Things get complicated between the knights and Harajin.
Ripples
Fresh and sweet with skin red as a sunset and flesh like crisp frost, an utterly perfect specimen plucked by blessed hands. For Sir Edward Holmes, it was precisely what his dry mouth needed after hours of snoring. If only it could do something about the dryness of his eyes, seared by the light coming through the nearby window. It was midday, the sun’s radiance shining down upon a polished shield for sale across the street and reflecting, with almost a malicious intent, straight into his eyes in the corner of the bar.
The Knight’s Sheath was almost always busy at this time of year, but it had hit its daily lull. Those out in the streets were looking for food or were too busy to get their rocks off. A few customers drank due to their loyalty to the girls, endless thirst, or need for peace. At the moment, Holmes wasn’t interested in the first two. After the meeting in the castle, he had come to the Knight’s Sheath to nap in a quiet corner. He was still technically on duty, at least until nightfall.
Almost every knight in the city was working night and day to keep everything peaceful. There were only so many times he could patrol the same streets before his feet refused to carry him any further, and if anyone spotted him here, he could claim he was helping stop bar fights. It was time to move once more or risk getting caught sleeping.
He got up and shuffled to the door. “Thanks, Lucius,” he said to the bartender.
“Sure thing, sir.”
Holmes stopped, rubbed his eyes, and looked back at the man behind the counter. “Who are you?”
“Daniel, sir. I’m sitting in while Lucius gets some rest. I’m the new guy.”
Daniel was nervous, recognizing the silver emblem on his armor. It was bad enough to catch the soldiers’ attention; a silver-ranked knight was several levels higher, both in authority and power.
“Oh, good. He’s a friend of mine, lets me catch a bit of sleep when I’ve been out too long. Pour me a cup of tea, will you? With something sharp to help wake me up.”
There was a nearby stove where embers were always smoldering, and Daniel added some pieces of wood to resurrect the flames and heat the kettle. While waiting for the tea, Holmes picked up a joint from a nearby jar and looked around, seeing how others were smoking them. He lit the end with a nearby candle, breathed deeply, and sighed in misery.
“I’m guessing things are rough?” Daniel asked.
“Thirteen years of guarding this city, and the week before Knight’s Day is always the worst. They got me working almost nonstop, but with how rowdy this city is getting, I guess I can’t blame them. I just wish the bronze knights didn’t make it so hard.”
“Those are the new ones, right?
“Not really ‘new.’ After ten years of service, you automatically get promoted to silver, unless you earn it sooner. Unfortunately, I was not interested in ‘sooner,’ and now I’m paying the price by being stuck with underlings just like me.”
Daniel laughed. “The best reward and worst torture are being surrounded by people like yourself.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“It was written on the wall of a bathroom I once woke up in. I spent a good hour on the floor, reading that over and over again.”
“Yeah, that sounds about right.”
The water came to a boil, and Daniel poured a cup of tea. His earlier cravings had faded, so his hands were no longer trembling. Then, with booze added to put some fire in his belly, Holmes’s liquid lunch was served.
“These Red Revelries are the worst. All these punks stirring up shit just for the fun of it.”
“Hey, it’s worse if you’re a civilian. I was living out on the streets up until a couple of days ago, and there are few things scarier than hearing swords hitting each other in the middle of the night when you’re sleeping in a rain barrel.”
“Yeah, but at least you don’t have to deal with them. Some little noble shit spat on me while I was arresting him, told me he could smell my gutter blood.”
“Ugh, I hate them so much. You know how many times I’ve been called a plebian since I got to Colbrand? A lot. Not enough to know exactly what it means or how to spell it, but still, it hurts. Every minute in this city, someone yells, “My father will hear about this!” The fuckers are everywhere.”
Holmes chuckled. “You haven’t heard anything until you’ve been to the dungeons. I was there before dawn, dropping off some riff-raff, and it sounded like a hundred cats all getting their tails stepped on. I’m toying with the idea of suggesting that every applicant spend a week in a dungeon, and make it a requirement to join the academy. That ought to scare off the little shits.”
“Why yes, I have been in your dungeons. So lovely, so comfortable. You can really feel the love and hospitality growing on the walls with the algae. I spent six hours in the stocks because a soldier tripped over me in the street.”
The two men continued to exchange gripes, arguing over whose life was more miserable. The complaints included more and more jokes, and soon, they were actively trying to make each other laugh.
“So in the dream, I’m kissing this blonde babe who used to babysit me when I was a little kid, but I’m coming out of it. I know something feels wrong. I open my eyes, and I’m locking lips with a rat the size of a toddler!” Holmes released a loud snort, and Daniel had lost all ability to tell the story with a straight face. “And believe me, this was an affectionate rat. I think I actually got tongue and copped a feel. Rat teats, I was fucking fondling rat teats on the floor of a warehouse!” Both men were laughing so hard they could barely remain upright.
“‘Fondling rat teats’ might be the funniest three-word combination I’ve ever heard.”
“Someday, I’ll write a book about my life, and that will be the title.”
“Ah, it feels good to laugh. Thanks for that. Returning to work now won’t feel so awful. I’ll see you around.” He got up from his stool and paid for his drinks with an extra tip.
“You be careful out there,” said Daniel.
Back out in the streets, Holmes tossed the stub of his gonlief cigarette onto the ground and started walking. His armor felt so heavy, but the rattling of the saber at his hip was comforting. His eyes, still dry from fatigue despite his nap, scanned the crowds. After so many years patrolling these streets, he had learned to size people up with a glance and memorized countless faces. He felt the flow of the traffic like he was measuring the tide. By now, it was second nature to him, though he continued to complain under his breath as he walked. He was thirty years old, but his personality had changed little since he was a child in this city.
“Sir Holmes!”
It was Frigga, and she looked even more tired than Holmes.
“Hey.”
“Where have you been? I haven’t seen you in hours.”
“Just taking a break. Anything happen?”
“A couple small scuffles, nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Want to grab some food? I’m starving.”
“I’ve been pecking around here and there, but if you’re offering….”
“Fine, consider it a reward for your promotion—your ONLY reward.”
They found a food stall where a merchant was selling ‘borc,’ from the dwarven word for 'random.' As its name suggested, it was a collection of meats from various animals plucked from a vat of sauce and cooked as shish kebabs, with everything from lizards to mountain lions. The randomness made it popular, and the thick sauce hid the various scents of the meat, so they couldn’t be identified until they were bitten into.
Holmes and Frigga ignored the line of customers and went straight to the cook. No one made a fuss, as it was the norm for nobles and knights to bypass the restrictions that commoners followed. Rather, it was uncommon for a citizen to protest such moves, as it was simply something they were used to. Today, the cook was fortunate, as these knights actually paid for the food.
Holmes and Frigga moved off to the side of the road and began feasting on their lunch. “I’m getting goat… chicken… some kind of fish… and… cat?”
“Ugh, damn seagull. I hate seagull with a fiery passion.”
“You have no passion, Holmes, remember?”
“I’m passionate about plenty of things, like how my shoulders are going to start bleeding if I have to wear this armor for another minute.”
“That one, I can agree with. Just until nightfall, then we can rest, and soon this war will be over.”
“You know that baker in the western district? His shop was robbed last night. I stopped by, and it seemed like everything made of glass had been broken.”
“I hope he doesn’t go out of business for this; he makes the most delicious cakes.” The two of them started walking. “Oh, that reminds me, you know Delilah, right?”
“The palace florist? The one with the mole?”
“Yeah, she caught her husband with a female beastman.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Please, I’m a follower of Wassenschtal. You know I can’t tell a lie. She was the wife of a viscount, and her husband didn’t even know she was a beastman.”
“You know, what you call honesty, everyone else calls gossiping.”
“Just keeping you informed. Last night I ran into a foul little dwarf, who, after cursing me, vomited onto my shoes. He had eaten clams, Holmes. Clams.”
“So that’s what that weird smell was.” Holmes then came to a stop. “Helena, you see that?”
He pointed to a cloaked figure ducking out of the street. Robes and cloaks were not a strange garment, even preferred for those who specialized in magic over physical combat, but the limping stranger had the hood pulled down over his face. Grond disappeared into the empty courtyard behind a cathedral and sat down on a stone bench, so he could examine his leg. Even the Harajin, taught to ignore pain, could not remove Noah’s arrow without hissing and cursing.
“Stop right there. Hands where we can see them.”
Frigga’s order came before he could apply a healing potion. He kept his face downcast to conceal his mask, but just from the rattling of her armor, he knew her to be a knight. The sound of a sword being drawn followed. No, two swords.
“Pull back your hood and show us your face,” demanded Holmes.
They were standing thirty feet away on the brick path winding through the courtyard, having snuck up on him while pulling out the arrow. His gloved hands raised, Grond pulled back his hood and showed them his mask, causing the two knights to tense up.
“So, the Harajin really are in the city…” Frigga muttered.
“Remember what Sir Tarnas said. We need to try to open a dialogue.” They hesitantly sheathed their swords, much to Grond’s confusion. “Last night, one of your associates spoke of delivering a peace accord to the king and was in possession of a knight’s sword. He was later found dead with no such document, and the sword was missing. If you know anything about this, speak now.”
Grond was silent, for nothing Holmes announced made sense. He came to Colbrand believing that no other Harajin would be there. Did the elders know about his deal with Cyrilo and send pursuers after him? There had been no rumors of peace talks back in Ezeria, but that wasn’t enough to refute the possibility. The man in the shadows, did he really work for Cyrilo? The kingdom? The Harajin? All he had were suspicions, and he could not think of any answer to satisfy the knights and get him to safety.
‘It’s a trap.’
He remained silent, and Holmes and Frigga glanced at each other. They exchanged a slight nod and slowly began to approach. It was a single moment, a brief instance for them to draw their swords. That moment was forced upon them, and it would reverberate long after this day.
If they had not sheathed their swords, they could have defended themselves and deflected the blades hurled in their direction. Upon seeing Grond’s sudden shift, they reached for their swords but could not draw them fast enough. A small dagger struck Frigga in the eye, drawing both blood and a scream, while another bounced off Holmes’s forehead, leaving a deep cut.
Grond closed the distance with surprising speed, considering his leg was spurting blood. From how he struggled to maintain his balance, it appeared the price was more than he had expected. Holmes had just enough time to draw his sword and block the two daggers that Grond was wielding, one with the blade of his sword and the other by grabbing Grond’s wrist. It became a battle of strength, but both sides were handicapped, Holmes by his fatigue and Grond by his leg.
“Shit!” Holmes cursed in pain.
The daggers he thought Grond was wielding were sickles; two meat hooks with added razor edges, and the tip of one had been buried in his forearm to try to make him release Grond’s wrist. His greaves had stopped it from penetrating too deeply, but blood was quick to flow, and the pain was intense.
Holmes dared a glance at the unmoving Frigga. Was she dead or simply passed out? Grond didn’t miss the opportunity and disengaged from Holmes to try for another swipe with one of his sickles. Holmes avoided the attack and kicked Grond in the leg, right where he was wounded. The pain forced him to retreat before he could collapse. Both sides were at an impasse. Grond’s leg or the wounded Frigga; a health potion could solve either of these and turn the tide of the fight, or give the enemy the chance to act.
The two fighters realized they had only one choice: win the battle as quickly as possible. Holmes assumed a fencing stance with his armed side facing his opponent. Unlike the traditional longsword used by the knights, he wielded a one-handed saber. Grond put away one of his sickles and drew a handful of small throwing knives, like the two he used earlier. Because of his leg, he’d have to get Holmes to come to him. He hurled three knives with as many throws; one aimed at Holmes and two at Frigga. Holmes knocked two out of the air with his sword, but the third struck his shoulder.
“Damn it,” he hissed as he charged.
A flurry of steel was unleashed, Holmes slashing and stabbing at Grond with every bit of strength he could draw from his exhausted body. Grond’s skill with his sickles was just as great, but he dared not move from where he was standing, lest his leg give out on him. Instead, he used his good leg as a pivot, keeping his foot firmly planted on the ground and rotating.
Every time Holmes leaned in for a stab, Grond would parry the blade or dodge, and when he did manage to land a hit, the loose cloak would receive the cut, dispersing the energy with its billowing and keeping the blade from reaching his body. If not for the few hours of sleep he got earlier, Holmes likely would have died after the first minute.
The sound of blades striking was like the chirping of birds, only to be drowned out by the grunts of exertion from the two fighters. Holmes soon stepped back out of Grond’s reach to catch his breath. He had managed to get a feel for Grond’s style and patterns, so it was time to take a risk.
Holmes assumed another stance, holding his sword like a pool cue. There was a shimmer around his blade, like a heat haze, as it came alight with mana. In his exhausted state, the power was slow to gather. He compressed it at the tip to make it glow like a welder’s spark, burning bright enough to cast Holmes’s shadow.
There was no time to waste; Holmes was low on mana before the fight even started. He lunged, keeping his arm extended, and Grond, in turn, leaned in with his blades crossed. He’d deflect Holmes’s sword with one and go for the throat with the other. At least, that was the plan. Holmes grabbed one of Grond’s wrists to stop his counter, and the thrust was made, but with far greater speed than the assassin anticipated. The tip of Holmes’ sword snapped Grond’s other sickle like it was made of glass, then pierced his cheek and did the same to his jawbone. It had cut through the ceramic mask like a circular saw, leaving no cracks.
Holmes had missed his target spot because of his fatigue, but the attack was still enough to put the fear of God into Grond. For a brief moment, he could ignore the pain in his leg and backed up as fast as he could. Blood poured down the side of his neck, and he could barely move his jaw. Holmes stopped to reform his stance, then shot forward for another thrust. He couldn’t allow Grond to draw another weapon, and this time, he was aiming for the knee of his good leg, a blow that would cripple him.
“Stop right there, knight,” he heard, coming from Frigga’s direction.
Holmes managed to halt himself before fully committing to the attack and looked back. Crouching beside Frigga was another Harajin, the troupe leader, and he was holding a sickle to her throat.
“You son of a bitch!” Holmes yelled.
“Don’t move. Just drop your sword, and we can part ways without further bloodshed.”
“How do I know you won’t just kill us both?”
“Because at the moment, it would probably be in everyone’s best interest to keep the body count low. Drop the sword.”
Though he didn’t like it, it was an offer he was lucky to receive. Facing off against two Harajin would be suicide. “Very well.” He discarded his sword and kept his hands raised over his head. “There, now let her go.”
“Not until my compatriot is beside me. Grond.”
Grond still wasn’t sure who could be trusted, but he, too, was blessed by this interruption. With a hand covering his neck wound, he limped over to the other Harajin. “Klein,” he said, reading the letters on the fellow’s mask, though that was all he could say with his damaged jaw.
Once Grond was next to him, Klein stepped away from Frigga. Holmes remained where he was, running simulations in his head. How quickly could he get to his sword? “Now tell me about this supposed peace accord and the knight’s sword your friend was carrying.”
“Just be grateful that you and your friend keep your lives.”
The two Harajin fled the courtyard, leaving Holmes to rush to Frigga’s side. Klein had to help Grond stay on his feet, the man bleeding profusely from his leg and neck wounds. He pulled him into a dark alley, free of the homeless, and set him down on the ground. It took all of Grond’s strength to open up a healing potion, and Klein looked away as he drank it.
“My team and I have been sent here to find you, Grond.”
Grond, now healed, tightened his grasp on his sickle. “For termination?”
“Not today. Quite the opposite, in fact. Apparently, one of the healing potions Urandil gave you was actually something else. Our mission is to warn you before you take it and to return it to him.”
The dread that filled Grond, albeit nauseating, was not the first of its kind. He felt his stomach twist into knots in ways he never wished to feel again. “Did he say what it was?”
“No, only that it was something incredibly dangerous. He described it as worse than poison. Recovering is an absolute priority. Do you have it?”
“I lost it.”
“You incompetent—!”
Klein was cut off, both he and Grond sensing approaching footsteps. The two men each held their breath and disappeared like a fading mirage. A soldier was passing through the alley in search of troublemakers. He walked right by the two Harajin without the slightest clue. Neither Klein nor Grond moved a muscle, even blinking, until the soldier finally left.
Once free of eyes and interruptions, they released their held breaths and reappeared. “How did you lose it?” Klein asked.
Grond faced a conundrum: start stacking lies, or see how long he could ride the truth until finally twisting it into a lie. Harajin were trained to handle no-win scenarios, but the stakes were skyrocketing. Either way, he had to retrieve that potion from Cyrilo before the others followed the trail.
‘At least he doesn’t know Urandil’s real involvement—a small blessing.’ “Fighting last night with a reveler. It was knocked out of my hand, and I was forced to retreat. They probably have it now.”
“Did you get a good look at them?”
“No, they were disguised, just like the others.”
“And your leg?”
“A soldier’s lucky shot just a little while ago.”
“One more thing. Last night, a member of my team was killed, stabbed in the back of the neck. According to the knights, he claimed he was delivering a peace accord to the king and carried a knight’s sword. Do you know anything about this?”
“No. Those two knights said the same thing, but I thought they were lying. I didn’t even think there were other Harajin in Colbrand.”
“So, you didn’t kill him?”
“Of course not. But what should we do?”
“The elders said nothing about it. No orders, so no involvement. We return to Ezeria and get the truth. But first, we have to find that potion.”
----------
Noah passed through the double doors of the Knight’s Sheath and spotted Daniel at the counter, rolling gonlief cigarettes.
“Oh, look who survived Cyrilo’s impossible task! Thank the heavens that the brave hero has returned! My God! There is so much blood! How are you alive? It’s a miracle you’re still standing!”
“Don’t just announce my business. Didn’t we just talk about this?”
“I still smell like a human sewer! You should at least be limping!”
“Well, the other guy is. Did you finish those chamber pots?”
“They’re cleaner than I am, though I have you to thank for that. Cyrilo wouldn’t let me inside until I washed myself off in the rain barrel.”
“While you were soaking, did you think about what I told you?”
“Yeah. I came to the conclusion that you’re an asshole.”
“But?”
A deep sigh. “But… in this instance, you know what you’re talking about, so I’ll try to be more careful.”
“As long as you’ve learned your lesson, you and I are fine.”
“Thanks. After work, I’m planning to see that harp-maker and ask how my guitar is coming along. You interested?”
“Nah, I’ve got to go find greener pastures before I end up sleeping in the street. Is she here?”
“Yeah, in her room. Lucius just went up there to talk to her about something.”
Noah made the journey up the stairs to the top floor, and upon reaching Cyrilo’s door, he activated his invisibility and put his ear to the wood. He could hear them inside, talking about the price hike for dwarven beer. He summoned his clone and knocked on the door. “Cyrilo, it’s me. I have your potion.”
“Come in, Noah.”
He opened the door and let his clone enter first. On the far side of the room was a folding screen with movement behind it and a familiar dress hanging over the top. In the corner near the door sat Lucius, who raised a few fingers as a small greeting.
“If you really have the potion, be a dear and open it,” said Cyrilo. Noah uncorked the bottle and placed it on a low table, prompting her to emerge in her cat form from behind the screen. She took a few whiffs with her feline nose and glared at Noah. “This isn’t what I asked for. This isn’t the potion you were supposed to bring me. And whose blood is this? It had better not be Grond’s!”
The blank expression on Noah’s clone didn’t project his silent curse. He circled behind Cyrilo and pulled out a dagger. Should he just kill them both now and be done with it? Perhaps he could even blame it on the Harajin. However, there was still a chance to get out unscathed.
“Well, check it again, because that’s what your Harajin friend gave me. I passed your name along, and he wouldn’t hand it over, even when I told him it was for you, so I had to get a little rough. He’ll be fine, but if there is a mistake, it’s on his end, or maybe he’s betrayed you.”
“I told you; you should have let me handle this,” said Lucius.
“Not after you and Grond started fighting last time,” said Cyrilo before smelling the bottle again and swerving her yellow eyes back to Noah. “Forgive me for not believing the words of a sketchy adventurer. Are you trying to poison me?”
“I performed my task according to your specifications. This is the potion I was supposed to give you. I expect you to uphold your end of the deal. I want to resolve this peacefully, and you can make that happen.”
Cyrilo smelled the potion a third time, growled for a few moments, and then it became a purr. It was kicking in, the herbs he bought from the apothecary. In this world, it was a wild mint used in medicinal teas. To Noah, it was known as catnip. He had ground it up and smeared it around the mouth of the bottle. The smell of the potion helped conceal the catnip’s aroma, while attractant chemicals put Cyrilo in a good mood.
“Fine. You have my word that neither Lucius nor I will tell the knights of your actions. You were never here.”
“I don’t want you playing semantics later. If anyone finds out about this, I’m coming right back here for blood.”
“I swear on the nature spirits, no one will ever know. However, consider yourself banned.”
“Fair enough.”
“No! You can’t kick him out!” The door burst open, and in came Bella, naked and hysterical. Noah pulled his clone out of the way as she tried to pounce on it. He didn’t release his spells, but he joined with his clone and was ready to separate at any time.
“Bella, have you been listening in this whole time?” Cyrilo asked.
“I heard my darling’s voice downstairs and had to get my customer to finish as fast as I could! You can’t kick him out!”
“Bella, he broke the house rules and put not just me, but all of you girls and this establishment in danger. He’s banned.”
“But he didn’t know the rules! Give him another chance!”
“No.”
Bella wrapped herself around Noah’s arm. “If he leaves, then I’m going with him!”
“Not a chance,” Cyrilo said.
“I second that motion. I’m joining the Knight Academy, and I don’t need anyone to tag along.”
Bella slid down and began humping his leg. “Sure, you do! I’ll live in your dorm room as your naughty bunny fuck slave!”
“Lucius, would you mind? I think she’s leaking semen onto my pants.”
Lucius sighed and got up from his chair. “Come on, Bella, let’s get you clean and dressed. This is a brothel, not a barnyard. There has to be at least some professionalism.”
He pried the woman off Noah’s leg and stepped out of the room, leaving Noah and Cyrilo. “I must be honest; I’ve never seen her take to a customer like that. In time, almost all my girls end up falling in love with a customer and retiring, but not after two days,” she said while sniffing the bottle. She could no longer help herself.
“You really care for them, don’t you?”
“Of course. In life, you must find family wherever you can.”
“Good words to live by. But Bella’s feelings haven’t changed your mind, have they?”
“I’m afraid not, sorry.”
“You don’t need to apologize; I have no grudge against you. I made a mistake, and these are the consequences. If anything, I applaud you for cornering me. Besides, you’re afraid for the women here, and you’re just doing what you have to in order to keep them safe. Do whatever you need to do.”
“Not the kind of answer I’d expect from someone like you. You’re not like the other boys that come in here.” Cyrilo left the table for a nearby bureau, where a folding fan lay. “This fan was a farewell present from one of my girls, Ariella. She’d dance on stage and use fans to tantalize customers. She was Ezerian and spent several years here, saving up her money for her family back home. When she was finally ready, she gave me that fan and set sail with my blessing.
Several years ago, I woke up to find a Harajin in my bedroom in the middle of the night. I assumed he was there to kill me, then realized he was holding a baby. The Harajin are descended from diseased exiles, with every generation born disfigured. Under their masks and bandages, their flesh is molted and ugly, so they conceal themselves to hide their shameful bodies from the gods, fearing the same revulsion their ancestors witnessed when they were cast into the desert.
To keep the clans strong, they often kidnap healthy women and children to raise as their own or use as breeding slaves. Ariella ended up being one such woman and was owned by a man named Grond, but what was originally master and slave became husband and wife. The closest thing to love the Harajin can experience, he felt for her, and she for him.
She died soon after childbirth, having delivered a healthy boy, free of disease or deformity. It was her dying wish that their son not grow up to become one of the Harajin, to live a free and happy life without masks and knives. Her family was no more, but there was one person in this world she knew she could trust: me. I could not raise the child, so I found him a loving home. Another one of my girls, having retired and married, could not bear children, so she and her husband took him in.
Grond broke the laws of the Harajin to give his son a better life. The child was loved by his mother, and I wanted to honor her love. Every now and then, I check on the boy and even help support the family when money is tight. In exchange for my help, Grond got me in contact with an alchemist who works for the Harajin, one who specializes in mold and fungal concoctions. The potion you brought me was supposed to be derived from a special mushroom that grows in the desert. Unfortunately, it has a small window for harvest and shelf life, and this was the only time it could be delivered to me.”
“I’m sorry the potion isn’t what you wanted. Your friend must have made a mistake.”
“Hmmm, what a pain. Do you swear that this really is the potion Grond gave you?”
“You have my word.”
Cyrilo closed her eyes and breathed deeply. “Very well. You did perform the task I gave you, so I’ll amend your banned status, but your evening privileges are revoked until Knight’s Day passes. I don’t want you under my roof while Red Revelries are happening.”
“I appreciate it, Madam. Thank you.”
----------
Adwith Tarnas entered the knight corps infirmary, a sunlit room built within what was once part of a cathedral. Most of the beds were empty, save for a few bronze knights receiving treatment. When possible, knights were supposed to rely on magical treatment instead of potions. Those performing the spells were women dressed in white vestments, covering everything but their faces and hands. Seeing Tarnas, the healers turned away from their patients to bow and greet him.
In two beds were Frigga and Holmes, sound asleep with bandages around their heads. By their side was Sir Elyot. “Glad you could make it,” he said as Tarnas approached.
“What happened? Was it the Harajin?”
“I believe so. They were both found unconscious.” He held up a glass jar with a small throwing knife inside. “This was pulled out of Lady Frigga’s eye. It’s laced with a paralyzing agent. I believe Holmes was likewise afflicted, but he got a smaller dose. While they were removing the blade, one of the healers began tending to Holmes and discovered this on him first.” Elyot held up another jar with several bits of fungus inside. “As soon as they cast their light, this appeared in the wound, and they asked for my help. It appears to be teller mold. There are spores mixed in with the poison.”
“I thought that only grew on the inside of potion bottles?”
“Normally, it does, feeding on the nourishing mana of health potions. This is a different kind and apparently can also feed on the mana of healing spells. It spread so fast that we almost had to amputate his arm. We carved a lot of flesh off, leaving just enough to heal the limb later. In Frigga’s case, the spores seem to be contained within her eye, but we can’t be sure, and should any attempt be made to heal her wound, it will flourish and spread to her brain. Holmes’s scratch is also too close for comfort.”
“Something this specialized probably didn’t occur naturally. It must have been cultivated by an alchemist.”
“My thoughts exactly, but that is good for us. Only a fool would use poisoned weapons without carrying an antidote. If the Harajin who did this doesn’t have it, the maker surely does.”
“You planning a trip to Ezeria to find the maker?”
“Of course not; I’ll just make an antidote. If some alchemist in the desert can do it, so can I. On the low odds that I can’t, we should keep a lookout for any antidotes the Harajin carry. But that isn’t the biggest problem, is it?”
Tarnas released a deep sigh. “I guess this blows the peace accord theory out of the water.”
“With all due respect, you two talk way too loudly. This is the infirmary, after all.” Tarnas and Elyot turned to Holmes, slowly rising in his bed. His arm was in a sling and wrapped in bloody bandages.
“Sir Holmes, glad you see you’re still with the living. How do you feel?”
“I can’t feel my arm, and everything is either numb or hurts.”
“Can you tell us what happened?”
“Well, you already know it was the Harajin that did this. Helena and I spotted someone suspicious duck behind the church, and we decided to investigate. He was wounded. We asked him about this peace accord thing, but he appeared not very keen on the whole idea of peace. I had him cornered when his friend appeared with a blade to Helena’s throat. I dropped my sword, and the two of them high-tailed it out of there.”
“Anything else?”
“The peace accord thing, I don’t think the first guy knew about it, but the second guy did. At least... he knew what was going on. He spared Helena because he said both sides should keep the body count low. You might call that a peace agreement.”
“For a Harajin to actually spare someone, especially a witness, means he was spooked by something. I spoke with the king, and he knew nothing of any peace talks. Gradius swears that he saw an official knight’s sword in the Harajin’s hands.”
“Keep in mind, this is a guy with fire shooting out of his helmet. Maybe you shouldn’t put so much faith in his visual prowess,” said Elyot. He then turned to Holmes. “As for you and Lady Frigga, until I come up with a cure for that fungus, you two are confined to your beds.”
Holmes lay back. “You’ll hear no complaints from me.”
There was a soft mumble, drawing all eyes to Frigga, stuck in a half-asleep state. “All you ever do is complain,” she said before falling silent.
Tarnas and Elyot gave the knights their peace and left the infirmary. They continued walking side by side, with no real destination in mind. “So, are you going to ask me or not?” Elyot inquired.
“Why bother? It’s clear that Valon is still missing. If he hasn’t contacted you by now, a fellow researcher, then he doesn’t want to come back. Were you able to get any of his notes?”
“Nothing. Whatever he didn’t take, he burned before leaving. Valia said he was working on some kind of mental magic, but I can’t find a single trace of it.”
“She seems to be holding up well.”
“Maybe on the outside. I suspect the only thing keeping her going is hope and denial. I just don’t know if she has what it takes to teach the cadets in her current condition. Even elves can run out of patience. Those princes alone will be a nightmare.”
“Watch yourself.”
“All I’m saying is that those two are deathly in need of attitude adjustments.”
“They can learn to be better men.”
“Speaking of which, I heard Gradius attacked Lady Opal. Your mad dog is at risk of being put down.”
“He’ll be fine once we get past Knight’s Day. He just doesn’t know any better.”
“Precisely my point, he doesn’t. He can’t be fixed. Besides, is that the standard you really want to set? That trying to kill a comrade can be simply excused because of some rough nights? The irony, an executioner who can’t tell right from wrong.”
“He’s too valuable an asset to simply discard. He can be fully civilized, then he will be a godsend.”
“I still say you should have never brought him into the city. What could you, of all people, be so afraid of that you’d let him walk the streets?”
“Enemies, both old and new. I don’t want to let his power go to waste. Anyway, I’ll be taking his place on patrol, see if I can rustle up some desert rats.”
----------
The afternoon had turned into the evening when Daniel left the Knight’s Sheath, though it was with little strength. The pay was decent, but the dawn-to-dusk workday was still a merciless vampire of his stamina. Along with performing various other chores, he had been rolling so many joints that he could taste the papyrus through his fingers.
Regardless, the growling of his stomach and mind would not let him rest, both in need of nourishment. He bought some borc skewers to satisfy the former while protecting the latter by not wondering what species the meat came from. The sauce, though, he wouldn’t mind learning.
Like the food, these streets were familiar to him. The world was getting less random and scary each day, now padded with the safety of routine. It had been two months since he splashed into this society, and he was finally learning how to follow the current. Still, familiarity could not subdue his longing for his old world. To feel the soil of his homeland under his feet, to understand the words written all around him, to hear the music of his own culture; these were just a few of the desires incessantly pestering him.
There was no real home to return to, no one waiting for him, but still, it was the life he had always known. Even a dredge of society like him was spoiled by the fruits of the modern world. Walking in these streets, he was reminded of how much he took for granted. How wonderful it would be to have a life where not everything had to be a process, to return to an ‘instant’ world.
‘Buttons. Good God, I miss pressing buttons.’
His wandering brought him to the shop of the harp-maker. Unfortunately, the door was locked, causing Daniel’s stomach to begin to twist. He knocked and called out for the old man, but no reply came. His breathing was unsteady as panic began to grip him. He needed to get in there. After the day he had, he couldn’t just go back with nothing. Finally, the door opened, putting Daniel face-to-face with the sawdust-covered craftsman, obviously in no mood to talk.
“Shop’s closed!”
“Sorry, I just need to see my guitar!”
“Your what? Oh, it’s you. It’s not done yet. Come back tomorrow.”
Daniel jammed his foot into the door. “Please, just let me see how far it is! I need this!”
“I don’t show half-finished work. You’re just going to have to wait like everybody else.”
“I’m begging you; I need to see it. I need it in my head or I’ll go crazy!”
Whether it was Daniel’s weary eyes, frantic words, or the whiteness of his knuckles as he gripped the door, something convinced the harp-maker. “Fine, you get a quick look, but that’s it. I got to make dinner.”
Daniel was let inside, and the harp-maker brought him to the back of the shop, away from customers’ eyes. There, at a workbench decorated with weathered tools, lay the soundboard and neck of his new guitar, carved elegantly from a piece of redwood. To the left, the shell that would become its body, and to the right, his old guitar, now looking so old and decrepit, like it would crumble into dust and splinters from the slightest touch.
Daniel lifted the unfinished piece with humble hands, and a deep, shuddering breath escaped him as if he had just surfaced from a dark ocean. At the moment, it was just a slab of wood, lighter than he was used to, lacking strings for his fingers to run along, and sitting in his palm awkwardly compared to his old guitar, but he could already hear the music that it would soon make. The hissing, crinkling static ever-present in his mind, the chorus of angry sounds both inside and around him that brought him his suffering, all fell silent, quelled by notes unnamed and rhythms unwritten.
“So, is this what you had in mind?” the harp-maker asked, shaking Daniel from his thoughts.
“Oh, yeah, this is amazing, just right. You say you’ll have it done by tomorrow?”
“I should.”
Daniel mustered up all his strength and put the piece back down. “Thank you. I won’t take any more of your time.”
He left the shop and stepped back into the street. It was getting dark, and only the taverns were still open. The Knight’s Sheath would probably close its doors before it got too late and the Red Revelry began. He didn’t have to work that evening, meaning he could just collapse on his little cot and sleep like the dead.
“You!”
Daniel looked back and felt his heart sink. It was the adventurer from the previous evening, Ralph, the one who woke up while being dragged and attacked him. If not for Rita, he’d still be sporting a black eye, though it was now hurting as if the wound were fresh.
“Oh shit!”
Daniel took off, running for his life. He had to get to the Knight’s Sheath or find someone to help him. There were still people in the streets, though not enough for Daniel to disappear into a crowd. He could hear Ralph behind him, and while he had a head start, he felt it closing. Daniel was exhausted and out of shape, while Ralph was an active adventurer. Daniel felt like he was running a marathon, yet he didn’t get far before he was tackled and dragged into an alley.
----------
The last of the light faded, immersing Colbrand in darkness. In an abandoned home cleared of squatters, it was as black as the deepest mines of Vandheim, but the five Harajin were untroubled. As assassins, darkness was not a hindrance to them. It was their home.
“The potion is missing?” one of them asked.
“Yes, lost in battle,” said Grond.
“What do we do now?” a female Harajin, Tora, asked.
“Urandil and the elders were clear. It has to be recovered at any cost,” another said.
Klein didn’t immediately speak. The fact remained that Oritz’s killer was likely among them. He had not yet revealed information about the supposed peace accord, so Grond was the only other member who knew of the situation. “Grond, I believe your original mission was to kill revelers so they could not join the knighthood, yes?”
“That is correct.” Of course, that was only his cover for coming to Colbrand, a common-enough assignment.
“Then that is what we will do. Grond was fighting against a reveler, so we’ll assume that they have the potion. We’ll move as a group and hunt all of the revelers down until we find it.”
“What about the knights?”
“We’ll avoid them for now. We don’t need any more complications. However, if the revelers don’t bring any results, the knights might be our next target.”
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