The diplomatic contingent from The Kaden Circle shuffled along the road in respectful silence. It had been three sunrises since their caravan had left the well-trodden path known as The Way, the largest single road on the continent, stretching from South-Eastern coast to North-Western. Since then, they had slowly worked their cart and its precious cargo along uneven tracks, reduced to sludge in places by the consistent drizzle which characterised this region. Thrice they had become stuck, requiring the efforts of all eight state-appointed guards to free the gilded carriage.

The convoy had passed forests of oak, woods of pine, areas of low scrubland, and the of flats of Y’min, where low plants with leaves as broad as two men completely hid the black soil below, creating an undulating sea of topaz-turquoise that stretched as far as the eye could see.

It had been a long journey to the marshlands of the Northern Floodplain, but, until now, not an unpleasant one.

When they finally spied Allorkek, nestled snugly along the banks of the river Yelkor, they were muddy, damp, plagued with coughs and foot-rot, and thoroughly tired. This was a diplomatic envoy, though, and to be a part of it was an honour that its participants did not take lightly. So, with pride and determination, Emrain Nishanter, brushed down his black felt doublet, resettled his sagging, wide-brimmed hat upon his sunburnt head, and flicked a fly off one of his golden cufflinks. Deeming himself as presentable as circumstances allowed, Emrain organised the men into honour guard formation, and set towards the gate.

The ’gate’ was a mesh of chains, interlocked like a fishing net. It hung low, to little more than shoulder-height, and was affixed at each side to a fence of copper poles. Defensively, the whole set-up was as useless as cotton dentures; that made a statement, though, and that statement was: “Try it and find out”.

Emrain approached one of the two hooded guards, and cleared his throat.

“Lo, hear me, for I am Emrain Nishanter, appointed emissary of The Kaden Circle, issued with this office for the singular purpose of delivering this consignment to you, our esteemed friends and allies, upon receipt of which I shall be stripped of my title as dignitary, and shall return from whence I came, as is our custom in The Circle.”

The guard grunted, “Speak plainly, foreigner.”

Emrain wiggled his fingers.

“Uh, we, the appointed consignees of this eminently important package, wish to inform thee, the good citizens of the Magrain Oligarchy, that, with heavy hearts, we are repatriating the deceased member of-”

“You’ve got one of our dead?”

Emrain deflated, “Yes, we found a dead magrain.”

The magrain guard handed his spear off to his colleague, and lowered his cowl.

Despite himself, Emrain whimpered.

Magrains are an amphibious race, although they long ago opted to settle on land. They are bipedal, like humans, and have two arms, like humans, and a head, just like humans. That’s really where the similarities end. A magrain’s torso is thin enough in proportion to the rest of their body that it appears serpentine. Their arms are obscenely long, ending in vicious claws, and their vertebrae are ridged to the point of being spiked. To top off this ill-fitting jumble of appendages, magrain’s have enormous discs for heads, with tiny eyes set in deep depressions, like someone stuck their thumbs in dough. Their jaws are invisible beneath their upper lips, their ears are slits on the sides of their heads, and they are covered head-to-toe in orange scales (just in case they were still in danger of being mistaken for your mate, Dave). Anthropologists, zoolgists, historians, and Emrain alike, tend simply to describe them as, “fucking terrifying”.

The Magrain Battle-Warden approached the back of the cart. At a flick of his wrist the Kaden guards set about removing the litter from the carriage. They held the stretcher-like contraption out for inspection, and, delicately, removed the embroidered velvet shroud from the deceased.

The magrain made a sound like a cat growling. It was difficult to discern its meaning.

The Battle-Warden called his companion over and the two began to confer privately. The language was understandable to the delegation, but the magrains spoke with an accent characterised by purrs, yips, and a whistling sound akin to a steaming kettle.

“He is indeed one of ours.”

Emrain considered that somewhat obvious.

“My condolences, friends of The Kaden Circle,” the diplomat instead said, “We grieve with you for your loss.”

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Emrain bowed low.

The guard simply nodded.

“Right, I suppose we’d best be off!”

The guard halted him, “You are to take him to his father.”

“Ah. We would, of course, be honoured.”

“The mill, upriver. That is where you will find Telk Ghaseneishekken.”

“Telk Ghasensh.”

“Ghaseneishekken.”

“Gassing-”

“Ghaseneishekken.”

Try as he might, Emrain couldn’t quite navigate the yelp in the middle.

The guard rolled his head like other species roll their eyes, “You may instead address him as he is accustomed to being called.”

“That is most graci-”

“-Telk the Slow.”

“… Telk Gahsh. Telk Gshnsnsh,” Emrain sighed, “Telk, you say?”

When the gate was lowered, the contingent stepped over the chains and into the Magrain capital.

Emrain led his convoy through the narrow, winding streets of Allorkek. The buildings were not densely packed, rather the streets were narrow because of the haphazard placement of the smattering of houses and shops. Here, men could walk three abreast, there, Emrain had to squeeze sideways between a grocers and a milliners (which presumably didn’t do much business). It was as if the buildings had been rolled into the basin like dice.

The structures themselves were wide and squat, like pyramids with their tops lopped off. They were carved of a local rock, dredged up from the riverbed. The rock had a pinkish hue, like coral, adding to the entire aquatic effect of the village. Huts and halls were indistinguishable to Emrain’s eye, with size and placement having no pattern, rhyme or reason that he could discern.

At the guard’s insistence, the delegation from Kaden had abandoned their carriage at the gate. They carried the litter, and its re-shrouded occupant, from the eastern side of the village to the western, until, finally, they came across the watermill. It was of the same material and design as every other building, only distinguishable by its wooden paddles dipping rhythmically into the sacred waters of the magrain’s revered river.

The delegation stood on the doorstep, and allowed themselves a moment to survey the small, but beautiful home of the magrain. From here, they could see the tops of some of the houses, where friends and neighbours met and breakfasted together. The stone huts glimmered in the morning sun, and the river and its surrounds pulsed with life and fertility. It was a tranquil place, where one could live in harmony with nature.

Reluctantly, Emrain tore his eyes away, straightened, and knocked gallantly on the mill’s painted door.

A large magrain opened.

“Oh, most noble Telk, it is with a heavy heart tha-.”

“Teeeelk, there’s someone at the door for you!”

“Who is it?” a croaky voice replied.

“It’s a,” the magrain swung back, “what are you?”

“A, an emissary from The Kaden Circle.”

The magrain seemed to be thinking, “It didn’t say!”

“Give ‘em a fish and tell ‘em to sod off.”

Emrain’s cheeks were on the same colour spectrum as the stone, “Sir, I come regarding a very important mat-”

“Impotent?”

“Important!”

“I can’t hear ya.”

“It’s really very critic-”

“Is he still there? I can’t hear him.”

“It is vital that-”

“Bite all? I still can’t hear him. He must have left.”

“Your son is dead!”

Silence was the only answer this time.

“Oooh,” the magrain at the door said, as it shuffled into the darkness.

Emrain refitted his hat and straightened his collar. He ignored the looks the guards gave him.

Eventually, a wizened old magrain shuffled to the door. At least, Emrain believed he must be old. It was quite hard to tell when the skin on a magrain’s face looked like it had been pulled taut over a drum, and was covered in scales.

The magrain, his orange skin mottled with patches of yellow, looked Emrain up and down and said, “Which one?”

After another painful back and forth, Emrain gained entry into the large abode. His men placed the shrouded body of the fallen magrain on the dining room table, and stood back respectfully.

“That is not my son,” Telk said.

Emrain removed the shroud.

“Kyk!”

“As I said, it is with regret that I inform you that your son passed away on Kaden Circle territory. In accordance with our longstanding alliance, we have returned the body of the fallen so that he may be buried in his ancestral home.”

“What happened to him?”

Emrain was no doctor, but there was a massive gash in the magrain’s head which probably wasn’t caused by a spot of food poisoning.

“As far as we can tell, it seems that your son joined a mercenary company, operating near Tindra. Whilst in the employ of this company, they had an,” Emrain consulted his internal diplomat’s dictionary, “altercation, with another mercenary band. The details are not clear, but we know that Kyk was injured during a fight in central Jandrir, and succumbed to his wounds.”

“Left, Right!”

One of the Kaden guards reflexively started marching. Emrain stilled him with a shake of the head.

The meaning of Telk’s exclamation did not become clear until a pair of short magrain bounded into the room. All magrain looked pretty much the same to Emrain, but these two looked even more the same.

“Kyk!” the sisters said as one.

Telk had a poor eye for faces at the best of times. So, when his eighth wife bore him identical twins, he had the cunning idea to call them Left and Right, so that he might always know which was which by where they were standing. He had congratulated himself on his shrewd plan, as had his wife.

It was unfortunate then that, years on, neither Left nor Right knew their left or right. For that matter, neither did Telk.

“Girls, your brother has fallen.”

“Oh, brave Kyk,” Left or Right whimpered.

“Gather our friends and allies. Many here owe Telk favours, and Telk will claim them now. Tell them mighty Kyk has been killed. Tell them he was murdered by this one’s kind,” his long, gnarled finger was aimed at Emrain.

“We don’t know that for sure!”

Telk turned his back and shuffled to the far end of the room. He stood before a wide cabinet.

“Relax, messenger, I will not hurt you. But I do need you to tell me who did this.”

“I really don’t know!”

Telk extended his spindly arms and raked the top of the cabinet with his talons. There was a rasping sound as claws struck metal. Reverently, the magrain elder hauled down an enormous bronze spear, fashioned from a single piece of metal.

“Then you will find out.”