“Welcome, travellers from Ur-Kadesh,” a warm voice, gravelly but bright, called out from the side of one of the stone huts. An old woman with an aged orange face, crinkled like old parchment, stepped out from the shadows, eyes gleaming beneath heavy, untamed strands of silver hair.
“Hullo, my name’s Talbot,” I instinctively raised a hand and forced a smile. “We’re new to the area and just planning on passing through. Though would appreciate a place to stay, if that’s all right.”
She moved towards us with a gnarled walking stick of emberfruit wood. Despite her age, she moved smoothly away from the hut, then when she neared, settled into a hobble, trembling and leaning on her cane.
“I’m Old Mereth, the elder of the village. You look weary, lads — walked a long road, haven’t you? And covered in battle-wounds!” Her eyes lingered on my burns and the cat scratches on Alator’s arms, her expression unreadable, maybe something measuring or calculating, maybe . . . there was something beneath all the warmth, but through exhaustion or perhaps something else, I couldn’t decipher it.
“Hello, old witch,” Alator grumbled, profound spite radiating from him. I nudged him with an elbow and he inclined his head, but crossed his arms and looked away.
“Strange company you keep, Talbot. . . . But all are welcome here.” She came right up close to me and reached out a hand to pat my arm. I flinched, then as she touched me, something in me softened, as if I was being put at ease. The tension drifted from my body. That haze of exhaustion then came on full bore, and I almost fell over forwards where I stood. Her hand remained pressed on my arm.
“It’s been a difficult night,” I admitted, trying to pull myself together.
She pointed a gloved finger past us to the tall, ruby-red shrine, wherein the faint glow of the embers rose and fell.
“It’s no grave matter. All souls find kind refuge in Akhur'shet. We have a hut you can use, all made-up — a bothy, if you like. Inside are beds, a safe place to lay your heads, and we’ll bring you hot food. I don’t imagine the travelling foods sated much of your appetite.”
Wobbling a little, words came half-unbidden, like that moment you fully give into drunkenness.
“No — nasty dry stuff.”
“Quiet, quiet. It’ll be sundown shortly, you’ve done enough to deserve some proper rest. Let the kindly Ember Spirit keep watch over you.”
I nodded dumbly, and she took my arm and led me a short way into the village. With a heavy thud she unclasped a hook, then with a creak, she opened a heavy wooden door and guided me in. The room was instantly inviting; a wide hearth, already lit, flickered pleasant red light. There were three cots pressed against the far wall, each draped in wool and linens dyed deep crimson and bright orange.
As she brought me over to one of the beds and sat me down, another one of the short local orange women filed into the room behind us and set out a bowl of fresh emberfruit and a jug of the juice, which was poured into a glazed clay mug and handed to me. As they did, they held out a hand for my Bronze Spear, still warped and half-melted, and the Bronze Shield. Not completely out of it, I put up a hand to stop their approach and propped them up by the side of the bed — in view. I drank greedily from the mug. The cool juice went down nicely and gave that familiar tingle down my throat. Then as a reflex I undid my sandals and lay back on the bed.
Very woozy, my head swam, Old Mereth’s hand still on my arm as she sat on the edge of the bed. I wrapped myself in my cloak and the woman pulled the sheets over me.
“Hold on — Alator,” frantically for a long moment through heavy-lidded eyes, I threw my body around and tried to peer over Old Mereth’s shoulder for my companion. Eventually, to my utter relief, I saw him in the corner of the room, arms still crossed, brow furrowed, foot tapping.
“There, there. It’s no grave matter, drift into the kind, warm sea of sleep,” a burning hot hand reached up and stroked my hair. The heat felt pleasant.
Complete, timeless nothing.
“Talbot!” a voice from far away broke through my utterly dreamless slumber. “Talbot! Get up, we have to go.”
As though listening to the TV when half-asleep, I heard myself respond, “It’s no grave matter, Alator, just leave me be.”
He lingered over me like a shadow for a moment, then clicked his teeth and turned, and then as if from far away, I heard the sound of the creaking door open and close.
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I woke before first light, the haze lifted. The first thing I noticed was that the floorboards were damp — slick with dark stains. Sap from the emberfruit trees? Maybe. And the faint coppery smell, too? The events of the day before came back to me in pieces, and I suddenly recalled being led in here and put to sleep.
That Old Mereth’s touch!
Alator hadn’t returned. I glanced around, starting to panic — my spear and shield were gone. At some point in the night, they’d even taken my sandals, but my pouch was still on me, and the Stonebear Cloak that Kikiara had given me was still tied around my shoulders.
Movement outside, hushed voices through the small paneless window and door frame. I silently withdrew the Frostwaith Claw, still chilled to the touch, and held it under the sheets like a dagger, and kept the other hand in my pouch, a fingertip against the Analysis Card.
Slowly and with a great effort to remain quiet, the heavy latch was lifted from outside and the door was creaked open and a crack of lantern light bled through. A hurried hiss from one voice made the other voice whisper something back, then the lantern light was snuffed out.
My grip tightened on the long claw as two figures entered the room. The orange skin of the villages, wearing heavy robes that had perhaps once been white but were now blotched dark with smears. I struggled to keep my breathing steady and deep to feign sleep, and pushed down the fear-rage that grew in my heart.
Before there’s some kind of rampage, let’s see where this goes. . . . Might be a misunderstanding.
Name :
Ishi the Orchard Hand, Level 3
Stats :
Str 4, Dex 6, Con 5, Mnd 4
Skills :
Herbalism Lvl 1
Shadowcraft Lvl 1
Inventory :
Bronze Dagger, Firestarter
Weakness :
Fire
Home :
Akhur'shet, Barbican
Name :
Fennel the Grove Watcher, Level 2
Stats :
Str 5, Dex 5, Con 4, Mnd 5
Skills :
Mysticism Lvl 1
Shadowcraft Lvl 1
Special :
Give And Take
Inventory :
Emberwood Staff, Blinding Powder
Weakness :
Sluggish reflexes
Home :
Akhur'shet, Barbican
As soon as I’d scanned their profiles, I shut my eyes again. No change in their movements — they were unaware. I heard nothing as they crossed the floor, only the slightest shift of a floorboard right beside the bed.
Red behind my eyes. Instinct screamed at me. Perfectly still, my eyes opened a sliver, vision covered by lashes. I dipped into that smooth, clear stream of energy within me, found the glinting lights shining with perfect clarity beneath the surface, and plucked one out. [Battle Tactics]. My blood boiled over as half a dozen possibilities for the next moment played in my mind’s eye.
If I stayed still, all I saw was my death.
A flash and grunt as a dagger plunged. I snapped my eyes full open and caught the dropping arm, feeling taut but wasted-away muscle beneath a heavy cloth, in tatters and stained near-black with crusted blood. The knife’s bronze point glinted a half-inch from the blanket.
The would-be assassin, Ishi, put his other hand on the knife’s hilt and pushed his weight down onto it, but with my Strength, in my tension, it could’ve been a thin branch bent by the wind.
“It’s just a bit of blood!” came a manic shriek. “The Ember Spirit needs your BLOOOOD!”
That settles it.
I threw the bedclothes off and shot upright. Throwing the arm aside, I brought the razor-sharp claw across and opened the man’s neck in a plume of red.
Throwing him to the floor, I launched off the bed, excitement pounding through me. Stepping over the fumbling, gurgling body, I saw Fennel stunned, then drop the lantern with a smash and drip of oil, and move a fumbling grip over his staff.
[Battle Tactics] stretched, I ducked the slow first swipe and in one motion my fist closed on what I presumed to be the Firestarter from Ishi’s belt-pouch. Withdrawing a sleek, palm-sized oval of obsidian and resin, and dragged it hard against the floor towards the oil.
Sparks erupted and caught the oil and a fast lick of fire ran across the floor. Fennel instantly yelped and turned to flee. I let him go, and took the Bronze Dagger that Ishi had dropped, then stepped over and past his body as he expired, and leapt over the flames to follow.
Rushing out, I shouted into the cold night:
“Alator! They’re out for blood!”
As I yelled into the blackness, I saw by the flicker of the firelight behind me a swarm of movement. A crowd waited for me — a dozen, at least — with weapons drawn, mouths agape and teeth dripping red, eyes wide with a blaze of madness.
Old Mereth stepped out from the sea of bodies. Though her face was still deeply lined, all signs of age was gone from her body as she held the walking stick like a club and stood straight-backed.
“It would have been kinder if you’d gone in your sleep.”