DEEP IN THE HINTERLANDS; FEBRUARY 10, 2015 (W.R.)

Ishi-ryu-do is more than Faith; it is Knowledge.
It is more than Serenity; it is Harmony.
Lastly, it is greater than Life, it is Truth.

Surrounded by the Hinterlands and the sounds of night, Li Yen pondered the Dreaming Son’s words. As one of the Wu Jen, he learned the histories and the philosophies down to their exact words and verses. As a Mystic, he recognized the tenuous balance that the elements required of the body and the soul. And as a follower of Ishi-ryu-do, he understood that he knew nothing at all.

The woods and the meadows of the Hinterlands were very different from his homeland in Kenrei’s Pillars of Meditation.  Yet, there were similarities aplenty to see — the Hinterlands were as filled with elemental energies and power as the Pillars, perhaps even more so. Atop their mountains, the Wu Jen battled the very elements to hone their skills. Freehold and the Hinterlands had a familiar problem on a constant basis.

Last moon however, the Wu Jen sensed something askew: an illness that invaded the energies of the land, a festering that slackened its very pulse. And while his past experiences had proven that the Hinterlands was very capable of taking care of itself, Li Yen nevertheless sought his answers amid the wilderness — the Kenrei enclave and Freehold dulled the sensitivity of his totemic perception. Thus, Li Yen travelled into the Hinterlands until his questions were answered, with only his walking staff for company,.

A day into his journey, he stepped into a meadow and was nearly overwhelmed by the sickening energies that pervaded it. A woman stood in the middle of the meadow, clad in the garb of a Hinterlands Druid. Li Yen could not identify if this Druid served the Verdant Vale or the Dusken Vale (and he had a difficult time remembering which was which), but Ishi-ryu-do demanded of him to step forward and inquire.

“My apologies, Druid-san” he bowed, noticing movement in the treeline. When she turned to face him and his skin crawled at the sight of her, Li Yen had his answers. Moreover, he had no doubt that the figures shambling to surround him were little different.

Li Yen readied his staff for what was to come, peering at the mouldering mass that flanked him. “Do any of you gentlefolk know if a clever man could slay 20 Sand Trolls in a single night?”

Their only response to was fall upon him with the strength of corruption and of numbers.

DEEP IN THE HINTERLANDS; NOVEMBER 29, 2014 (Wyrdic Reckoning)

The hour was late, but the task was still incomplete.

The warmth and the light and the cheer faded behind them as they trudged away from the Chapterhouse. Without equipment and with its blood boiled away, the corpse was not as heavy as it could have been. But it was the twentieth body they hauled and its weight was compounded by the tedium of the task and the scorn of the Chapterhouse’s laughter.

“Tell me again — how do you lose 10 matches in a row?” Brother Mars was in the front holding the arms, but Arc felt his grin rather than saw it.

“Because, umm…fuck off. What’s your excuse? And what did you do with our wheelbarrows?”

Mars peered back, not missing a step on the dirt path. “The wheelbarrows were broken one by one — the work of a Fang-zharan golem with a thirst for vengeance! Oh, and I chose to lose. To be sporting!”

“That makes sense…” Arc caught himself looking at the corpse’s eye sockets. Even empty, they spoke multitudes. He tore his eyes away, staring instead at the smug back of Mars’ head. “…Except it doesn’t. Ugh. Isn’t brute, unlettered strength a Vanguard thing? Why isn’t Ox or Sledge doing this drudgework instead of me?”

“Because you lost. Also, Vanguard’s just good at killing things toe to face. Or something like that. Not as good at whining like you and the other casters though”

“Thanks, I like to practice.” He reaffirmed his grip on the blistered corpse-flesh, wishing for fingered gloves. “Have a tournament coming up this moon. Winner gets to eat shit and die”

***

This was their twentieth run, so they knew where to stop instead of tripping into death. With only three failed attempts, they hoisted the corpse into the pit. Its tumble unto the shadows soundlessly, lent strength to the crunch of hitting bottom.

“Did you hear about the Phylacteries? Another batch of messengers and letters — they want them bad” Exhausted, Arc sat at the lip of the grave, legs dangling above the tangled mass of bodies.  He smelled only slightly better that the broken bodies below, but he minded the stink only a little.

Mars took a seat beside him and produced a brick of hardtack, biting into it with a relish. He mumbled, spitting dry crumbs and barely intelligible words. “They can have her, once they decide who gets her. It’s too hot in here anyway. Too many assassins spoil the broth”

“You trust them? Remember how much we trust Kings?” Arc drew his dagger and stared at its runes. They didn’t change this time.

Mars recited that portion of the Oath by rote, droning it tonelessly. “‘We are the Brotherhood of the Sword and Cross. We swear allegiance to neither King nor Country.’ No, I trust their fear of her and of each other”

“That almost sounds intelligent. Are you sure you’re not one of Dagda’s changelings or Prismak’s illusions?”

“I don’t know. Are you the real Arc?”

“Nah. Real Arc was an asshole and died when the Solari took his blood” He replied quickly, so it didn’t sound like a lie.

“Good times. Always hated that guy” Mars spit into the mass grave, then took a swig of his flask. “I dug it extra deep, in case more Shadowhand showed up. Hmmm… should we burn the bodies after we bring ‘em all in?”

His companion shook his head. “Did enough burning when they jumped us. I guess they thought the wards would still be down after Fang-zhara’s attack. Hack was right about their next move”

Mars slapped bits of hardtack from his palms, then counted with his fingers. ” The Chapterhouse wards, the library, the aethyric tear… and the Jacobs farm. Could’ve been a lot worse. She drove a whole wagon train into Freehold.”

“And Merc with that botched run. Damn that bitch. Not even a body to bury like Ama and Von Verner” The sorcerer stabbed the earth with the pact-dagger.

The ensuing quiet deepened the night while the bodies below leered bloodless and lipless. Arc stared back. He recognized his handiwork, remembering how they screamed when the hellfire boiled their flesh and blood. He should have shuddered. Revulsion should have happened. But his new body, his new blood, did not move. He had changed, just had Freehold had changed — the same person, but with an alien flesh and foreign blood. Was he the same person? Was Annie (the Ghost) the same person?

Or was this all the same dream, whispered quietly from a different bed?

Meanwhile, Mars leaned backwards and peered into the dark above, searching for the Screaming Eagle. He found it easily, burning brightly in the cosmos. Like many in Freehold, he was no stranger to death; Ama, Merc and all the rest — his sisters and brothers awaited him in the eyrie beyond. By battle, plague or treachery, it would find them when their time on Midworld was done. So it always is as the Brotherhood claims and waits: “’til the Eagle comes”.

But an unearthed memory shattered his reverie, bringing meditation to a close with a single, burning thought.

“Damn. He owed me money.”

“Shit. Me too”

“Merc, you totemic fuckface.”

——————–

EMERALD CHALICE GUILDHALL, FREEHOLD; OCTOBER 13, 2014 (W.R.)

The hour was late as he drew back from his desk, fingers stained with ink and mind addled with numbers. He put away the Red Scales’ threats and the loss reports, the casualty lists and the troubling letter from the Court of Stars.

Everything was different in Freehold — in some ways bigger and in others, smaller. Here, he was not Athalar ni Rethelar — he was simply Ath, trader of the Emerald Chalice and deliverer of remedies and elixirs to the farmlands of the Freefolk.

In Freehold, danger loomed larger and closer that in his home. There were times of peace certainly, but this land and the more perilous areas around it had claimed dozens of guilder lives over the years.

In this time of darkness, he did what many Silver Elves do: Ath looked to the heavens. But when he sought the grace of his God in the balcony, he did not find comfort.

The tree of life carved upon the balcony floor was blasphemed with the broken bodies of Callasine guardians. And limned in moonlight was no divine inspiration, only six fiends garbed in ruined rags and crowned in blood.

A blonde Elf-maiden stilled the trader’s body with an Enchanted smile.

“Lilandra ni Vallorien?” he mumbled. “Why?”

When she laughed in response, a dark blur leapt from her side. It bore Ath down and put its blood-crusted talons around his neck.

“You will join us” another fiend tapped her club upon the ground and the broken bodies of the Guild’s guardians began to rise.

“Kill me if you wish” Ath choked his defiance at them. “Xirith Vallen…kerin vend Verathim… My God will save me“

While the rest sneered at the Elf’s words, the tallest of the fiends looked up at the stars and the hungry moon, searching for answers. The moonlight revealed the jester’s paint on his face, but shadowed his leering features when he bent his gaze to Ath once more.

“No God”