalloeweep four days late; beaten, bedraggled and ready for hearth and ale. 

Instead, they were given a cold blunt unwelcome from Captain Ustel who had been serving here as a penance. The livid aristocratic upstart almost threatened Calek. The knight’s cool confidence and a raised eyebrow had shunted that threat. The four extra days had made Ustel as irascible as the badger on his banner. This all made Sir Calek smirk, inside of course.

Coaly, his worthless squire, had given Sir Calek a blaming and contemptuous glare before turning in, doing not a flick of a squire’s duties.

His squire, the first he had had in many years was a second son of a bankrupt noble house run by a widow that was a known, in essence, as a whore of the elite. An oversized lad of fourteen and about sharp as a fern, had little respect for his Master. Hatred was the next natural step. The youth could not and would never be a threat to Sir Calek not for a few more decades anyway.

None of this ruffled Calek. He was accustomed to such treatment. At times he found it liberating.

Officially the Captain Ustel had no livery to speak such to even a low rank knight of Rhenos. Most knights would have Ustel's badge or maybe even his blocky head for such disrespect.

One is treated differently when one is The Brazen Coward.

Thirty-two years of doggedly loyal service and still, there it was.

As it should be.

He, The Brazen Coward, was more than less responsible for thousands of his country men's deaths, brave soldiers each one of them, wasted in a foolish attempt at glory. Responsible for the loss of a major battle in a major war where his great king lost prime holdings, thousands of lives and much more. 

So, he would take it like he took his assignment to this petty holding on the fringe of the cursed Sthnaud marshes to be a monitor until another unfortunate soul was found. Likely this would be his tomb.

His last days would be spent lording over frogs and rooks. He would take that. It was likely more than he deserved.

Thirty-two years of shame and self-loathing had come to fruition.

Before that particular dreadful war there had been glory and fame for Etrion the Triumphant, the magnificent, the virtuoso and other monikers he had known then. All were masks for the vain and selfish person he had been. 

A mighty warrior, more of a gladiator really, that should never have played with war. Instead war had played with him.

Senseless war for irrelevant causes and petty championing for men too weak to back their privilege. A miasma of brutal inanity broken with long pointless, miserable waiting. Unlike most, he had been denied the comradery and commiseration that most soldiers shared.

This had been his life.

He, or rather Etrion, had, by invitation, sired a bastard for an influential cuckold vizier. He had been and still was one of the most adroit swordsmen of the lands. These two facts were why he lived to this day.

From a distance, like a fetishist, he had seen that faultless bastard grow into a decent soldier and an honourable man. Idiosyncrasies such as a strong preference for sky blue, a hatred of mussels and being drawn to cartography were all aspects they shared.

More poignantly, the bastard was much more substantial in character than his predatory court haunting father.

Finally, even poetically, in a tragic sense, Sir Calek was nearby when it came time for the bastard, his son who never knew Calek was his father, to die in a war the vizier was responsible for starting.

It was on the battlefield in this, another senseless war, that it happened. Not one hundred strides from where Sir Calek desperately had held his own astride a mount. This time in a battle of victory.

He had watched his son from a distance curbed from any depth, only meeting in the formal ways of soldiery even then merely aligned but of different tact. He knew his son saw him as The Brazen Coward.

He had been proud of ‘his’ boy/man even though he had not a stitch of involvement in his doomed prodigy’s life or death.

Now his tawny big boned grand-daughter, at a feisty fourteen years old and fatherless, had caught his attention when fate allowed. He watched this granddaughter with restraint.

Fate now seemed to have ended any chance of seeing her grow before he died.

The window under the great eave let in the last puff of daylight before lavender twilight completely swept across the room casting inky shadows.

“At least the wine is strong” he whispered as he relaxed into that sinking buzz presaging a deep sleep. The heart lightened.

 A broad band of yellow spread across the ceiling as he heard the door hinges whinge with its slow opening.  A shadow of a rabbit like one would make with one’s hand hopped across the warm hued field wobbling as the flame shifted with the candle carrier’s movement.

The wobbling stopped as she apparently set down the candle.

He was too relaxed to look at the visitor. 

"I brought a candle for the master." Purred a soft feminine voice that started at a high octave and dropped low into a vibration that matched his floating sensation, like a slow smooth ripple on smoother dark water. 

Another shadow appeared by the hare. A fox. A chase went around as he heard her breathing increase in pace. The details became more distinct. The fox’s sharp teeth and lolling tongue, the hare’s twitching ears and fluffy tail were in sharp profile. An hawk flew over the seen and disappeared. Loop

He found himself raptly contemplating how such shadow hand puppetry was possible.  Such trivial things rarely entered his consideration.

He did not expect anyone, not like this. There was only Coaly, his squire, Gither, the keep’s codger and the two drudges, adolescent miscreants, that likely should be at this remote outpost. Not a woman amongst them.

The fox caught the rabbit.

His mind queried:They were at least two days from the nearest village.

The resident hounds had been quiet.

Who else would want to be in this forsaken shite smear of land?

Why would they bring me a candle? 

Another shadow creature began to form behind the fox. This was a serpent that struck the fox from behind. Then with its fangs sunk into the fox’s neck it flipped like a flaked rope and wrapped about the fox.

His mind ticked through the considerations like a chef flipping through a long-referenced recipe log.

The fox twitched in its death throws. The serpent engulfed the fox.

The bird returned grasping the serpent in a flash and the scene ended. 

These were logical points but he felt so good in that buzz between sleep and awake, the sensation that this sweet silky voice harmonized with, that any of them would do.

The velvety voice came again and spun coyly on "It is much nicer in the dark. Don't you think? " 

"Yes." Calek heard himself mumble. 

With a puff sound, near darkness came. 

" Yes…much better… Right?” she intoned.

“Yes.” He heard himself reply reflexively. Then feeling foolish about responding thus.

“I will hear your secrets better in these shadows. I like shadows. Don’t you?" the voice continued resonating with that floating sensation.

What exactly are you talking about?Calek almost queried. 

"Oh, I'm talking about your redemption Etrion… the Virtuoso." 

He had not heard his old name for a long time. Wait! He thought. Redemption? What do you know … of me… from so long ago?

None the less he was intrigued, unaware of the long suppressed deep longing for redemption that tugged at that thread of his fate.

This felt seductive and dangerous or, perhaps, just mocking and capricious, he could not tell. It was ambiguously off.

“Hah!” she exclaimed in a sudden bright-eyed burst that made him jump.

With a broad toothy smile of even white teeth, a moon crescent that starkly contrasted with the black skin, lips and even gums that were already blending with the deepened twilight, she shouted, “You are a legend!” Then she returned to her susurrations, “Even if you are an underdog.

Plus… I know you truly have honour worthy of the task at hand and… even at your age, a sword arm that will likely be useful.”

The former made his heart soar a bit whilst the latter made it sink. In the end he was still a mercenary, a tool to be applied by greater forces than himself.

She purred on. “It will be very pleasant for me to serve you this way. You have suffered so much. One of your talents, your breadth of experience. The humility you have shown enduring this for, well generations really.

Do you know why I am here? Of course not, silly. How could you?

I could tell you. Do you want to know?" 

I'm more interested in redemption. He thought. Nor do I like too many questions too fast. His thoughts followed as his discrimination of the situation continued. He still floated half conscious. He tried to wake up fully but could not.

Overall, despite the sensing of furtive threats and the obfuscation, he felt unreasonably good about her being here now.

What could be more pleasant really?

Deeper inside a prudent voice still protested with diminishing effect. He knew he was ensorcelled but, without question, that was fine for now.

How could this not be going someplace better than he could dream of?

 She was standing against him now.

More specifically, her legs were straddling his left leg on his thigh just above the knee. Dewy heat pulsed from the warmth of her sex, her naked skin, intoxicatingly seeping through his wool breeches.

The aroma of lotus and jasmine became prominent, powerfully stirring deep memories. It was the perfume of his first and only love decades ago when romance was really just a baroque masturbation Still he was affected on a deep level by strong feelings long forgotten.

Hrumphing, he lifted himself on his elbows from the position he had sunk into. Not bothering to strain his aged eyes with an attempt at seeing into these deep shadows he looked without focus into the unseen. Then he spoke with an inflection of confusion to his groggy mien. “Why me? Who are you? What is this about now, young… young maiden?”

 He felt her slide back and down a titch till the nest of her vulva was on his knobby knee.

Leaning forward her hips bucked slightly with a swirl, all its focus at their contact point.  She exhaled sharply briefly digging nails into his thighs.

The glowing crescent of white teeth on pervasive black receded as she arched her neck back. Her chin disappeared behind her shoulders as she continued.

Sliding her hands up his thighs then hips while arching her back astern until her head near rested upon her buttocks and her long hair draped sumptuously along his shins then upon his abused and now waterlogged feet lifting from the tepid basin.

Catching a scant of light to presenting in the murky shadow, her firm heavy breasts strained forward holding Sir Calek engrossed. Yet the anatomy was askew, distorted.

Then, as she whispered a long soft moan in those hypnogogic tones through pursed lips, her hips began to slowly gyrate in a crass manner against his knee spreading heat and damp. 

The dirty desperation was stimulating even as its tawdry nature revulsed him.

I will have none of it! He vowed. Indeed, if under most any other circumstance the stalwart knight would have triumphed.

Alas, this night it was a goddess playing cat to his mouse.

Just as a prick of discrimination came to him that aroma of long-ago love played on him.  

The whole of her movements seemed unnatural from the way she bent at odd angles to the shifting proportions of her body.

Using a wartime coping hack, he ticked his spirit list that he was ensorcelled. Then moved on to managing the challenges at hand as best he could.

He ‘managed’ to raise his head, doing little more than forming a display of pigeon hued stubble on folded chins below his heavy gray moustaches. His weathered hawkish nose and tired red rimmed eyes were above these same moustaches looking as curious as they did weary. Long thinning hairs swept back over his scalp were still sweat plastered against his scalp from the long days under a skullcap.

He was the image of an overworked old man ready for sleep.

In the shadows he could see her hunched shoulders forming alluring hollows aside her supple neck. As she pressed down on him, he could feel her sharp nails on his hips, up his ribs and onto his chest teasing between pain and tickling.

It made him snap his teeth.

To his wonderment it seemed like maybe she had angel wings. 

His thoughts floated in the caresses. This feels amazing. What are the odds? Why me? 

"Yes… it feels… so good. Doesn't… it? There… were no odds.” She spoke in spurts between lustful pants. “I… chose… you. Of all mortals now…you are my one and only choice.”

She berserked into a brief and terrifying orgasmic frenzy, losing all semblance of a humanoid shape. A writhing mass of translucent gloom.

Sir Calek was paralyzed.

She quickly coalesced into her initial form.

“This… is your redemption.” She continued whilst jamming atop Sir Calek, her clarion eyes seeing far off into realms no mortal shall ever know.

With a distant voice she let forth, “Our progeny will… more than… right… your missteps of pride. It should… feel goood." 

She was right. He felt safe to accept this.

Progeny! Again, his beguilement stumbled on her dodgy insinuations. I have no progeny. This progeny?

She giggled as she jumped back with the agility of an acrobat. Then continued loud and slow as if he were a simpleton. “No silly… We… You and I… will make a progeny, a child, a beautiful baby.” She said leaning in with a beaming smile and winking hard.

He realized she was simultaneously saying it with the in universal simple sign by slowly poking her index finger in and out of a circle made by her other index finger and thumb.

 He sat upright immediately with his eyes wide open and raised eyebrows. He advised himself, Best not go against a goddess or demon or whatever spirit this may be.

It had been a long while but he would do his warriors best. 

With a surge of passion, he had not felt since youth, that he had never expected to feel again, he pulled her forward pressing her tightly against him. She glommed in, step locking the two into a deep writhing kiss.

Unnaturally fast she removed his breeches.

They resumed skin to skin. As his arms wrapped around her back he felt the soft stiff feathers of her wings. A sense of privilege and gratitude to her attentions bloomed through him. 

An angel! Oh, grace and gratitude all to…to all the holy ones. He tried to continue the orison but could not summon the words well under his bodies growing anticipation. So, mote it be!

Later…

He awoke in a blissful groggy state from what he thought was sure to have been a dream. Or, perhaps his old heart had stopped and that was a strange heaven. He chided himself as he let his eyes adjust.

The aroma of bacon came from the kitchen. His squire was doing something right. This day was getting better already.

He felt his left hand being pulled. Through the dim light and fuzzy grog, he passively followed his appendage to watch it be put upon the soft warm belly of the black angel next to him. The belly was swollen and taught. 

"He is kicking. Feel it? " the silken voice purred excitedly. 

 Sir Calek did feel it kick.

He pulled his hand away as terror gripped his heart.

In a thresh of bedding he sat up, instinctively first looking for his blade. There it was nearby hanging by his head board.

Then he looked at the woman moving next to him but just a shade in the dark. She was shrouded in a slow swirl of shadowy wisps.

Impossible this is a dream…or…my hell of the afterworld. He thought. What is happening here?  A succubus? He had heard many a tale in his life of travel and adventure. Demons were not unheard of. He knew enough to know perhaps he was unqualified to judge what was an angel or a demon. For indeed, either type of being, in its superiority, could manipulate a mere mortal, such as himself, into believing what they may.

An angel, assumedly, would not lie. A demon quite naturally might lie. If a demon did lie, one can most reasonably assume it would claim to be an angel over any claim to be a demon. Although it could claim to be about anything.

“Stop it now!” she cruelly barked.

Quite naturally his thoughts stopped. He knew that ‘his thoughts’ was what she meant. This realization alone hit hard and he crumpled inside.

“Listen mortal worm.” She lowered her voice as she put her hands on his shoulders and her mound back across his thigh. “You need not question a thing. In fact, I prefer you didn’t think!”

Ensorcelled! He knew it was true. He felt his conviction, his autonomy slipping. Whatever this is, I can submit a bit. What harm in a dip into pleasures long abandoned. There is no guarantee of a tomorrow at my age nor my occupation. I leave no heirs to shame.

He swirled down a vortex of justifications that came forth from an ethos he did not believe.  However, they were somehow his now and he would be redeemed and a child would come of it to…, there they were a this then…my mind bungles…

The confusion was his clue. Nothing holy would do such.

“Wouldn’t it?” she queried then grunted obscenely.

He jumped up and fumbled looking about for his matches and the handlamp. 

The woman was giggling in a mocking tone. 

"Oh, you need to see? " she said with seemingly innocent concern. 

The room coruscated with gathering motes of light and brightened. 

He first noticed a shabby pair of angel wings with shoulder straps that lay on the floor.

These props seemed even more mundane and tasteless as they contrasted with the adjacent spectacle.

Shadows coalesced on the bed with the vague shape of a pregnant woman on her knees with legs spread. She reached up to grab an ancient iron spike, corroded and worn to a shape more akin to a twig. It was stabbed into a spot in midair slightly above supporting the full weight of the tar black woman.  

Whispers of too many voices swirled around the room. To Sir Calek it seemed to be all the lies he had ever told or heard. 

Thin black liquid began to dribble from her swollen vulva. The apparently soon to be mother bore down smiling and grunting beatifically looking up with her gloating black eyes through dark tousled bangs. 

A long black tongue protruded like a leech folding back on itself between glistening now ebony teeth.

Sir Calek felt revulsion, a sense of dread. Was this dream continuing into nightmares? Was this Hell?

 "Don't be alarmed. I know this is a little strange but believe me it leads to your redemption." She continued between discomforting ecstatic gasps.

A little strange? No! His mind swam. This felt foul. This cannot be good. What have I done?

He contemplated grabbing his sword and running her through.

The thought of killing a birthing mother, even an obviously corrupt one, was too much for the knight. 

"See I knew you would pull through. This is a special child. This one is for you. You can raise him and teach him. Pour into him all that you were and that you should have been before you made that dreadful mistake. When you let your pride rule and thousands lost their lives." she solemnly stated with calm her gaze boring deep into him as a glistening black skinned crown began forcing its way out. 

She kept him locked in her numbingly calm gaze.

Held such he began to notice flickers of far reaching consciousness in those eyes. This was a goddess and he suspected which one it may be. This suspicion made him all the more uncomfortable. Therefore, even more so than the demon or angel. He was but a pawn or less.

He must do his best to not be destroyed or worse. There is no choice in this but surrender.

Looking up from his thoughts he saw her eyes measuring him.

Again, Calek felt more like a mouse facing a cat than a soon to be father. 

"It is true. I am a goddess.” She said and broke the gaze while she shifted her hips about.

“Don't fear me for I have a purpose for you. Therefore, it would do me no favour to hurt you. You have done the most important part already. Next comes, what you would call, the long part but and I believe for you, the enjoyable part. The part that will give your miserable life some ‘meaning’.” She grabbed him suddenly and near pulled him over as she bore down with a guttural shudder.

“You might say I love you but that would be petty. If you actually understood how important this is… urraaaaghhhh… the import of your participation with me. You are part of the changing world. This son of ours you will raise and teach the way of blades.

You shall love and protect him as your own. Finally, when his destiny calls you shall let him go. This time will be when my servant comes. You will know her by her eyes for they are eyes of smoke.”

He stood against the bed hugging her as she leaned into him on her knees with her screaming grunting drooling snotty face buried into his chest.

In a fickle veer she calmly straightened to continued her speech.

"Who are you?" he demanded, with his voice in a low growl, having to hear what he feared to be true.

"I will do something I rarely do… Etrion. Something I am well known for not doing

“You have puzzled out who I am. It is true. I am the Mother of Lies.

Here is proof of it then; in my great need of you I have been honest.” With barely an indication by her a squirming infant, black as ink, plopped out with a gush of more black fluids onto the linens. Like morning fog, the fluids began to dissipate.

The infant was undersized and thin.

The umbilical spiralling from her distended vagina was wrapped tightly around the baby's neck. The babe writhed silently in obvious distress.

Despite its dubious origins, Calek felt deep concern for the baby. It was but a helpless infant.

 She slipped into a convincing whiny goodwife impersonation with the most sarcastic facial accompaniments. "Are you not going to help him? He is your son. He needs you. See what a bad mother I am." She flopped onto her back and picked up his warrior’s pendant, ignoring her child and casually ejected the black placenta.

The infant struggled with a mortality it had known so briefly.

Studying the pendant, she gave a snorting laugh of derision. When Calek looked she caught his eye, mugged at him defiantly and flung it out the window. 

The newborn writhed, still gasping.

She picked up the tattered keep’s logbook and began to casually leaf through it tearing out pages and disappearing them into dissolving wisps of shadow. 

Calek rushed up and tended to the baby with a frantic but delicate dedication until he had freed it from the coils. With great uncertainty he drew his dirk and cut the cord and did his best to tie the stiff slimy cord into a knot.

Wrapping the snuffling bobbing baby in his dirty linen shirt he backed away from her with a scowl as he moved closer to his sword on the wall. 

She looked at him with exaggerated disbelief then motioned for him to bring the babe, which he did. Immediately after he placed it on her breast the infant bobbed its head imploringly until it hit a nipple. It began to greedily suck with brief gasping pauses.

 She evoked a long sshhhh that subtly morphed into quiet words sung in a haunting whisper.

"Some call me the Song of the New Moon, the Night Wind or The Lady of the Twisted Tongue. The Oath Breaker and The Thief of Trust.

I was around when Huit was born and I have corrupted his many sons.

Yet, for all my wiles my kin thanks me not.

I have fooled the sun god more than once.

I tricked Ugrilik into forging chains for The Flame.

And for the love of a stone I blinded Pradiki's pet in vain." 

Calek stepped back as her rhythmic words pushed him back in heart sinking awe. His hand going to the periapt of Thalgrom hanging from his neck that was not there.

He was of the small remainder that still seriously revered the old Gods of The Great Court. He had always longed for their return. But not this one he never wanted to face.

Tunini, the Mistress of Shadows and Mother of Lies. 

"Yes, you are right. I am She. Don't be alarmed.

The theologies have never done me justice. They leave out all the gain from my endeavours.

Lies have saved more lives than they have taken.

How many lives have you been responsible for being lost or saved? I know and I will share. It is exactly 7237 to 235. Impressive, even if unbalanced, numbers both ways.

So now you ARE redeemed by this one child.” She looked down upon the nursing babe in adoration.

Something about seeing this villain show motherly affection angered him

“Granted it lives to see its eleventh year. Your path to redemption is simple." 

He had known the approximations of how many had been lost in that battle, still the deep shame of what the numbers said so precisely and bluntly was staggering.

Redemption was all he desired but not like this, being badgered by a Goddess of ill repute.

A rooster crowed in the yard outside the window as the dawn light breaking over the predawn mists entered the chamber and his temptress winked out of existence. Leaving a night skinned babe asleep on the bed.

The babe’s sleep was brief and late morning found him tired and desperate from attempting to comfort the newt of an infant, his son. It refused the oat water Gither said should work. Then it became desperate for milk the knight did not have.

This would not do. This innocent must eat.

He spurred his squire’s piebald steed towards the village of Anyar where he could pay or, if need be, commandeer a wet nurse into service.  If any priests of The High Church interfered he would deal with them then. He had heard of a cabal of pagan Vates in the region. Perhaps they could help give advice on raising a… demigod.

No. None could know the truth. He heard himself thinking. Och, already the Mistress of Lies embroils me into the half-truths of obfuscation.

Towards late afternoon Calek had not made the distance he had hoped he would. Rain soaked through his heavy riding cloak into his filthy gambeson.

The wet spring’s muck and mire still haunted him.

The horse was mud caked and unenthused. Coaly’s gelding was already of mediocre grade and working with him challenged one’s patience. The young horse was not only stubborn but rather daft.

The drizzle of the day had finally subsided and shafts of sunlight played hues of rose and saffron on the cloud edges.

A brief respite before it got worse. The old cavalier could see a storm wall coming in from the dank Marshes of Srangel to the west.

This slow pace added to the anxiety fostered by the now listless and softly bleating child.

He could make out the low thatch of a crofters’ stead behind hedgerows and coppiced stands of hawthorn. Cow bells clanked in the distance. 

He could try to push on to Anyar knowing it would cost the life of the mount in the end.

There would be no way to keep his son dry in the oncoming deluge. 

Beyond anything the babe needed milk.

He weighed his options, pushing his reason through the fog of exhaustion.

Cow bells meant cows. Cows meant milk. This was a blessing and only minutes away. 

Erwelk, the crofters’ second eldest son, was accommodating, albeit, thrown off by a knight visiting. It was awhile until he had composed himself to inform Calek that he dreamed of soldiering someday.

The knight could already see the naive lad lying dead in arrow ridden felt armour or with his skull crushed by a destrier on the battlefield. Laying a wasted life whose last meal was filthy water and a handful of rye kerns.

He did absolutely nothing to encourage the simple young man’s dreams. 

Indeed, as he went about he exaggeratingly highlighted the benefits of a crofter’s life. Honest work, caring for your family, your family caring for you. Actually holding your grand child. Creating a safe, loving home. Things he wished he had known.

The practical matters of his visit were tended to by Erwelk’s younger cousin, Miranka who was initially reluctant to interact with the stranger but quickly responded with clear headed and competent support when the infant began screaming. 

Erwelk claimed to be honoured to be of service. Despite the young man’s pride in his stead Calek could sense the unease of having him and a black as night skinned baby in their hovel. 

Even the tongue and inside of the mouth of the babe was black. The only break from black on the wee thing were the whites of its eyes. For even its irises were black.

Soon the inkling, as Sir Calek began to call it, now slept swaddled in Miranka’s lap sated on warm fresh milk sucked from a soaked rag.

Calek brooded pacing in front of the hearth.

Erwelk busied himself mending some leather tack at the heavy walnut table with constant glances at Calek's sword and scabbard hanging on a chair back. Calek could almost see the ridiculous visions of battle heroics filling the bumpkins head.

The rest of their family had gone to Anyar with a wain full of cider and cheeses. They would return in a day or two. The only sounds were the drizzle outside and plops as a large pot of gruel and whey for the piglets’ morning feed simmered on the hearth. 

As the four busied about the bucolic scene, ebullient sounds began issuing through the door. A mass of water flooded under the door. It flowed abnormally upward to form into an undulating mass. This, in turn, resolved into the form of the opulent figure of a naked comely woman made of naught but water. The fiery light of hearth and candle reflected from her in shards contrasting with her bluish translucent watery curves. Her hair itself was a waterfall around a heart shaped face dominated by eyes with intent and ancient wisdom. 

The three people stood transfixed. 

"I have been sent for this child" her voice bubbled out like a capricious brook.

With no indication, she suddenly flowed towards Miranka. 

Snapping out of his trance Calek, moved with the speed and grace he was still known for. He grabbed his sword from the chair and smoothly flicked away the scabbard on his way as he moved between the being and the young startled Miranka who clutched the babe.

"No! This is my son!" He yelled, and salvation, he thought.

He also wondered how a sword could hurt water. 

"Yes, you were used as a stud in a most egregious manner by one with no honour.

This child must live despite that. I am only here to ensure this happens.” Her voice steadied to the authority of an ocean wave. Steady, strong and unquestionable.

"With what authority can you claim to have rights over the child's fate?" Calek said with a challenging conviction that showed his belief in his divinely given right.

The two young crofters watched and listened paralyzed with growing fear.

“She promised you redemption, did she not?

Be secure in knowing it will come. But not if You keep this child.” She eyed his blade. “You CAN NOT stop me from my task.

Hear now! There are ancient Dark Entities, many of them, that are more vile than even his own mother. These Dark Entities do not wish this child to realize his destiny.

Entities you could never protect him from.  

He goes to a safe place. If Fate wills it, you will see him again.

As far as authority goes, I have been sent by one who answers to few others in the Higher Realms. The Crone of the Seas, Great Mother of Rivers and Maiden of the Spring. The Triple goddess Matama herself! 

So now you can understand there is no stopping me from my duties." she said stepping close. Close enough he could feel her cool humidity.

Stepping back, he cleaved a broad stroke at her midriff. He knew it was a bad idea as soon as he executed it. As he expected the blade slashed ineffectively through her torso which reconnected, like water does. The lack of resistance threw off his balance for a split second. Only he noticed.

She seemed nonplussed as if she had expected it. 

"Don't push me to violence. I abhor it." She said with a hint of menace as she flowed closer. 

"How do I know any of this is true? I'm beginning to not trust the deities themselves." He blurted in wide eyed concern, his sword held at impotently ready. 

Suddenly Calek felt powerless and used, deflated. He knew that he was defeated. All his war craft was obsolete facing this adversary.

His renewed hope brought on by the prospect of being a father, of having someone to love and someone to love him was gone.

He plummeted back into his dejected self-loathing he had wallowed in for decades.

After a long silent pause, he picked up the sleeping baby and handed it, now wrapped in a fleece, to the entity. 

Taking the bundle in one arm with a mother’s familiarity, her other arm she raised towards Calek she spoke. "One more thing, this child is so sacrosanct and its hunters so capable that none but you can know of him for any and all other mortals it is forbidden." She spoke slow and steady the words sending a wash of doom to flood Calek as he realized what was likely to come.

“This exception is a boon due by your relation.” She continued in a serious tone. 

"They are innocent. They should be rewarded for their hospitality. They ..." His words diminished as he gestured to the two young crofters. There was no stopping any of this. He may as well be that chair. His grey-haired head bowed in capitulation. He meekly tossed his blade to the ground and turned away.

"Go now Sir Calek. Go do your best in what life you have remaining. Know already your redemption is real and complete." She softly spoke now, like a gentle rain.  

Without a word Calek opened the door downcast with slumped shoulders. 

"Calek?" 

"What now?" the welling frustration of loss came through in his voice. He did not turn around.

"I’m sorry about this. I'm sorry about your squire. But no others can know." 

He closed the door behind him stepping into the dark and the rain.

His periapt, the one he had just searched for after his rapist had tossed it from the window, he plucked from under his gambeson and tossed it far into the night and mud. He didn’t deserve it any more than Erwelk.

The words a long-lost friend came again for the second time tonight.

WITHOUT FEAR, WITHOUT HOPE, WE FIGHT, AS WE MUST.

Or not…he thought.

Emmy awkwardly shuffled the large bone cards that were big for her little hands. A sad looking thin young Treole woman came in with a platter of food and set it down in front of Madame Fem. Then the girl pulled out some cutlery rolled in a napkin and placed neatly by the plate. She was a waif of a girl, maybe 15 years old. Under her apron she wore a muted dun coloured jacket and layers of long skirts, as was the Calbrin fashion, these over a tired looking off white blouse that was ornately embroidered in the blocky red and yellow Calbrinese patterns. She gave furtive glances towards Emmy. Her hands were wrapped in bandages.

“Thank you my dear Ritia. Get a small plate for our guest too, please.” Fem commanded.

Ritia put down a small set of salt and pepper shakers pulled from her apron. She scuttled off.

Emmylou cut the cards, deck #2, and set them adjacent to the smaller all trumps deck, deck #1, she had already prepared. She had a big question, where is Lyrick Lastat.

The aroma of the gumbo and andouille sausages was pleasantly distracting. Fem sopped up some sauce with a torn chunk of baguette and bit in with her strong teeth and robust jaws. As she dabbed her lips with the napkin, she asked around the bread. “Finished?” she pointed to the deck. Emmy nodded. “Now burn his name.”

Emmy held the strip of script in the flame of a red candle in a blown glass tumbler painted with some saint holding a man faced cat. She held it until it burnt to her finger tips. Then she dropped it onto a small lapis tray. In silence they watched it turn black, curl and turn to white ash with a stream of white smoke swirling out of it.

First, the court card Knight of Wands was chosen for the significator (Lyrick).

Emmy drew three cards and laid them in the spread that Fem instructed her to between her bites. Emmylou’s fare was delicious but it was cold and it was indeed a little plate with tiny portions. Gone in four bites. Either Fem was unaware of the Flirnii appetite, was being rude or was taking care of herself first and foremost. Emmy would never know. Not with this woman.

These three cards were to provide a brief story providing general developments in the situation.

After taking a moment to finish her meal she looked them over. “Three of Swords reversed; recovery & forgiveness. Ten of Swords; collapse & failure. Justice reversed; dishonesty & unaccountability.” Madame Fem stated in succession.

The next three were to reveal underlying or motivational forces behind the narrative of the upper row. “The Emperor reversed; tyranny & coldness. Justice; clarity & truth. The Hermit; the search for truth.

He is healing from the past by putting relationships back together but that relationship is also coming to a sad and bitter end. There is also dishonesty and corruption he contends with. This is all happening as part of some quest. There is some truth he seeks or must deliver. This truth will bring a reckoning and shine into the darkest shadows. Presently he is imprisoned but he is also needed, therefore, he should be safe, for now.”

The last three were for Emmylou’s relationship to the situation. They were drawn from deck #2, the full deck. “The Moon reversed; confusion & fear.” The next card caused Fem to pause and release a long slow whistle. It was The Moon again but not reversed. “Hmmm…The Moon; illusions & intuition.” Emmylou was lost in thoughts. Was this some trick of the witch? A prank? She was not a card reader but she knew that a deck had but one of each card. “Go on.” Fem gently prodded. “The Wheel of Fortune; cycles, change & inevitable fate.”

They sat in silence staring at the cards as Ritia arrived and took their dishes. “Please, send the young woman up dear Ritia.” When they were alone again, Fem slid Emmy’s coin back to her. “I can’t read that, other than, that you are on a special path. Pay attention to the moon, I reckon.”

Doti had her reading with Emmy there. She asked for just a general reading. “Six of Cups; happy memories & healing. Knight of Cups; Idealistic & romantic.” “Ooh!” Dot tittered and flipped her third card. The crone droned on, “The Wheel of Fortune reversed; bad luck & loss of control.” Dot’s face creased with worry. “Keep your head out of the clouds, girl.” Madame Fem sternly continued. “The world isn’t as innocent and kind as you think.”

Haver Street 9:11 pm, Sowenmoon 24th, 456 NE The two cohorts caroused Haver Street as it started to fill with the night crowd. They snacked on boiled sweetcorn on the cob, tacos lengua dripping with grease and fresh salsa. They washed it down with some sarsaparilla root beer. Doti started laughing uncontrollably as they watched a fire breather. There was literally nothing funny about it which made Doti’s laughing at it all the funnier.

Quickly the two of them were near disabled with laughter spawned by the most banal of things. They had wandered into a procession of musicians and revellers. It was difficult to control her navigation. It was about then that Emmy realized her vision was blurry. Both her and Doti were staggering. Being trampled is a real concern for the small Flirnii. Drunken crowds in near dark playing loud music sre exactly where something like this could happen.

“I think something is off.” She was saying as she turned to Doti. Her friend was no longer at her side.

Doti was up on the shoulder of a mummer in white and wearing a full knight’s helm made of tin. Dot and the mummer were raising mugs together, sloshing suds on themselves. He was surrounded by six other mummers also dressed in white and raising sudsy mugs. One had a small keg strapped to his back.

“Isss the Knight of Cuspes!” she howled then slumped. The knight craddled her gently as she slid down. Emmy then realized Pan was gone! She stopped and frantically looked around calling for him, trying to sense him. How could she have lost him? Her vision was full double now. The mummers were moving away, sinking into the night and the crowd. “Dot! Wait! My friend!” she ran towards them falling once and bouncing off people, barely staying up right. She caught up with them. “My friend, she…” her words were cut short as a cloth with a chymical odour was clasped over her mouth. She lost consciousness.

Lakeside, Naurlinz 10:05pm, Sowenmoon 24th, 456 NE When she came to she was groggy, disoriented and her head was pounding. She tried to move but was restrained and slung over a shoulder crushing her abdomen. There was jostling torch light. Sounds of boots hustling and the laboured breathing of men.

By force of will she pushed her consciousness up. She was in the rear of the group. They were in an alleyway, low wood fences, shacks and bushes. By the smell, she was closer to the water. Was it the lake or the river though?

She was gagged and wrapped tightly in a cloak. From what she could tell they had removed their white mummery. Their pace was slowing. “Hoosh, less take a breather.” A gruff voice up ahead panted as quietly as his heaving lungs would allow.

“Nah, sooner we drop these two off the sooner we get paid.”

A second nasally voice replied. “Melon, you just gonna give it all to the tables anyhoo.”

A third very deep voice slurred. “Sooner we get these two there, and get paid, the sooner we can get some more and get paid again. The night is young and so are the girls. Sides, we got only a week before we ship out.”

A fourth practical sounding voice, probably the leader, added to the conversation. “This one is starting to squirm.” Said the man carrying her and it about made her jump out of her skin.

“Thish one ish limp ash a rag.” A fifth lispy voice piped up very close by. Doti was right there. She had had two root beers. Emmy’s worry for her friend made her want to struggle free and help her. To get her away and safe. Her focus was hard to maintain with the disorienting drugs and the headache.

“Benny, Dodge, Art, you three go scout ahead make sure things are clear, specially Bongo street. Wait for us by Ruby’s” The fourth voice commanded.

Bongo street; Emmylou was not familiar with it. She heard the three men leave. “Letsh have a lil’ look at thish giry. Shee wash ish under the fanshy dresh. Sheesh a lil’ dolly.” The fifth voice lecherously drawled. The other three chuckled.

Emmy listened as her friend’s dress was stripped and torn while the pigs made lustful sounds and lewd comments. In her position she could see nothing. Whenever she tried to wiggle to see better The man who held her made no comments though. “Unsullied, Narm! Lookin’ is fine. But be careful what you put where. Kay, pack ‘er up. Let’s get a going.”

Then, she heard small soft feet running towards her, towards the back of the man who held her. It was Fabian! The two made brief eye contact before he hunched over and balled up as he smashed into the back of her captor’s legs. The man buckled forward sending the bundle that was Emmylou flying through the air as he rushed to get his hands in front. She landed hard, knocking the wind out of her. She saw Fabian getting up. Two of the men were swinging around from the hips wide eyed with surprise. A third one was stomping about hunched over rubbing his face and spitting curses. Wulgar was in front of the latter lifting the limp mostly naked Dot over his shoulder. The torch lay sputtering on the ground. A gaggle of guard geese in a nearby yard began honking. Dogs began barking. Emmylou caught her breath and began thrashing about trying to loosen the wrapping. Fabian came towards her. In one hand he had a short cudgel. Her captor, who was between her and Fabian, started to get up. Fabian cracked him on the head. He bellowed with rage, leapt up and whipped out a wicked knife.

A flash and a boom startled everyone as a disgruntled neighbour fired of a warning shot from a blunderbuss. The two ‘swinging men’ lurched towards Wulgar in a grapple. Wulgar jumped into a hedge and disappeared with Dot. The two men chased him but got hung up in the acacia brush.

Torches started to appear in the backyards. The torch on the ground was but a flicker. The gibbous moonlight was dimmed by clouds.

“Let’s get out of heere, wer’ gonna get lynched.” Fourth man said. Fourth man and the other one of the two grabbed the man with chili pepper in his eyes and started off. The captor with the knife swiped at Fabian before turning to follow his peers. The torch flickered out.

Fabian rushed to her fumbling in the dark to help her get free. “I’ve got ya Emmy. Everything’s gonna be just fine ya hear.” His soft gravelly voice strained to contain his panic. Something wet and warm was splashing on her face. The salty thick taste of blood trickled into her mouth. “You’re gonna…be…fine…” his voice trailed off. His fumbling ceased. She could just make out his silhouette swaying. “Mother of man! Fabian! Fabian!” Emmy screamed and frantically struggled. She heard a hustled rustle in the bushes.

“errr…” Fabian released her as he slumped in the dark. There was a loud scratch and light burst forth as Wulgar moved up cupping a large match. He had a look of disbelief of what lay before him. Fabian laying coated in blood with his hand on his neck. Blood flowed between his fingers. “Stop the bleeding!” Emmy demanded. This snapped Wulgar into action. He pulled off his leather jacket. Then ripped off his shirt, wadded it up and dropped to his knees. He tenderly pulled Fabians hand away before placing the fabric over the gash on the side of Fabians neck.

“You’re gonna be fine buddy.” Wulgar stroked his friend’s dark curly hair. Tears were welling up in his eyes. “Wulgar. Wulgar.” Fabian whispered. “Yes, Fabian, yes.” Wulgar sobbed. “Promise…promise me…promise me that…that you will always and forever keep Emmy safe.” “Yes, I will Fabian. ‘Cept you ain’t gonna die on me Fabian.” Them he followed up in an angry voice “You ain’t!”

Emmy continued to struggle without avail.

“Promise. Swear it Wulgar. Please, she is all…” he faded out.

“Fabian! Fabian! No. Oh dear, please no.” Wulgar pleaded.

Fabian snapped to. “Swear it. Please…” he began to close his eyes.

“I swear it!” Wulgar swore hoping it would bring his friend back. “I swear it for the rest of her natural life I shall do my best to not let harm come her way.” “Thank you… Wulgar…you are the…the best friend…friend… I could ever have…had. Keep… her safe…She is all that they…” Fabian’s back arched as he groaned sickenly with eyes wide open. Then he collapsed, shuddered a few times and lay still.

Emmy finally came free and put an arm around the blubbering Wulgar

The neighbours came out cautiously and well-armed. They were suspicious at first with all the blood and a body. Once they realized it was only victims, they were helpful and sympathetic. Doti was retrieved from the wood shed Wulgar had stashed her in. Her clothes were put back on by matrons and she was handed some coffee as she came to under a kerosene lamp and a dozen womens’ eyes. She was on a daybed in a rustic parlour with Wulgar and her dead brother.

She did not take the last part well. She began wailing. Emmy rushed in from calling Pan. All of them were crying. Emmy and Wulgar sandwiched hugged Doti over Fabians body.

Despite the tragedy, Emmylou could not help but worry about Pan.

Navigating Haver Street at this time of day, especially for the wee Flirnii women, is an entertaining, confusing and occasionally threatening (but rarely mortally so) pursuit. The famous, or rather infamous, street runs along the north side of the colourful Uleoin quarter. During the day it is a thoroughfare that humps up in the middle at Harlots’ Hill connecting Lakefront to Riverfront. By night; casinos, brothels and saloons are stuffed with eager pleasure seekers. Buskers perform in the streets and Naurlinz’s distinct jaunty Treole music carries out from the saloons. Street vendors with a myriad of goods, legal and suspect, half of which are food carts all crowd the wide boulevard. Crier’s for all sorts of goods and services bellow their grift. The occasional lay philosopher or evangelist shouts over it all from whatever elevations they can gain like a soap box. Every clade and class of people can be found; rich, poor, Gensii, Nander, Sovanii, Xape, Flirnii and Treole all with a tendency to hedonism, opportunity and liberal ideas.

Madame Fem’s is up a stair in a courtyard reached from an alleyway off of Haver Street. The brightly painted archway is adorned with sigils. Charms and oddities; bright and new, faded and ancient hang like curtains of tree moss. The shadows within seem to shift independent of any light source. There is a clowder of cats that occupies the area and there are 12-30 there at any given time. Locals feed them with near reverence. This is where Emmy and Doti arrived at sunset, stuffed after gorging themselves on corndogs, battered sweetbreads, honey wings and peach bourbon pie at the street stands. They were alone except for the cats and an old raggedy man above them who was lighting the lanterns hung from the mezzanine. This illuminated the courtyard casting long low shadows about the space cluttered with looming patinated wooden totems and large pots holding exotic plants. The totems’ sea shell teeth and eyes seemed to have sinister intent. Shells yellowed by age gave a pall of hepatic eyes and tobacco stained teeth. Unwholesome. Yet the atmosphere had that soothing feeling after sunset on a hot day. The buzzing of cicadas came and went.

Emmy had a sense of dread. Perhaps it was just a clash of this with her bright and carefree day.

Doti’s exuberant voice broke her mounting inward tension. “She is said to be the best soothsayer in all Naurlinz. It is said she is from the lands of the Cloud People in the heart of Gemt. I don’t think the bad rumours are true.” with her voice lowering on the latter words. She stared into the mysterious archway.

“What bad rumours Dot?” Emmy’s dread began to resurface. Simultaneously, she tried to keep her hat on as she tried to control Pan. He was likely having anxiety about the 23 cats. As the marten scurried about her neck, head and arms she eyed the cats with suspicion.

The cats sat in a circle around them. They calmly gave slow blinks as they nodded at each other.

“Oh, supposedly she takes a small part of your soul with each reading and that The Church cannot do a thing about her because she has pieces of the Bishop’s soul. Her cats are spies and assassins too. Also, she has supposedly had five husbands she has outlived. She has a goose that lays golden eggs. Things like that.”

“What is bad about golden eggs?”

“It prolly isn’t true, is all.”

A small elderly tortoise shell calico, with an air of being the matron of this clowder, sauntered up to them with tail high and slowly waving. Purring as it wove its way around their legs a few times. Doti gave the molly the cock’s heart she had been told to bring. After the cat ate the heart, Doti gave her the small cloth pouch that held the quid of tobacco and a lump of salt that was a customary offering with any wise one. The cat took the pouch and scuttled into the charm cloaked stairwell. The two women followed.

At the top a bright blue door had a skull with flaming eyes at its center. At the bottom was another door set in it. It was small, orange and perhaps two-foot tall. Bunches of feathers and fresh herbs and flowers surrounded the door with their aroma mixing with the faint smoke of a strange and not unpleasant incense leaking from the room beyond. They heard what sounded like someone hustling about rapidly closing cupboards on the other side. Then it stopped. Silence. Then, a jingle. Long silence. The cat sat calmly in front of the small door. The long silence continued. “What’s taking so long.” Doti whispered as she reached for Emmy’s hand.

“I don’t know but maybe this isn’t such a great idea right now. I’m pretty tired.” Emmylou whispered back. The dread was increasing. She wasn’t really that tired. She was nervous.

BRAAAMP!!

“Aaaah!” they both screamed simultaniously. Emmylou, quick as a cricket, ducked to the side and onto the stairs for cover. Unconsciously reached for her small pepperbox pistol and prepared to summon magic. Pan was alert with his back erect. He peered over the rise of the top step. Doti was frozen in place. The old cat was nonplussed.

The small door had opened with what sounded like a blast on a tuba. Warm yellow light spilled out tinting the little blue door green. A greyish monkey wearing a red fez and vest popped out and eyed them suspiciously as he reached for the pouch from the cat. He sniffed the little bag and his suspicious demeaner waned. Putting an arm around the cat’s shoulder like a confidant he whispered in what sounded more like Treole than monkey. The cat nuzzled him and pranced off. Turning to the ladies as he deftly stashed the pouch in his fez he bowed deeply. Then stood with an air of resignation. Coming up closer, he seemed to first notice Pan. He got a mischievous grin, waved his arms to follow him, began whistling a tune and opened the larger door while closing the smaller door with his tail. A vast room was revealed. They walked in trying to take it all in. He closed the door behind them.

A small yellow lantern hung above a table covered with a white linen. A high backed plush red velvet chair sat on one side. Two three legged stools sat opposite. A low buffet and some leather cases were between. There was a haze in the air that carried that strange fragrance but there was the tarnish of a thousand scents; herbs, chymicals, musk, bourbon, menthol, kerosene, lavender, cedar, perique, metal, boudin blood sausage, lightning. The monkey ambled across to a nook in the room, hopped up onto an arm chair, picked up a book, opened it plucking the bookmark out and tucking it in his fez with his tail as he began thoughtfully reading.

A ceiling lost in shadows and dramatic lighting from sconces, braziers, candles and lamps placed in themed altars. All water, turtles, gators and mother themes to the north. Stallions, phoenixes and fire to the south. To the west, metals, lots of large cauldrons, an iron maiden, a suit of fine enameled plate armour, weapons and tools all piled haphazardly. Finally, to the east, from whence they entered, wooden objects both practical and aesthetic, as well as, plenty of raw timber, bundles of twigs and wicker baskets with lids were stacked about. Surrounding and pulling it all together were simple wooden shelves stacked with carefully labeled and evenly spaced jars, bottles, numerous skulls of many creatures, bundles of feathers, dried critters, an astrolabe, and other witchy kind of stuff.

Excepting the metal side, the place was remarkably tidy and organized. A magnificent life like carving of a woman with almond shaped eyes and dainty features was formed from a singular cherry tree with its branches her hair greeted them directly creating a bit of a foyer. There was a low wooden bench with an ornate spiralling rug in front.

Pan refused to come in. Oddly, Emmy didn’t feel fear coming from him. It was just like, this is a place I don’t go.

“Please remove your shoes. I’m just preparing some tea.” An elderly woman’s voice came from somewhere. They sat and did so. Then Emmylou saw the books. A narrow wood door was slightly open into a room. A library. A small but well-stocked library as the bookshelves went high. The door suddenly closed.

She caught the monkey looking at her shrewdly. Looking away as soon as she looked at him. He was puffing on a cigarillo held by his tail and absently twirling a snifter of brandy as he refocused on his book. She looked away. Then she quickly looked back. Again he was looking and looked away quickly. They repeated this a few times. Until the monkey just stared with a look that seemed to be pity.

She came out of somewhere with a tea set on a tray. The venerable woman with white hair moved like and had the posture of a young woman. She nodded towards the table and stools as she headed to them. They went over and sat down. Other than being old and wrinkly, she was not what Emmylou had expected. She wore a simple well-worn woolen dress and a modest pair of pearl earrings. That was it. Even her feet were bare. After setting the tray on the buffet and pouring tea for the three of them, she sat and looked at them with pale, soul searching yet detached eyes. She then focused in on Emmy, holding her gaze. Emmy knew that Madame Fem knew she was a witch and she knew that Madame Fem knew that Emmy knew that she knew. Emmy hoped she was holding as good a poker face as the fortune teller was.

“So, ladies, what will it be today?” With a long pause she gazed into their souls then spoke again, “How deep are we going?”

Something about the last question made Emmy nervous, like she wanted to crawl out of herself. Her spine tingled. She thought about the bouquet protecting her. Wait, what if Fem knew she had it in her basket? What if that set Fem off? Had she made some great offense already? “All the way down!” Doti enthusiastically stated much louder than necessary. Madame Fem seemed to not notice, whilst, from across the room, the monkey watched Doti closely in absolute stillness.

“Very well, young woman. That is an impossible journey. There is no bottom. Just as, there is no top. However, there are places and spaces with in IT ALL that can be beneficial to visit. These spaces, I may add, may be inside you, outside you, both inside and outside you or neither inside nor outside you. I know its confusing and seems a bunch marfuffle, buuutt…that’s how it works. So, a general reading then?” she gave Doti a ‘no bullshit’ look. “Okay! Then can I ask questions?” Doti chirped enthusiastically in despite being a bit horn-swaggled from the crone’s verbal twirling.

“Of course, dear, you can always ask questions.” She paused and thought. “Actually, in your case, I am going to reserve the right to refuse.” The old woman drawled. “Palms.”

Doti put her hands onto the table. Madame Fem rummaged in a gator skin case for a few items that she placed on the table. She shook a simple shaker of white powder over Doti’s hands. Then blew it off, lifted up her hand flipped it over three times and asked Doti her birthday. “Lion’smoon 20th, I’m a Lion.”

“Yes, yes, a proud momma of a pride, a Lioness.” The old lady mumbled.

Fem extrapolated clues from Doti’s palms and her astrology. She was no nonsense, insightful and wise. She helped Doti allow herself to resolve a few things about life too petty to mention. Emmy could see it was basic archetype therapy and it was well done. By the end she was a bit jealous and eager for her turn. Emmy noticed the lady was long in the tooth, but the teeth were strong and in full attendance. This woman had at least discovered means for health into old age. Some say that a witch being barren is why they reportedly live very long lives.

“So, your cards now?” Fem asked Doti. Emmylou felt disappointed that she was not getting ‘treatment’ and was about to assert herself when Doti spoke up in reaction to her empathy with Emmylou.

“I think Emsy wants a spin.”

“Dooo Yooo?” Fem drawled with a raised eyebrow and a deadly serious look.

Emmy swallowed. “Yes, well yes, I really liked what you did. What I saw you do…”

The old lady gave a dry laugh and leaned in close whispering, “I will do you a favour little one. I will share something that might keep you alive a bit longer.” She came in closer with the faintest of a whisper. “If you are a witch, never let a witch you don’t know very, very well read your palms, touch your familiar or brush your hair. I am guessing there is much more you do not know. That, could be very dangerous in the real world.” She leaned back with one raised brow and an inquisitive look.

This made Emmylou feel tiny and foolish on top of her uneasiness. “Well…do you?” she asked again. Emmy couldn’t bring a coherent thought to words. Fem sat looking and likely had a good idea where Emmy was at in her thoughts.

“Ol’ Scratchy!” Fem barked to her side, startling the two maidens. “Take this one” she gestured with her head towards Doti. “down to the parlour for some vittles.” Without looking up from his book the monkey, Ol’ Scratchy, used his tail to slowly butt his cigarillo out then draw out the bookmark from his fez. He began to turn the page. Obviously, what he was reading was engrossing.

“Dammit, Scratch! Now!” she snapped. He huffed, sipped his brandy, mumbled something, put the book down, jumped off the stuffed arm chair and with a slouching saunter moved over to Doti. Doti and Emmy shared a brief look of support for each of the other’s fear and exhilaration. Ol’ Scratchy proffered his hand, which Doti took, and led the wee woman away.

Once they were out of the room, Madame Fem spoke as she tidied her instruments on the table.

“I see a fighter in front of me. No one gets scars like that any other way. Your stance. Your perceptiveness. One needs only look and watch you to understand this.

In case you have ideas, I don’t want another apprentice right now. Not sure if the guild would even let me. I haven’t been to the last few meetings and the way things are changing around here, who knows.

I have further advice, my dear, if you plan on working in this town you best join the guild. If you are just travelling through, which we suspect you are, don’t be working any spells or hexes either. Them kinds doing such can disappear. Old Fem, she stays outta peoples’ business, doesn’t go that route. Some of us though. Well, let’s just say you have been warned.”

After pouring the last of the jasmine tea into Emmy’s cup she got up and began putting away her tools. “If you do want to join the guild, and it is not without it perks as well as obligations, you will need to be vetted first. Then you will have to pledge to a coven, there are three in town. To join a coven, you would need a sponsor. Getting a sponsor depends on your skill, merit, personality and for some buffoons, appearance. Shall I arrange for you to be vetted?”

“I would like to think on all that, actually.” Emmy replied poker faced.

“Probably wise. While you are here, I can still do a card reading for you, if you like.” The matron looked neutral about it, like this was a consolation prize.

After what she had said earlier; was this already a test of trust or was it a test of shrewdness? Or maybe she was being honest. She seemed nice enough. Or did she want information? Worse, did she mean harm? Emmylou stopped as she was draining her tea, “Sure, why not.”

“What answers do you seek?” the crone asked pulling out a blocky wrap of purple cloth tied with a long thin braid of blond hair and unwrapped a well-used stack of thin ivory cards.”

“I seek to find my leader, Lyrick Lastat.”

“Very well a vignette for a lost person. A person I have actually met, long ago.

She has met him? This left Emmy stunned. Fem watched and drank in the impact.

“But first payment.” Fem clarified.

Uncle Thuenberk was the fun uncle that Reken learned more about life from than from his father.

The frequent long visits to his uncle’s farm, The Farm as it were, was the highlight of his youth.

Reken’s father was a harsh man that was gone for work night, day and often weeks or even months. When he was home, he wanted silence. He sat in the dim lit parlour where he would sit quietly frowning in his signature tweed suit, smoking cigars and drinking brandy while staring into an unknown void

Reken was not sure what his father did exactly other than ‘provide security and take care of problems’ that arose in the family business, Dinker Detective Agency. The agency had grown from a simple coach that Grandpa Leddon Dinker had won gambling. Grandpa was mostly indifferent to his grandkids, who held him in awe due to his dominating presence that made all around him bend to his will.

Rocky, Reken’s father, was the second son of six. The first son, Vesser, had died while ‘working’. Reken knew his father had made a big mistake that led to Vesser’s death. Rocky was now the inheritor of the family business but there was a great tension between Leddon and Rocky over whatever happened when Vesser died. Rocky gave his all to his father’s business hoping for a redemption that would never come.

The financial engine of the agency was guarding the coach lines. Oddly, any competitors always had disaster after disaster. Due to the competitions ‘inadequacies’ the Dinker’s worked the eastern seaboard from Shusits in the north to Gleraga in the south. The other three brothers (Himter, Dagaunt and Unsler) operated in respective regions south of Shusits.

The detective part of the agency was really more commercial sabotage, bounty hunting and running out squatters or Sovanni.

Reker had not been told much about this side. He had deduced it over time. Thus he knew his father was a cold-hearted man that had a lot of blood on his hands. Much that was likely innocent.

Uncle Thuenburk was the youngest of the Dinker boys. He was the biggest and treated as the stupidest. Reker knew the latter to be false. Thuenberk’s perceived stupidity was his lack of assertiveness in the grisly aspects of the business. This, in time, would also come to be known as false by Reker.

In truth, Uncle Thuenberk was quite learned, with an interest in all subjects. He loved knowledge with large library being an attestation to this.

His official occupation was overseeing the breeding, raising and training of the horses whom he treated with great reverence. The horses the agency was known for and being a part of their success.

Yet, his uncle was adamantly businesslike about it showing neither pride nor complaint. Reken was never much part of the horsemanship side of things. This often left him feeling a bit put out. He guessed why, horses seemed to not like him and he found them terrifying. He did learn to ride but never sat at ease or had the control of a ‘real’ horseman.

The big uncle also raised pigs. The swine were well cared for, their pork being annually distributed to family and friends. The swine seemed to just be a hobby of sorts but he had much more passion about it than he did for the horses. The horses were his job. The pigs were his passion.

He shared his observations of the pigs with little Ricky. They would stand watching pigs and discussing all aspects of life.

“Horses are what men pretend to be. Pigs are what they really are.” The uncle often said.

He had no wife nor children. Reken never knew why. He did ask once. The big man said nothing and walked away.

That evening, when his uncle was in the dark creosote patinated sauna, Reken guiltily snuck a peek in the locket hanging with his uncle’s clothes outside. He saw two portraits. One side showed a beautiful Xapii woman with dark hair. The other was a boy about Ricky’s age (eleven at that time). Ricky stared in disbelief. It as as if he looked into a mirror. The boy was identical to Ricky himself. Beyond the guilt for snooping he was shaken by the image. Dropping it, still open, he ran off in shame.

After the sauna Thuenberk, having noticed the open locket, came up looking down with a grave expression. Fear and guilt paralyzed the boy as he thought that that never before seen countenance meant unpleasant repercussions. Instead, he lifted Reken, embracing him in the most tender of a bear hug and began sobbing. An eternity passed before he stopped and set Ricky down. Without a word he turned and left. The subject never again surfaced.

What made the uncle so fun was that he played with Ricky. He often played rough, grappling with him, flinging the boy high above his head and chasing him around The Farm. Chess, catch, marksmanship were in daily order. The woodland strolls where his uncle ‘found his peace’ and ‘learned the true things of life’ were other ways to play.

Reken was a rambunctious boy. It was the visceral contact that most endeared him to the big man.

It was not all fun and games. Thuenberk had many chores for Reken. Cleaning stalls, hauling water, pitching hay, bucking, splitting and stacking firewood. Often he worked with the Gensii farmhands who good naturedly would maneuver Reken’s enthusiasm to doing the bulk of their work while they smoked cheroots, diced or napped.

Uncle Thuenberk believed in optimising one’s physical as well as intellectual abilities. The former was attained through the hygiene, rigorous chores, the calisthenics his uncle drilled him on and catching and subduing weaner pigs. The larger pigs, the breeders, were off limits. His uncle warned with all seriousness that they would eat a man in short order and a boy in even shorter order. Occasionally at night the breeders would break out in a squealing and grunting cacophony. His uncle explained that sometimes they needed to be fed at night.

The calisthenics became a habit. These routines were his way of grounding himself.

Hygiene, however, took Reken many years to succumb to. The boy was always caked with dirt, manure and all the interesting substances boys seem to attract. Banning from the house and forcing Reken to sleep in the barn did not have an effect. The boy liked it.

Thus, for several years Ricky kept a ‘bedroom’ in the barn loft with the cats, who kept him warm. Three came to following him about incessantly weaving about his legs with loud meows or riding on his shoulders as he went about his business. As frustrating as this was for his uncle, Reken could tell another side of the man appreciated the boyishness and maybe even the stubbornness.

It was after seeing the pin worms squirming out of his poop while suffering from a bad case of bacon foot that Reken came around. He even learned to enjoy the sauna and cold plunge routine of his uncle.

It was harder for him to admit that he also enjoyed eating at the table and sleeping in his own room without the cats and their fleas.

The latter, intellectual ability, was also a big challenge. Sitting still enough to read was torture. The words would skitter about without meaning as his body squirmed and, if left unchecked, would pull him outside to run free. Numbers did the same thing. Reken knew that he was not as cognitively capable as his uncle. He knew his uncle knew this. His uncle never once made it an issue.

“Keep trying. You will learn your basic reading, writing and arithmetic. Then you can take them as far as you do or don’t want to.” became a mantra.

The uncle’s regiment was never angrily forced. It was done with firm resolutions, calm patience and sincere encouragement. That being said, the rule was that Reken did not eat until his chores were done. With Reken’s big Nander boy appetite, the threat of a missed meal was adequate. He never actually went hungry. The rare times when discipline was needed. Thuenberk would first instigate a grapple session ‘to get the meanness out’. In these he held back a bit less until Reken was exhausted and defeated.

Reken sometimes wondered if it was his or his uncle’s meanness they were getting out. After the session they would have a rational and mature but heartfelt discussion about the offense.

This would be Ricky’s best life until that fateful day.

Soft mid-morning sunlight tempered by the covered walkway of the east cloister lit the refectory. The décor was humble. A few unlit candelabras hung high. Bare stone walls. Stout dark buffets parked along these walls and several long polished trestle tables with benches was its extent.

There was one remarkable exception at the north end. This one feature drew the eyes. A low altar festooned with garlands of daffodils and burning red candles, broke the spartan theme. This altar was ruled by a half-life sized milky green jade statue of Mother Krina. The divine figure was wearing a gilded loose flowing scarf. That, with her long wild tresses, scarcely covered her breasts and privates leaving little to the imagination.

On tip-toe the figure leapt from atop a pile of writhing fanged serpents cast in bronze, copper and brass with jeweled eyes. Several of the serpents had sunk their ivory fangs into her ankles. Held aloft in her delicate hands was an alabaster infant swaddled with a ragged horse hair buckram cloth. Its lowly and worn nature clashing with the exquisite sculpture.

Cats swarmed about and on the assemblage. They capered while avoiding candle flames and greedily snarfed on the obligatory bit of meal each diner was expected to offer.

The Cats being there, doing that, was one of the thousands of rites and observances made throughout the realm of The Church. Some were universal in The Holy Church but many were colloquial, like this one.

Esther sat alone at the end of a table contemplating the scene attempting to intuit any meaning from it. The baby was Aylmer. The serpents are the Anki from the Old World and Krina was Aylmer’s mother who died in the Exodus. The cats though, that had her stumped. She had not asked, telling herself that she wanted it to be revealed through holy faith.

She had just finished sweeping the refectory and scattering fresh threshes. The scent of lavender and lemon balm had calmed her. She caught herself enjoying the moment, the altar, and its contrast with the plainness of the refectory.

She felt eyes on her. When she looked she saw Allena Wat, a Tuninite inquisitor and fellow soldier in the Company of the Red Dawn. Military wise they served the same cause. Spiritually, ethically, they were antipodal in their concept of the demiurge.

The typically coquettish woman was leaning against a wall ten strides away looking at Esther’s boots of all things, seemingly lost in deep thought.

Allena wore the crisp modest dress and bonnet of a Bithean goodwife. What a deceiver, Esther thought. She had seen Allena’s behaviours for over a year now. She was a slut and a manipulator. There was no denying that the woman was attractive, silver tongued and very smart. Traits Esther knew she did not have in abundance. The woman was also an opportunist, devious and morally bankrupt. Traits Esther was grateful she had little of, if any. The alluring opportunist was also an itinerant priestess of The Ancient Holy Church, just like Esther. Lastly, she was also a chaplain in the same military Company. This part was the worst because it meant they frequently had to work with each other.

Allena played a sweet girl next door and always did the perfect things in such a way as to be lauded. These attributes left her admired by most of the male senior officers. Any criticisms by Esther or any other woman would come across as jealousy. Despite all that, Allena held up in a fight or a mission well enough. At least on the occasions she didn’t happen to be where the action wasn’t.

Be it said, this woman’s presence did not sit well with Esther. It distorted her thoughts with emotions.

Unsure how long these thoughts and emotions had captured her attention caused her to come present. Allena was now watching Esther’s face. A cunning grin quickly transformed into a sweet toothy smile. She pushed off the wall and put her hands behind her back as she took a few steps towards Esther.

Esther’s startled face turned to a guarded frown.

“Sister.” Allena chirped with cloying exuberance. “My goodness, these cats are something else.” She thisk, thisked with her tongue and teeth as she wiggled her fingers. Esther braced for some sort of spell.

Instead, a white kitten sprinted to the ‘goodwife’ and jumped into her embrace. Lifting it up she gave it little kisses before cradling it. It swatted at her Hexacirque (holy symbol) hanging atop her full bosom. She began slowly stepping closer.

“It seems you are fitting in well here at this grand Cathedral. The Bishop is such a benevolent and caring father for this diocese and its flock. Blessed be He.” Allena watched Esther closely for a reaction.

Blessed be! Esther could not ignore the use of the pagan phrase. It rankled her but she did not let it show.

Feeling increasingly perturbed as this voice registered, not the accent, as familiar. The alarm of this recognition was not from their time serving together. It was the voice she had heard when spying on the Bishop a few days ago. She had the urge to grab the harlot of Tunini by her coiffed hair and drag her to the altar for a flogging. Instead she swallowed her disgust.

Standing up she gave a small nod and stated with conviction. “May the light of the Lords find you this day…Sister.” Moving over to the Altar of Krina, she genuflected then walked towards the door to the cloister.

As she opened the door, Allena’s sweet voice called. “It seems you have forgotten something, Sister.” Esther reluctantly turned about pretty sure she had not forgotten anything. This felt like baiting. Allena was picking up something off the floor by where Esther had sat. She began walking towards Esther while looking curiously at a small vial in her hand as she sauntered towards the Chaplain. It was, or was just like, the vial of strange white powder she had acquired in her clandestine visit to Bishop Greer’s chamber.

Steeling her face to calm she pasted on a curious look. “I do not recognize it, sister. Perhaps someone else left it. With the Good Lords’ consecrations, I bid you a good day.”

She left feeling a bit surprised at herself and confidant that was the most convincing fib she had ever told. Granted, she could count all her lies on both hands and one foot.

After leaving the refectory, she had a lengthy visit at Lanaril’s altar in the Cathedral. Leaving there she walked in deep shadows of another cloisters covered walkway. She could see the front of the Bishop’s residence. Where she had landed as she swung down on a copper gutter a few days past. It had been repaired.

His front door opened. She watched as Allena, Knabbalah, Kundaliza other members of The Company of the Red Dawn. They were with the elderly Gensii, Abbesse Trembeline. They exited stopping on the stoop to give ring kissing farewells to Bishop Greer. The Abbesse wore her usual sky-blue habit. The three young women wore simple white gowns, colettes ringed with a wreath of lillies. All indications of lustration rites. Then she saw the red slippers that all of them wore, even the Bishop. That was odd. She stayed in her umbra and watched the women head to the convent’s bathhouse. She glanced back at the Bishop. He was looking through the partially open door with an unwholesome grin. He was looking at her. She was confidant she was not visible to normal vision. He nodded and closed the door.

Esther contemplated the three women and fellow soldiers. Allena is the manipulator and technically an inquisitor of Tunini, she had a million tricks up her sleeves. Knabbalah was also a manipulator, but of the kind typical for a Nander, more direct, blunt. She would outright bully if it would work. Fairly, she was a decent if somewhat lackadaisical soldier. Kundaliza, an adherent and inquisitor of Pahach, the dark God of war and power. This tall attractive muscled woman was a force of her own. Cultured, amicable and from a good upper-class Bithean house, she did well as team member and used her elite education in useful ways. Her dark side came out in battle. She lived to kill. To crush the weak that did not yield. Her style was ferocious yet calculated. She was willing to employ any means to destroy her opponent; dirty tricks, poison, hostages, explosives, whatever it took. All done with a reverent sadism and steadfast determination that made the skin crawl for most who saw that side of her. Her arms and legs were graffitied with the writhing adder tattoos typical of followers of Pahach.

None should be on this holy ground.

Later, checking her pockets, Esther found the vial. Was that some sort of legerdemain that Allena had pulled? Or was it another vial? If so, had she found it or just did she say so. Whatever it was, it was revealing to say the least. Allena laying out something so blatant could only be baiting.

She attempted to recall what she had learned about any clergy being evil in The Ancient Church. From what she knew it was rare. The policy of tolerance was expansive. Tenets were that most evil can be turned to good. Not with violence but with compassion and patience. All acolytes were vetted. She was. That only involved words, oaths, and the insights of the clergy member performing the ordaining. Any suspicions or transgressions of an evil bent were to be handled by a tribunal. If guilty they were sent to a prelate to be lustrated. If that did not remove the taint, then the guilty would be sent to Oracle’s Hill*, to receive a life’s sentence in The Great Hall of the Archives. There they served as pages to the Scribes of the Hallowed Tomes.

*aka The Hill. Religious center of The Ancient and Accepted Church.

“Oh dear, oh my darling, look at you. You are all scrappy and ‘possum like.” The squeaky of a Flirnii (think floresiensis) woman pierced the sounds of sawing wood and clanging metal coming that accompanied the curses, from Gregones and Beadle. Who, by lamp light, were working on who knew what behind piles of lumber, crates and tools gathered on the working side of the ‘compound’ they ‘creatively’ called HQ.

Dot Gasefrie stood arms akimbo with a look of loving pity. “Well, I have my work cut out for me today.” With a serious look she walked up to up to the large trestle table at center of the ‘living’ side of HQ.

The perimeter of the warehouse was cubbies of sleeping nooks and hammocks, lockers and more crates. Snores and farts emanated from the crashed-out troops strewn as haphazardly as their luggage.

In contrast with the ramshackle ambiance, the table itself was clear except for a wicker basket of corn bread, a pile of empty oyster shells and squeezed lime wedges on a platter, a bottle of their entrepreneurial neighbour hot sauce and a dutch oven that Emmy was scooping crawdad étouffée out of and over a square of cornbread. She was hunched over, a scrape arced across her forehead, filthy and haggard looking. Looking as if she had been chasing chimeras on the river front. Which was true.

Dot sat down hard next to Emmy, sighed heavily and began laughing. Emmy smiled big as she handed a crawdad to Pani, her ferret familiar, who had suddenly appeared upon the table upright and smiling.

Doti was in fresh clothes and tidied up, but a tiredness in her face showed she had been complicit.

Pan sneezed from the spicy sauce. Then he ran over and grabbed a hanky out of Emmylou’s sleeve and cleaned his meal, muzzle and paws before greedily eating it.

Doti leaned back into Emmylou moaning, stretching her arms over her head. Then in a lazy arc swung herself up grabbing a cornbread. “Hey, let’s go see Madame Fem. I need a reading.” After taking a bite of the morsel, she tucked in her chin, pursed her lips and said “Oooh Lordy, those new domestics you got are keepers! Got any cold hibiscus tea around?”

Emmylou gestured into the shadowy kitchen and slung herself up. “Let’s hit the bathhouse first.”

Emmy felt hollow headed. Despite her exhaustion, she needed to do things, to keep moving, to be able to process it all. Too tired to sleep. She knew she should wait for the others to wake but she needed a break from them, to be honest. Plus, she was curious about this ancient fortune teller.

Esther and Chaz had already left for morning prayers. Koli had just come in and immediately crashed after Esther left. Ricky along with the rest of the Flaming Os slept in the gear jungle.

QUACKEN’S CAFÉ 2:41 pm Things were quiet. It was siesta time. They sat at a small table on the café’s patio sipping strong coffee, snacking on butter cookies and a bowl of fresh black berries. The owner sat with his staff and their small children lunching and chatting just inside. Two tabby cats sunned themselves on patio stones. Pani was asleep in his sling with a belly stuffed on squirrel meat. Some finches flittered about the bougainvillea engulfing a wall and creeping across an arbor. It was in the last of its bloom with its fresh citrusy fragrance turned a bit sweet. Somewhere, far off, a couple was cavorting passionately. A baby laughed. A goat bleated. It was all alive and pleasant.

“Thanks Doti. I needed that. I should be dead tired but you…you really keep me going.” Emmy lsaid through purple stained teeth.

“No, it is called coffee…Emsy.” Dot quipped with a smirk.

Earlier a full steaming bath at Dot’s had begun the rejuvenation. Dot then did an exquisite job on Emmy’s hair and did what she could with her combat worn nails. The helots took her laundry and she borrowed a yellow sundress from Doti.

They had a lunch of hibiscus tea, cheesy grits, mustard greens & pork hocks, fresh peaches, biscuits and breaded frog legs with pecan pie for desert. All lovingly served by Dot’s family helots.

Then there was a visit to the wonderful seamstress Barlinda Suufont and her team. Her outfit was proof.

This all had done miracles for her energy and her state of mind. Right now was the perfect moment for it all to gel.

The lace and taffeta were spectacular. She had to admit Doti was right, the wide brimmed hat concealed her scraped forehead, kept this damnable sun off and complimented her hoop skirt. Surprisingly the salmon pink worked great with her complexion. Dammit, Dot was right again. Judging by the looks she was getting from men, it wasn’t terrible.

With a crazy leering smile and sly eyes, Doti leaned in “Ah you think I do it because I am your friend. But, no, I want you to teach me how to cast charms and fly on a broom. I want a crocodile for my familiar and a shrunken head to watch my back!”

Emmy gave her a sceptical stare.

Straightening up with an earnest look, “Seriously though, I really would like to learn. I will be a good student and…” She looked behind Emmy. Her mouth and eyes opened with mild surprise. Her voice louder now “and I will make sure my brother stays away from you.”

She sprung up and rushed to her brother who was entering the patio.

“Huh…” Emmys voice trailed off as her head swung to follow her friend. Faban , Doti’s brother, was staring directly at her. He seemed stunned, a big grin across his ruddy face. He clutched a garish bouquet of slightly wilted hot yellow coneflowers and muted magenta phlox. His soft-spoken friend Wulgar was behind him smirking with his arms folded confidently across his chest.

Wulgar was a bit baby faced but kind of cute. Fabian not so much. He wasn’t ugly just a bit broad boned and plain with too thick eyebrows. They were both ‘want to be’ soldiers and practiced the ‘arts’ fervently. Faban being from a wealthy family, had tutors and actual arms. Wulgar’s family wasn’t poor but their haberdashery did not put Wulgar’s opportunities near the Fabian’s. Wulgar also had to actually work.

Emmy casually smiled and gave a little wave. Faban’s expression didn’t change but his face did turn red.

Doti grabbed his attention with a poke on the chest. Emmylou had met Faban a few times now as their paths frequently crossed. Like a lot frequently. Hmmm… Come to think of it, this is how he usually acted. Wait! Why did she need to be protected from him? Ah, the flowers. Well shit.

She quickly turned around finding great interest in the drupes of a blackberry.

She could hear them quietly arguing. It stopped.

“Good day Emmy.” Fabian’s tender but gravelly voice came from behind. She turned around. “Faban! So good to see you again… what are the chances?” she looked down at the alarming bouquet and regretted it. Control your eyebrows Emmy, she thought.

“Uh.” He awkwardly craned his neck backwards to look at Wulgar, who smiled with raised eyebrows, nodded with encouragement and did some strange flapping thing with his arms.

In contrast, Doti now stood cross armed, eyes squinted, mouth in a sinister smirk.

The young lad with the bouquet closed his eyes and composed himself. He stayed that way for a few long moments until Emmy began feeling uncomfortable. This made her start to giggle, which she did her best to suppress. Doti’s evil grin was increasing. Faban had gone pale. Wulgar had an oh my god, he is sinking look. Sweat began beading on Faban’s face. His eyes sprang open with unexpected confidence as he inhaled deeply. He squared his shoulders and shoved the bouquet at Emmylou.

“Here.” the words gentle, barely audible.

“Oh, ah, thank you so much. They are…they are…beautiful.” He had changed. He seemed more direct, unwavering. He looked at the table, the chairs then at her. “Oh of course, please have a sit.” She half stood up gesturing to the other seat.

He sat then reached for her hand with both of his and cupped it gently, his thick strong fingers not too soft and not too rough. They were warm…like her father’s.

She could smell jasmine pomade, leather, perique and fresh sweat on him. He dipped his jaw and cleared his throat.

With a rote candour he said “Emmylou, let me be clear, I am a bit uncomfortable right now. But I must let you know I am feeling. Uh, I have feelings, feelings like I never have before. Feelings for you.

Now, please understand, I do not expect the same of you for me. But if I may have the permission to court you, I would consider it a great honour. I am patient and do not expect an answer immediately.” He let out a big sigh of relief having obviously crossed a mountain of emotions.

She was speechless. Thankfully he carried on before she need respond.

“More currently, there is something else. I am worried about you. I didn’t mean to, but I heard you speaking with my sister about witchcraft. If you really are a witch, that is something I can overcome. It will be hard but I can. More importantly, if you are, is the witches of Naurlinz. They are vile and treacherous. They are oh so territorial. Be careful when out, especially at night or on Haver Street. More importantly don’t you yourself go making any sorcelling or haxes or elixirs or anything. They would not like that either.”

Protect? Emmy thought. His patronizing lifted a few hackles. His sincerity tempered them. Still she thought of herself as quite capable of navigating these things alone. Or with just Pani anyway.

This differed greatly with Doti’s burning desire to learn witchcraft and her near reverence for many of the city’s witches.

As was typical to most folk, Faban had wiccaphobia. One of the many reasons she kept that side of herself very private.

Emmy didn’t plan on stepping on any toes and definitely wasn’t thinking about setting up shop. Anyway, for the most part, her experiences with other witches hadn’t been that great. She mostly avoided them. She was even quite hesitant to share any of the crafts with her, more than willing friend, Dot.

There was also this; only women can be witches and all witches are barren. This had the danger of corruption. Deep maternal instincts unrealized turned sour. She knew how desperately Doti wanted children someday.

She snapped out of her thoughts at Faban’s words. “Emmy, I offer my blade in your service.” There was a long pause coupled with an expression as if he was expecting her to be elated.

She could not hide that she was not. Memories of the very real war she had fought in and, afterwards, the intense special forces training with the company she had sworn an oath to. She knew that she could likely take Faban easily in combat herself. She pondered on how to best let him down.

The young courter continued “If you so wish, it can be a professional realationshi…er…uh…platonic…Wulgar would be there too.” He lowered his head and voice with his faltering confidence.

He steeled himself again, regaining that confidence. “Look, I am feeling really foolish right now. I am going to go. I guess you will let me know if…if anything.”

He noticed the bouquet as he stood and resumed his businesslike affect, “The flowers. Press them dry in a holy book. Then keep a coneflower, the yellow one in your right shoe and the phlox, the purple one, in your left shoe. They have to be dry and flat though. Supposed to protect you from werewolves and evil doers. I’m going now.” He began to turn to leave.

“Wait. Please sit down.” Emmy burst out then put her hand on his forearm. He re-sat, numb faced and staring ahead. She continued. “We really are just meeting. You are a great guy. I really like you, as a friend.”

He flinched. She restrained a cringe. “Um, that was not good. Not what I meant. I meant that I really don’t know. I’m not sure how long I will be here. If I leave, will I come back? And…there are a lot of things you don’t know about me.” She drew back into herself hoping he didn’t ask but waiting for him to have that opportunity. She slid the bowl of blackberries to him. “Hey, try some of these.” She smiled.

Faban softened his clenched face, grinned and reached for a berry.

She began asking about flowers. At first, he was shy about it being it is not manly but continued bolstered by her interest.

As she listened she became fascinated by the extent of his lore. Not just with flowers but with insects and all sorts of plants. His soft gravelly voice was like a wise hedgehog or little garden gnome revealing secrets of a hidden world.

Growing up he had spent a lot of time with Aurian, their Gensii (think heidelbergensis) gardener. He said he missed Aurian more than some of his relatives that have passed. Something he confided that he had never shared with anyone.

Her glances towards the scowling Doti were oddly satisfying. Doti was not liking that Emmy and her brother were having an engaging conversation. Emmy liked that her friend was challenged in controlling the narrative.

Wulgar had wandered over to a table and held a large lemonade, his other hand was tossing and catching a coin as he pretended not to spy.

Eventually, Doti burst into their sphere with a forced smile. “Okay Emsy, time we get to where we are going.” She tossed a few coins on the table and grabbed Emmylou’s hand. The two looked up from their conversation. Fabian with obvious dislike of his sister’s disruption.

Emmy restraining her amusement at Doti’s behaviour. Siblings. She suddenly missed her family. A family she would never see again.

Emmy slowly pulled her hand away. “Sure thing Dotsy.” She couldn’t torture Doti any longer.

“Where are you two going?” Faban queried.

Doti shot Emmy a serious glance then faced Faban. “None of your beeswax, that’s where.”

He rolled his eyes and waved her off.

They left with quick goodbyes as Wulgar came over to join the humbly gloating Fabian.

While visiting the Cathedral Esther is sent by Prioress Jenn Hough to fetch some mugolio for the mutton from the old dry cellar below the Bishop’s residence.

“It is beneath the Bishop’s there. You will see the cellar doors there at the back corner next to that little magnolia. I did tuck it away a bit so as the Abbess wouldn’t help herself again. Right under the stairway, bout chest high, is a loose stone, it be behind there.”

Crossing the yard below magnolias she picked up a fallen flower. With its white purity, its fresh and subtly sweet smell the blossom lifted her spirits. Refreshing and simple after the last few hectic days. Uplifted she felt a resounding and sacred purity infuse her.

The whole compound was resplendent in the glory of her gods. Even the ancient cellar doors gave off a sense of tradition.

In the coolness of the large cellar she found the wax sealed crock stashed where Jenn had said. When replacing the stone into the cubby it pushed too far. There was a click followed by a slow grind as a low stone slab slid down just below the course of the replaced stone.

A vague conversation could be heard coming from beyond. It was two people, a man and a woman speaking in Mercantile. The woman had a definite Bithean accent. The other was deep velvety and familiar. The voice of Bishop Greer. Both voices were too muffled to be understood.

Ahead, a low narrow pass was draped with cobwebs. Thick dust coated the floor. The bottom landing of a narrow spiral stair faintly showed with diffused daylight from somewhere above. The conversation had lulled to be replaced by snorting sounds then some ahs and mm hmms. Sniffle, snort. The conversation then resumed with alacrity.

The thick dust muffled her footsteps. as she moved forward and up the stairway with thoughtless curiosity. At the ground floor, Esther peeped into a dark room.

By the aroma fanning into her broad and discerning Nander (think Neanderthal) sinuses she could identify the scullery of the Bishops residence.

The voices came from still further up. Ester looked out the small window as she went up the narrow steep spiral stairway. She could see the Prioress across the yard tossing scratch for some chickens. The old woman looked up at Ester and gave an intensely serious yet approving look. With a slight nod the elderly nun innocently resumed her fowl engagements.

Bat dung coated the steps and she heard them chitter somewhere above. At the Second Floor she peered through another peep in a small door.

The Bishop Greer was there. The other person was an edge of the shadowy back of a tall athletic woman in a white satin blouse. The scents of the Bishop’s musky cologne mixed with the woman’s complex floral perfume. There was another smell. It was new a bit like blood but blended with something akin to lye, fear and lust.

She could now hear clearly. Conversation was of a new book that the Bishop kept thumping with an enthusiasm that caused his jowls to quiver. There was a pinkish powder rimming his nostrils. His jaws clenched in small spasms.

“I will begin a translation into Mercantile then Bithean. Those permissive minded blasphemers will love it. This will be printed and distributed amongst the masses, especially teachers and community leaders. For, if this is the first book the downtrodden read, that they study, that they are shepherded into taking into their heart, the slow grind towards Our Master’s goal will accelerate with pawns that believe their oppression gives them the privilege of revenge without limits. Duty of conscience can and will be played like the pipes of the sewers. The rats will follow us out and do our bidding even as we guide them into their own grave. My dear… we will use the downtrodden to rise and, being the dupes that they are, bring down any who oppose us. When scum floats to the top, we scrape it off. They will have wholeheartedly sold themselves into it… turning them on each other with paranoia and fear. Just thinking about it gets my blood pumping.”

The woman had moved from view. Her dulcet voice placed her further across the room.

“Indeed your blood is…pumping Bishop.”

“Well I have appointments. Shall we do what we did last time?” the Bishop responded smirking and raising an eyebrow.

“Get yourself ready…pig! ” the woman replied with a harshness contrasting its previous sweetness that startled Esther. She never had thought anyone would speak to a Bishop that way. She felt shame for it.

The Bishop turned with a look of anticipation and walked out of sight. She heard a door open but did not hear it close. The tall woman had moved again. She bent over doing something at the desk just out of sight. Sniffing noises again followed by a girlish giggle. She moved off followed by the slam of a door.

Esther stood stunned in her guilt of secrecy and slowly absorbing this paradigm shifting revelation. Her heart and guts pressed together uncomfortably stressing her reason. The Bishop was loved and respected. People thought he was near a saint. But this…what was happening? It seemed to sordid, profane.

She snapped from her conflicted feelings with the sound of, what seemed to be a crack of a whip. This was followed by the Bishop crying out, “Thank you Mistress!”

“You will do as I say my little schnitzel. No more touching. No more of your naughty games.”

“Yes mommy.” the Bishop responded in a sarcastic subservience.

Another crack of a whip against flesh this time. It was answered by a barely suppressed howl.

“Do not be derisive my flaccid schnitzel.” She cooed coyly. “Now put this in your mouth.” She stated matter of factly.

“NOW, ON ALL FOURS!” The woman’s voice rang out like a cruel and patronizing mother. Esther realized that her voice now had an Uleoin accent. “Yes, yes mistress…” came the Bishop’s voice, barely audible through some sort of gag.

The words and sounds of Bishop Greer and the woman with a malleable accent made the chaste Lanarilite’s skin crawl. She felt nauseous with her heart’s shock at a revered Bishop performing such heinous acts.

The woman’s first accent was not from Naurlinz. It was Bithean from out east. Then it was Uleoin. And yet, it was familiar; someone she knew or at least had interacted with.

Esther stopped contemplating. She had to act. Her heart had made a coalition with her gut. She knew what was right. She knew what she must do.

The rusted latch took a bit of searching to find and some significant strength to move.

On long unused hinges, she slowly pushed open the door with a soft grating sound. Pausing to listen, she heard only masculine grunts and pants and a feminine titter. “Do it again!” the woman commanded. The disgusting grunting resumed louder. She calmed herself with square breathing. Sure that their own unsettling sounds were all the two occupants heard, she stepped in.

The bats above began to stir and squeak.

With two more steps on the, thankfully, thick sound dampening ornate rug the suspect book was in her hand.

The serious weight of the moment was strangely exhilarating. Her senses sharpened as if in battle. This was a battle of souls not flesh. Something odd caught the corner of her eye. On the large tidy desk lay an ornately framed hand mirror. On its surface was a small pile of pinkish white powder, some thin lines, some remnant lines of the same and a short silver tube. Next to it a small glass vial was open. It contained more of this powder. A tiny silver spoon sticking up from the bottom of its upturned lid was adjacent. She reached towards it then decided to leave it. Stealing was not ethical. Then quickly grabbed the vial, popped the lid on and shoved it in her sash with the book.

“Oh Lord, what sort of haphazard path have I stepped upon?” she whispered.

Another whiff of the woman’s perfume scent teased her mind. She had scented this woman before. But where?

She turned to leave with her heart racing. She noticed a few of the bats flutter into the office. With no reasonable chance of getting them out, they would have to be left.

“Lanaril, maiden of honour, may your light protect me in these dark times.” She silently asked.

Two more steps, soft grating sound and she was back in the dusty stairwell scampering back to the cellar amongst squeaking and a confetti of black wings. Her speed increased as her tension over took her caution. In the shadows she smacked hard against the first secret door. It was closed. She frantically felt around for a latch. Nothing. She shouldered the obstruction with her Nander strength. Nothing. She pushed away any worry of how it came to be closed. Those thoughts were pointless now. She had to get out of here. She went back up to the ground floor door that opened into some sort of dim lit scullery. She found the latch easy enough. With a hard yank the latch released. Its corroded handle snapped off in her hand. She pushed gradually harder, despite her urgency. The door opened a few inches and stopped. She pushed a bit harder. Something was in front of the door and it moved with the low groaning of wood on stone. Just a bit more and she could squeeze through. Another push and things got worse. A leg of the furnishing caught on a divot in the floor causing it to stop hard and buck. The tinkle of porcelain against porcelain stopped her pushing. A pregnant moment of dread was amplified by a crescendo of falling dishes. Their shattering continued with a few moments of wobbling starts and stops that seemed eternal. She quickly closed the door and scuttled upwards, thankful that that the dusty stone below her feet was muffling her heavy pace. The bats in the stairwell seemed to have mostly settled but a few still flapped around, easy enough to ignore. Passing the office door, she noticed the lustful sounds had stopped. She quickly peeped in. The woman stood naked in the shadowy doorway to the adjoining chamber silhouetted by light behind her. Esther could see she had what looked like a whip in hand. She stood still, listening. Subtle movements of her head indicated she was watching the two bats flit about. Almost yelping with surprise, Esther pulled a bat from her tangled hair. Turning, she looked from the small window. The yard was empty, no Prioress. Not knowing what to do she then went up. The stair ended at another door with hinges on her side and a ladder going up to a hatch cloaked in cobwebs and hanging bats. The peephole only showed darkness. Below, somewhere in the building she heard someone hustling down(?) stairs. She slowly opened this door. Shelves of linen blocked the way. She jumped back as a cascade of bundles of folded white cloths fell in front of her causing dust to billow up in the dim light. It was the back of a linen closet. She could almost reach the narrow wooden door ahead but to get through she would need to break apart the shelving. She could hear the Bishop and woman talking (undecipherable) in loud urgent voices. Their voices coming up through the wood floor planks indicated how much sound could travel from below. Reasoning that sound from above would be just as audible, she slowly closed the door and looked up the ladder that lead to the hatch above her.

She ascended slowly hoping to not disturb the bats. The bats burst out into a swarm again with some catching in her hair. Scrunching her eyes and taking a deep breath as she reached up and turned the rusted latch. Its fasteners pulled out of the rotted waterlogged wood. It then popped from her fingers with a slight arc before it began to fall. She snatched it from the air. Shouldn’t drop it for fear of making noise. There was no place to set it. She stuffed it in her pocket. Bracing her broad back and stout thighs against the sides of the shaft with her feet solid on the ladder rung she pushed up. Nothing. The scent of tar and its stains around the seam, it was adhered in place or maybe latched atop as well. She pushed with gradually increasing force. Sweat broke out across her forehead running down in streaks through the dust. The ladder rung was beginning to crack and sag but still held. Just when she thought it was hopeless, the screws on the rusty hinges pulled free accompanied with the sticky snap of the tar releasing. Her arms shot upward as it suddenly popped open, flipping aside. Daylight from the morning sky washed over her.

“Blessed be the light.” she sighed in relief. She quickly genuflected and popped her head out. With a commanding view she saw no one in either of the side yards. Saw no one in the windows or cloister of the refectory to the west nor the carriage house to the east. To the north she could see deep down into the grotto where a boy dug methodically through a pile of stone rubble amongst the seep springs and ferns. With the Cathedral looming above her to the south, she climbed out at the end of a tarred walkway running atop the roof peak’s length. Low wrought iron balustrades flanked by the gabled roof with terra cotta tiles sloping to the yards then another thirty feet down. After climbing over the west balustrade, she scooted down the tiled slope backwards and on all fours to its edge. Hoping to climb down, she lowered herself down till she hung by the verdigris copper rain gutter and contemplated how she was going to get to the wall just beyond an arms-length in from the eve. If she could get to it, the cut stone wall was climbable. Additionally, she realized her feet were hanging in front of a window. Likely a window in front of the chamber where the duo had engaged in their carnal acts. She felt herself lower with a jerk as the copper trough began to sag in spurts as its anchors gave way one by one. At a pause between a drop she could see into the window. The naked back side of the Bishop was streaked from lashings was hastily covered as he pulled on his vestments. Before the vestment dropped, a skull and bones tattoo on his rear end caught her eye. The gutter let lose with surprising quietness. Still clinging she swung down in a sideways arc.

Then she hit the hard brick walkway with a puff of dust from her sullied habit. Reflexively she rolled absorbing some but not all of the shock. As she stood up and crouched looking for any observers, pain shot up her left ankle. Staying close to the building, she quickly hobbled into a side entry of the Cathedral. Passing a few lower clergy and acolytes engaged in conversation, she tensed. Eyeing them closely out of suspicion, her hand unconsciously went to her pommel. Nonplussed and barely looking they nodded with an innocent “Bless you Chaplain.” and continued on. Relieved but still girdled with suspicions she unconsciously released her pommel. With the relief of true faith she made it to the shrine of Lanaril. At the alabaster altar she knelt with her sword point down in front her and lowered her head in prayer. The dust from the secret stairwell drifted onto the floor around her. Feeling her exhaustion from the last several days of challenges hit like a ton of feathers, soft but heavy. Closing her eyes she prayed in the morning light. Knowing that doing wrong had been right.

She had taken great risk for a book… even though she was illiterate.