Rendering Nirayel-Wayward Fates Read online

  Dobin looked down. Sure enough, the primmer was turned wrong. He quickly turned it right side up, but not before his adopted father had witnessed his error. In looking up, he found Nanna offering several mid-air smooches of her own.

  As he was led away by one ear to take punishment in the form of a very long lecture, to be followed by a stint at washing the laundry, or perhaps cleaning out all the wagons, he could hear Magnatha from within her tent, cackling with laughter.

  Later, while washing his sister's bloomers, he realized she hadn't meant to strike him at all, not that Nanna was above such. There were numerous occasions when his backside had found her wrath in the form of a switch, strap, or even her open hand. What had escaped him until this moment of reflection was the incorporation of her walking sticks. He had witnessed her using them on other adults, including Momma, Papa, and numerous unwelcome strangers, but never on children. No, what just happened had been exactly as Nanna had wished it to happen. A child of six simply doesn't stand a chance in a war of wits with someone almost a hundred times that age. Somehow, it just didn't seem right.

  ***

  A shadowy figure dashed through the dimly lit cavern. Seemingly, it neither walked, nor ran. Where its foot fell, there was no sound, and though it did pass the occasional lamp or torch, it offered no turbulence to disrupt the steady flames.

  It stopped only once before entering the deeper corridors. There it turned its hooded face upward to hear the battle cries of Arbitos guardsmen, mixed with the howling death song of remaining Gnolls as their numbers dwindled. Then the figure continued, disappearing into gloom.

  ***

  "Block their retreat!" shouted the commanding voice of Captain Krue. "Take as many prisoners as possible!"

  The remaining Gnolls fought bravely. These were the Elite guard and there was no question of their intent to die fighting. This had been Reginald's only miscalculation. There would be no retreat, and there would certainly be no surrender.

  ***

  "I bear grave news, Baron," reported the Rogue while still half buried in shadow.

  A stocky Dark-elf with a jagged scar running from his chin to his collarbone glanced up from the huddled circle of his council. "Do you hide from your friends, Delphi?" Baron Heartrot asked in a graveled voice, and then returned his attentions to the matter of tactics.

  "No, my Baron," she replied, stepping hesitantly into the half-light. "The last of the Elite cry their songs of death, even as we speak," she reported.

  "You are yet veiled," said Crimsin from directly behind her. When she did not react, he pushed passed to stand between her and the others, then turned to face her accusingly. "Are you perhaps frightened? Or could it be you wish to conceal something?"

  About his neck hung a necklace constructed of wide leather stripping, segmented by a series of small glass cubes: receptacles filled with alcohol, and then corked. Within one cube was the ear of a long forgotten enemy. In another was a fang from a pet snake he had tortured as a child. Each container held tokens of pleasurable occasions in his life. As he regarded her, he smiled faintly while fondly stroking the glass of his latest addition, a pearl white ocular orb with an iris of sky blue.

  She slowly pulled back the hood of her cloak. There for all to see was the bloody, gaping socket that had once been her right eye. She cringed despite herself as her compatriot's laughter rang in her ears, and then quickly drew the hood forward to cover her face again.

  "Very well then," the Baron chortled while waving the rest of his assembly back to order. "It is a fine thing we still show such good spirits in times such as these, but there yet lies a great distance between us and home. Let us to the business at hand, shall we? Crimsin?"

  "Yes, milord?"

  "I trust you were able to secure the shipment."

  "No, milord. I fear the passage to Norwinds was overrun before the mediator could make it through."

  "Hmm. Now, that is a pity," the Baron observed casually. "Without gate potions, our situation does become a bit more…complex."

  "I told those idiots we would be in need of a Wizard!" Crimsin spat.

  "Yes. Perhaps our lack of provisions was also an oversight," Delphi intoned with an accusatory glance in Crimsin's direction.

  "Are you implying such was my responsibility?" Crimsin hissed through clenched teeth.

  "I do seem to recall it was you who were charged with overseeing all acquisitions. What I don't recall are any gate potions."

  "Harlot! You never requested anything of an alchemic nature! How many times must I…"

  "Now, now," chided the Baron. Let us not be so critical, my friends. The Emperor's tacticians cannot be expected to foresee every contingency. Besides, a Wizard would only have served to slow our progress to this point. The same can also be said of overstocked provisions." The Baron's intervention was gentle, even affable, but any interruption during a private dispute could only come were it of a high priority. His smile remained genial, yet his eyes were demanding. The dispute was to be diffused. Their tempers had no place in this exchange.

  A long moment of silence followed as the tension between Delphi and Crimsin lingered. "We must return the gathered intelligence," Crimsin asserted, breaking the silence, and his concentration on her jugular.

  "If only we still had an Enchanter," Delphi mumbled, momentarily reinstating the Dis'Errant's steely gaze. "Of course, there was a time when we had two, didn't we?"

  "If Pitchwere succeeds, then the demoralization alone makes the risk worth while!"

  "That accounts for one Enchanter." Delphi smiled dangerously. "There's also the matter of someone's decision to send Effigee on a solo-reconnaissance that now appears to have separated us from our last hope."

  "What's done is done," intoned the Baron. "You're both right. It was a worthy risk, Tyde, and I appreciated your most daring advice. However, under the circumstances, it would be most useful if we had at least one among us who could gate."

  "Milord? I…" Crimsin began with a crestfallen uncertainty, and then fell silent as the Baron waved him away dismissively.

  Delphi's features were hidden beneath her hood again.

  "Well then, let's see. The Gnolls have fallen. This is of no particular consequence. They were weak and pathetic anyway. Still, they've purchased us a useful pittance of time. I propose we use it to our advantage."

  "How are we to elude their forces, Baron?" the young Warrior to his left asked. "With both Lowland and Norwind passages blocked, it would appear that we are trapped."

  "Appearances are not deceiving," the Baron replied absently while scratching a rough layout of Howling Cavern on the earthen floor with a dagger.

  Unnoticed by all, Delphi had maneuvered to a new position, specifically placing the Baron between herself and the Dis'Errant.

  "Here, then," continued the Baron while drawing their attention to a point on the crude map, "is what the Gnolls called the War room. I believe this should be the first place Krue and Ironwood would expect to find us."

  Delphi briefly glanced at the makeshift map, noting the position indicated, and then returning her attention to Crimsin.

  "Here is where we are now," he went on, indicating a deeper alcove. "I think the mongrels called it Alpha's Den."

  Crimsin quickly noted as the Baron scratched a line between the two points, and then returned his glare to the one eyed Rogue.

  "Between here and there is this uneven corridor that splits with the narrow side completely obscured from the line of sight of anyone who might be moving toward the War Room from… Oh, what did the blasted curs call this!" he exclaimed, pointing to the spot in question.

  "I believe that is the Serpent Gardens, milord," Crimsin replied absently, only noting the spot in question through a peripheral vantage as his direct attention was maintaining a steadfast vigil on Delphi's hand, which had casually disappeared beneath her cloak and now rested suspiciously near her left side arm. He could easily imagine her faint smile to be in direct relation to the caress o
f that holstered blade.

  "Ah, yes. Well done, Tyde," commended the Baron. "As I was saying, anyone behind this partition will remain unseen by anyone passing from the Serpent Gardens to the War Room."

  "I have surveyed the formation in question, Baron," began an older Rogue, bearing an officer's insignia of lesser rank. "What you say is true, but I don't believe our enemy will leave the adjoining corridors unguarded. We might elude the first group, but we will still run into their forces."

  "Not at all," retorted the Baron. "If the Round-ears discover Dark-elves hiding in the War Room, then they will surely think that they have us all cornered. Word of this will spread quickly through their ranks, and I'm sure that all of their forces will rush to the call of battle, especially if those of us who are cornered give them no other option. Once Krue's entire Regiment is either fighting within the War Room itself, or vying amongst themselves for the least glimpse of dying Wognix from its doorway, then anyone hiding on the other side of this partition can simply stroll right out of this kennel.

  "Forgive me, Baron," said the confused Rogue. "I assume that you mean to use some of our number as bait?"

  "You assume correctly," he affirmed, still tracing the complete escape route.

  "Then how are those of us who would be posted in the War Room to escape?"

  The Baron offered him a hard grin. "You aren't."

  ***

  Ezlea's guardian, Hobson, was actually the enchantment of an old pair of gauntlets, which she had bartered for as a child in an open Tarot bazaar near Brinehaven some eighty-five Summers past. They were old, even then. Old, covered with dents, and quite oversized.

  The barker with whom she had bartered maintained that they had once belonged to an actual JuggerKnight. The mass of such powerfully enchanted slaves was nothing less than legendary, especially to a young Tarot girl who dreamt of such things as magically enamored masculine devotion. In truth, they were probably derived through means no more fantastic than the scavenging of some Barbarian or Ogre graveyard. She realized this, but the story was pretty and she had lent credence to the proprietor's imagination, if not his propriety.

  Of course, this was all seasons past, and such romanticisms had long since faded. Now she had committed the enchantment to the protection of the entire Tarot encampment, though she remained its Master, as she must. It was her creation and ultimately loyal to her alone.

  This evening, Hobson had detected some form of possible danger within the radius of its warding. In response, it clapped together as if in applause, its oversized bodies connecting with a loud resonance until satisfied that the entire Tarot camp was made fully aware of the potential problem.

  ***

  A resounding series of loud gongs disrupted Dobin's emersion in self-pity. Hobson was sounding the alarm.

  Albin and Cleetis burst out of their wagons, followed closely by their wives. The children, including Dobin and Tuda, were quickly ushered inside the wagons while others were gathering from the Northeast side of camp.

  Both men and women took up what arms they could find. Some had conventional weapons like swords and maces while others carried pitchforks, shovels, or whatever was handy. Some were casters and needed no weapons.

  The enchantment ceased its alarm as Albin climbed to the top of his wagon where he used a spyglass to survey the area. "It's a chick to the Southeast," he shouted.

  The crowd relaxed. Had it been a grown hen or rooster, there would have been trouble. However, a mere chick could be fended off easily enough. After all, there were thirty-two able-bodied men and women here. The crowd began to disburse and go about their business.

  "Hold it!" shouted Albin, and the crowd stopped. "The beast is attacking two travelers… One of them is Jester!"

  There was a momentary silence as the implication sank in. Then, "Well I'm not plucking it! Jester can clean his own kill!" shouted an elderly woman in a serious voice as she wheeled about and marched defiantly back to her wagon.

  The others nodded in agreement. Squire Thistle was infamous for dodging chores.

  ***

  The chick had been roosting behind a hill and was just as startled as Borin and Jester, who weren't aware of it until they were almost on top of the beast. Still, its reflexes were instant and a large claw shot out with blinding speed to clamp down on Borin with an initial force that jolted him within his armor, and then slammed him to the ground.

  The right and left forward talons met with nothing but finely crafted armor, but the hind talon slipped between the breastplate and gorget to penetrate Borin's shoulder, just beneath the collarbone.

  Had he been prepared, this would not have happened. As it was, he was quite tired and upset, and tired of being upset, and otherwise generally inattentive. Nevertheless, the creature had managed to gain his undivided attention.

  Jester acted quickly. He drew upon his mana, spreading his arms to envelop a concentrated burst of fire, and then stopped short. Apparently the situation was well in hand.

  Borin had wrapped one arm around the foreleg of the beast that had him pinned. Then he swung both legs up hard and into the joint just above its foreleg, causing the chick to lose its balance. The beast came down hard, beak first.

  He pried the talon from his bloody shoulder and fell upon the creature while it was yet at the task of prying its beak from the hard ground. He clenched the creature's throat just below the beak and squeezed until the beast's eyes bulged wildly. Then, regaining his feet and while still clutching the chick's throat, he slowly brought the bird's face to his own, placing both the strangled bird and stressed Warrior eye to somewhat bulging avian eye.

  "Tax me not, birdy," he commanded in a controlled, but strained sarcasm as the chick's eyes rolled back in their sockets. "Now be a good little birdy and fly away, before I remember just how hungry I am." He gently released his hold on the creature, turned half about, and then calmly strolled over to stand his ground beside the Druid, as if daring the chick to defy him.

  The young beast flopped about in agony for several moments before successfully refilling its lungs with air. As it regained its footing, it turned on him, screeching from depths of its young craw in a very loud, high-pitched fury as it charged, the feathers about its head and neck raised like hackles, and both wings drawn up and forward, as if to imply that the young creature was larger than it really was.

  Borin remained stoical as the chick drew its serpentine neck back and up, preparing to strike as its beak opened widely to impale the quarry.

  At the last moment, it veered to the left and wheeled about, wings extended. Rather than attack, the chick fled, screeching its indignity for some distance. The bird was too young for flight, but was able to glide from some of the more elevated hilltops, and could be seen for some distance, giving no evidence of slowing.

  Jester remained where he had been during the entire display, slack-jawed, and with mana yet dripping from his hands to fall and dissipate before reaching the ground.

  He had seen countless chicks slaughtered. He had even seen them killed by single hunters. This was no particular accomplishment. He himself had killed more than his share with no help at all through what a number of casters referred to as Kiting: a simple technique wherein the prey is usually rooted, and then bombarded with either direct damage, or swarm-based spells until it dies. What he had never seen was a relatively uninjured Roc back down without a fight unless under the influence of an intimidation spell, or having been subjected to intimidation in the form of skill, as performed by several fighting Classes, to which Warriors did not belong. This however, was altogether simpler. Borin, by doing nothing, had apparently allowed the Roc to intimidate itself.

  "Are you just going to stand there?" queried Borin. "I'm tired and I'm hungry, and I've had just about enough of Druids and birds and Dwarves and fleas and trees for one day, if you don't mind.

  "Yes, of course. We are almost there," Jester replied absently, still staring after the fleeing chick.

  "There's a
Tarot camp just to the west, he says," muttered Borin disdainfully. "It's only a short jaunt. Perfectly safe, he says!"

  ***

  "What are they saying?" Tuda asked.

  "Shut up!" Dobin snapped with his ear to the door. "I can't hear nuthin with yer mouth runnin."

  She thought about reaching over and yanking out one of the coarse hairs growing from her brother's big feet, but decided otherwise. Being cooped up in the wagon, as they were, would negate her ability successfully to escape his grasp afterwards.

  "They're laughin!"

  "What?"

  "Yeah, they're laughin!" he confirmed.

  "Why they laughin, Dobi?" she queried politely, using the nickname she always used when diplomacy was required in dealing with her brother.

  "Can't rightly tell. I think It's got somethin to do with a Roc," he replied.

  Tuda could not imagine anything funny about a Roc.

  "I think it's attacking Jester!" he exclaimed, forgetting to keep his voice down. Then he was slammed into the door, and since he had the door cracked just enough to let him eavesdrop, he suddenly found himself sprawling down the wagon steps and landing on the seat of his pants with a jolt. To make it worse, Tuda didn't stop at merely ramming him out of the wagon headfirst. She jumped from the middle step to the middle of his back, stepped on his head, jumped clear, and ran on as if he had been nothing but a throw rug. Even so, he wasn't angry. He was just a little slower to react than his sister. Both of them were more concerned with the Roc, and the only adult member of their adopted family who understood the concept of fun.

  By the time they had wound their way through the crowd to the front, it was all over. Apparently, Jester had already dealt with the Roc, and was currently escorting the Roc's victim into camp.

  "Jester!" Tuda cried while continuing to run at full speed.

  Dobin was close behind. He was glad to see Jester too, but being a bit on the husky side, he had just enough wind left to enable him to run, so long as he did not waste his breath on yelling.