Chapter Two: Palecrest

The band of misfits were not prevented from leaving Mudroot as they fled from the town, their horses' legs blurring by the stupified guards as they dallied and wondered what the rush was all about. The Baron took a moment to gallop a circle around one of the confused fools in the courtyard, screaming down at him from his steed, "Warmest regards to Montok, you whoreson!" before he was away through the open gates.

They sped over the causeway, hoofs beating a rumbling tattoo against the wooden logs, then headed west along the bank of the River Weaver, as fast as the clinging mud would allow. It took them far too long to cover the league or so distance Legion's camp. As the drab tents and woodsmoke hove into view, a sentry was already moving to intercept them from the underbrush.

"Very good, Getch. Much better than that lot back there," Baron Paegar jabbed his thumb upstream.

"Captain," the sentry nodded, "How was the nice, warm bed?"

"Lovely, Getch, lovely. Thank you." Paegar chose to ignore the sarcasm.  The memory of his father's words came to him now and then, at moments like this. Know their names, and let them get away with just enough. 

It felt like coming home; the group greeted friends and cohorts, traded news of the previous week and spent time in idle chatter. It felt like a great weight fell from their shoulders as they laughed and joked with the men of the Lucky Legion: two score and eight blessed survivors. There had been more, of course, once upon a time five years ago, but it had been hard to find replacements after the war, especially for what amounted to little more than a pack of bandits in most people's eyes.

Flick and Brinkle now sat on a log, away from the heat of the roaring cooking fire, eating their fill of fish stew and guzzling fresh, clean water.  Wren stood to one side, nibbling on a small chunk of bread.

"You sure you don't want any, Wren?" asked Flick.

"I'm sure, Flick," came the reply.  Wren's stomach grumbled as a wave of nausea passed through him. "Too much bloody seal."

The Baron, finished with the pleasantries and eager to get down to business, finally addressed the men. He hopped up onto a log of his own and bellowed out, "Hear me now, lads! Hear me now!"

The men of the legion gathered around the fire, and their long-practiced discipline kicked in. Nobody muttered or shuffled their feet; they stood stock-still as statues - the gruffest, roughest bunch of reprobates Flick could ever have imagined. These men were his family, and they had raised him for as long as he could remember. To outsiders, these men seemed like nothing but murderous thugs, but to him, they were fathers and brothers, tutors and mentors, friends and family. He was safe with these men and knew his place in the world.

"Well, my friends, we've mucked about in the mud long enough," Paegar spat on the ground in disgust. "We're off to Palecrest."

The Baron was never one for long, rambling speeches. A mumble of approval floated through the ranks. Wren scowled, the prospect of Palecrest adding to his discomfort.

"So let's get everyone packed up and ready. It's almost noon, and I want us vanished before Father Sun gets furious, so be quick about it," he looked up at the sun and squinted. "Get them moving, Sheeper."

"You heard the Captain!" The quartermaster removed his spectacles and rubbed his sleeve against the precious lenses. The men didn't need to be told twice.

"You three had best get some rest, because we're going to be riding hard," Paegar strode off.

Flick followed his friends as they left the camp to find a suitable spot to rest awhile before the long journey to Palecrest. They settled down under a tree, Brinkle placing his new pet chicken down on the grass and letting it run about as he lay his substantial frame down against a huge root. He raised his eyebrows at Wren, hopefully. Wren took the tiny bottle of moonlick from his pouch and tossed it over to the big man.  Brinkle removed the cork and sipped down the remaining drops of shimmering liquid, and was snoring like an awful monster within minutes.

"Why do you let him have that stuff, Wren?" Flick lay stretched out on his back, watching the leaves above rustle in the gentle breeze. "Korbax says that shit will be the death of him."

"It might be," Wren closed his eyes and let his head rest back against the tree, his boots crossed out on the ground in front of him. "It might be. But without it, he's so damned miserable, Flick. I don't know. At least he knows he can't hold onto it himself.  Besides, he fights like a savage when he's on the moonlick."

Flick pondered this for a moment; it seemed reasonable to him. Clearly, his big friend loved moonlick even more than he loved his flame-water, but if he knew he couldn't trust himself to keep it upon his own person, then surely he knew that it had him enslaved. And Flick knew that Brinkle wasn't a slave to any man nor anything. Still, if Brinkle could trust anyone with the moonlick it was Wrenfin, he was sure of that much, at least.

"Wren?"

"Flick?"

"I don't want to see the Wrackbone again."

Wren's eyes flew open, and he stared at the boy. It had been such a long time without mentioning it, he hadn't thought that Flick rememebered, "I know lad, me neither."

The memory came rushing back to Wren now, as clear as if they were both back there in the shadowy forest clearing; he could see the Wrackbone's whip, flying up and down, splitting skin and ripping chunks of flesh. He could hear Flick's screaming as his young body was flayed to shreds under the horrific blows of the cruel weapon. The boy could only have been eight or nine, no age to be in a pitched battle, but they had pushed them out the door with a sword in their hand so young back then. Wren remembered the moment he had felt the dagger leave his outflung fingers and watched it spin out towards the Wrackbone's open visor. The blade had missed its mark, glancing off the helm, and the foul creature had instead whirled to face Wren, with hatred in its heart and rage in its bones.

Wren sighed and shuffled down to sleep, curling up on his side in a ball. "It'll be okay, Flick. We owe that fucker, get mad, not sad."

"I'll try, Wren," the boy whispered. A minute passed in silence, both excruciatingly aware of the other.

Suddenly Flick spoke up once more, making Wren jump.

"Hey, look," he said, pointing towards the camp, "It's that woman from town."

Wren opened his eyes.   Sarephel was striding towards them, her pale blue blouse around her waist, fluttering in the wind. She had her hand on the hilt of her weapon, and walked like she was used to wearing it. Wren raised a fist to the back of his head in salute as she approached.

"Hello, you treacherous cow," he growled.

"Hello, you house burning piece of human shit," she retorted with a snarl. She sat down between them and prodded Brinkle in the belly. He hadn't breathed in a good thirty seconds. "Is he dead?"

Brinkle let out a rumbling, roaring snore and settled into his rhythm once more.

Flick stared at Sarephel, wide-eyed and mouth agape. The woman raised her eyebrows at the boy and shook her head. 

She's tough, this one, thought Wren. She speaks like one of us and doesn't back down. She will find her place here.

"That's a nice blade," Wren nodded at her long knife, "I like a dagger too, easy to get into places and poke about.  I do prefer a rondel, though."

He patted the circular pommel of his weapon affectionately.

Sarephel looked down at her own weapon, before running a slim finger along the length of its scabbard. "It was my dad's. He died at Hangman's Hill."

Of course he did, Wren thought. We all did, really, even those who didn't.

"You know how to use it?" he asked, pulling out a long, thin pipe and a small pouch of smog-moss. Wren began to pack the pipe with the bluish leaves as he added, "You could teach Flick here a thing or two, he needs more practice."

"I'm getting better!" Flick exclaimed, "I almost got that one twat that fell over Plucky."

The youngster picked up an acorn and lobbed it at the chicken. It bounced harmlessly off the bird's back, causing it to let out a little squawk before it went back to pecking amongst the grass for worms.

Wren took a long draw on his pipe, letting the red cherry take hold in the bowl. He puffed and puffed, releasing clouds of thick, seafoam coloured smoke, feeling the familiar cloudiness pass through his body like a hug from Mother Moon. He offered the pipe to Sarephel and she took it gladly, drew deep and inhaled the smoke down into her lungs. She let it out with a sigh as she felt the muddled, befuddled feeling pass throughout her weary limbs and tingle its way through her brain. She felt like melted butter, as though she could seep through into the earth below and be happy there, forever in the quiet, peaceful dirt.

Wren took back the pipe with a smile. "Better? See, it's not so bad being a wanted woman."

She grinned and giggled like a little girl, slapped her thigh and said, "Is that what I am now, then? You bloody butchers burn down my place, kidnap me and kill half the town guard on the way out, and now I'm wanted too?"

"We definitely didn't kidnap you. You could have stayed."

"You burned down my fucking house!" she burst out laughing, flung herself backwards against Brinkle's chest and used the man as a pillow. "But yes, I suppose, if I'm honest with myself, I wanted to come with Paegar. Just don't tell him. I'm going to make him suffer for dragging me off."

Wren smiled inwardly. So that was it, he thought, she's only known him for a week, he destroyed her life, and she will still follow him to the ends of the three kingdoms, just like the rest of us. He drew on his pipe slowly, tendrils of the bluish-green smoke escaping from his nostrils.

"So, where are we going, Palecrest?" Sarephel asked. "Why are we going to see his brother, exactly?"

"Because we found something that he needs to know about," Wren replied, "and the Baron is going to get us tangled up in a big mess again."

"Why don't you want to go, Wren?" Flick perked up, "King Hasrin beat the Wrackbone once, he can do it again."

"Because Hasrin and his high and mighty Sun-damned alchemist-priests make me sick to my stomach, Flick," Wren was getting irritated, despite the powerful, calming effects of the smog-moss. "They think they can cast aside the old ways and use their fucking potions and tricks to keep everyone quiet."

"But you use all that stuff too, Wren. The condoctions that Sheeper makes?" Flick was confused.

"Yes, because they're very bloody useful, Sheeper's concoctions are. That doesn't mean the old ways should be forgotten, Flick." Wren passed the pipe back to Sarephel, who happily accepted and brought it to her lips with an excited shake of her shoulders. "Or worse, deliberately spat at and ridiculed, pushed aside and treated as heresy against Mother Moon. Fuck them and their tricks."

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Flick lay back down and watched the leaves dancing on the branch above. Another acorn was shaken loose and dropped to the ground, causing the chicken to jump with fright before it investigated the spot.

"They keep slaves there, too, in Palecrest," Sarephel whispered. "Khivarian slaves. They keep 'em locked up and make 'em mine the crest for all sorts of weird things."

"They do," Wren said. "But only for Pothchalk, nothing weird. And they eat cats. Cats for Moon's sake. Can you imagine?"

The three of them sat in comfortable silence as the minutes slipped by. Brinkle's snoring played a soothing tune when he was breathing, and when he wasn't, Sarephel dug an elbow into his ribs to get him going again. 

The sounds of the camp being torn down flittered to them on the wind from down by the river, the Baron's cries and shouts ringing out loud and clear in the hot air. 

Wren tugged at his leather jerkin to let some of the breeze in to cool his cooking skin. It was going to be a long, hot trip to Palecrest, and then who knew where they'd be headed next. He wondered what the King would say about the Wrackbone being back in business, and how the Baron would react if the King did nothing. It was a strong possibility, the only proof they had was Wren's word. And the sigil safely locked away in his head.

"Hey, it's the Captain," Flick scrambled to his feet. Baron Paegar was waving at the group, beckoning them to come back to camp. "Come on, Brinkle, we're leaving."

Brinkle the Big moaned and grumbled all the way back, Plucky tucked under his arm, flapping like a mighty dragon in her efforts to escape. The Lucky Legion, or what was left of it, was finally ready to begin the long march to Palecrest. They followed the River Weaver west, heading towards the ocean until they could make out the wide, brown estuary mingling with the blue water in the distance. Turning southwards, they left the rough terrain of the muddy valley and moved onto firmer ground. Father Sun looked down from above, baking their brains with his gaze as they passed through meadows, the thick grass as tall as their saddles. The only relief was the scant shade as they passed through the occasional copse of trees. They could have headed back to Mudroot and followed the old road all the way to Palecrest, however the Baron preferred for them to stay away from the well-trodden path after causing so much trouble in Mudroot; and besides, the men needed the exercise.

It wasn't long before they spied Palecrest in the distance; its magnificent stone walls imposing their will upon the surrounding countryside. The capital city was built into the solid rock at the peak of Mount Pale, and the white pothchalk cliffs, which comprised the upper-most parts of the mountain gleamed in the light like a powerful beacon, urging them on.

Wren marvelled at the sheer quantity of pothchalk; It never failed to amaze him how much power was contained within those lumps of powdery rock. He pictured the Khivarians, their picks flying at the crest, white faces coated in the chalk, breathing the dust and working like men possessed. It would addle their minds and make maniacs of them given time, and so only the most unruly and belligerent were punished in this way.

Perched below the mines were the processing quarters, where great slabs of the pothchalk were broken down into smaller chunks.  These chunks were mostly sent elsewhere in the kingdom, but some would be ground into the mysterious and revered poth, the most essential ingredient of almost any medicine, potion, or cheap alchemist's trick found anywhere in the kingdom. Indeed, all the best things in Wren's little pouch contained at least a pinch of the strange, pale powder.

Further down the mountain sat the Great Keep, home to King Hasrin of Selenia, Lord of Palecrest. It's towers rose menacingly above the surrounding buildings like giant, stone tree trunks. Wren squinted and could just make out a tiny red speck of colour, the King's banner, along with the white of the kingdom and a few others belonging to nobles or Barons who must be present within the city. It fluttered in the wind from the very top of the enormous central tower, which had first been built so long ago, the city slowly growing out from around it as the years passed by.

The road to the top was long and hard, curling around the base of the mountain and spiralling its way up and around to the city's gate. It took the Legion almost as long to climb their way up as it had to get there in the first place. The exhausted horses struggled up the final approach, especially Brinkle's poor mare. She was close to death after being pushed far beyond her limits this last day and night. The men dismounted and let the beasts rest, their helmets off, enjoying the stiff breeze through their hair. Paegar approached the walls and talked with the city watchmen on duty. It wasn't long before they were given leave to enter, the captain of the fifty or so strong legion stomping back within seconds.

"There's room at the stables, but not for all," he shouted into the wind as it whipped and tugged at his cloak. "Some will have to find an inn with space for a few ruffians."

They filed inside the city, leading the horses underneath the twenty-foot wide portcullis and through the gatehouse. Beyond, the noise and stench of almost ten-thousand souls clung thickly in the air and assaulted the senses. People rushed about in a hurry wherever Wren looked, most not even looking where they were going, habitually side-stepping and dodging their way through the streets and alleys with long-practiced grace. Most people in Palecrest were well off, the upper-class locals mingling naturally with rich visitors from every far-flung corner of Selenia. They wore colourful, gaudy clothes and walked with heads held high, noses turned up towards the dirty soldiers as they made their way through the cobble-stoned streets.

Wren and Baron Paegar left their horses, and the men, in the capable hands of Sheeper, bidding them farewell before heading off on their own to see the King. It wasn't much farther up the hill to the keep, and so they took their time, enjoying the sights and smells of the city. Stalls lined the streets, with merchants peddling their wares and yelping for attention. Foods from far and wide could be purchased, exotic fruits and strange meats. You could find tools, clothes, weapons, medicines to fix anything but the worst of sicknesses and potions to solve a whole host of problems. One open door even lead through into a cool and shady shop, it's shelves stacked from floor to rafters with beautifully ornate, carved wooden toys. Wren paused at the threshold, considered Flick, then thought better of the idea and moved to catch up with his two companions.

He's not a child anymore, Wren thought, he needs to grow up.

"Leave her alone, you cunt." Paegar growled at an opulent looking middle-aged gentleman with short, blonde hair who was angrily making his way down the middle of the road. The man roughly pulled on the arm of a young Khivarian slave girl, her long, white locks flowing behind her as he carelessly tugged her along behind him.

"I'm sorry, what was that?" the richster looked aghast. "She's not your concern m'fellow."

Paegar nodded.  "She is if I have to witness you treating her that way, you rat." 

The blonde man made to leave, yanking the girl by the arm again. "Come on, you."

Paegar calmly stepped in front of him, hooked his boot around the back of the man's calf and swept his legs out from under him. The dandy clattered to the ground in a heap, moaning and whining, before scrambling to his feet and shuffling off, tears in his eyes. The girl followed quickly, glancing back at the Baron and clutching her wrist, where red welts raised and stung her skin.

"Are you quite finished?" Wren sighed, gazing after the girl.

"Spoilt arsehole." his friend stared at the upper-class Selenian's back as he fled down the hill.

Once inside the keep, they were escorted immediately up the main tower to the King's private chambers, where he greeted them with a polite smile and wooden cups filled with fine wine from the Southern Reaches, whilst he drank from a silver goblet. Now the three of them sat in comfort, the King behind his imposing wooden desk.

"We heard you might be on your way, Paegar," he stroked his long, greying beard. "A messenger arrived not an hour past, rushed here from Mudroot."

Baron Paegar swigged back wine and rubbed his empty eye-socket. It always itched and bothered him when it got hot and sweaty. "Ah, yes, well, we had some trouble. Montok's upset, is he?"

"Furious!" Hasrin laughed, "You killed his best man. He was betrothed to Montok's daughter!"

The King slammed a fist on the desk and the bottle of wine jumped, "He wants you to hang for it, but I hardly think you came here to hide from Montok. What brings you?"

Paegar sighed with relief. He hadn't been completely sure his brother would be okay with the murder of half the guard of Mudroot, but Montok must have given Hasrin some sort of offence in recent months, and the King clearly didn't mind Montok suffering. It was good for Paegar, but it also troubled him. No King should let something like this slide.

"The same thing that led to Montok's men getting in our way," Paegar leaned back and stretched out his tired limbs. "They died trying to arrest us for murder, except it wasn't murder. The murdered men were not... men. I mean they were, but they were the Wrackbone's men. It doesn't count."

The King sneered at the idea. The Wrackbone hadn't been seen or heard from in years now, not since Hangman's Hill. Surely he was long gone, or even dead at last. If he were still alive, he would have shown himself long ago. He wouldn't wait for five whole years...

"The Wrackbone? You've lost your mind, brother." Hasrin scoffed. "We dealt with him already."

"We didn't finish the job. Show him, Wrenfin."

Wren crossed the room and gestured at the inkpot and quill on the desk. "May I, Sire?"

The King pushed them across the desk towards Wren, rummaged around in a drawer and produced a sheaf of parchment. He poured them all more wine as Wren once again sketched out the strange, sprialling knot of worms from memory, letting his mind clear and watching the patterns form without conscious thought. The worms wriggled as worms tend to do as he scribbled, chasing each other across the page. When he was finished, they ceased their writhing and were still.

"What in the name of Father Sun is that abomination?" the King exclaimed, nearly overfilling his goblet as he stared in wonder.

"A sigil," Wren replied. "You should ask your priests about it, they may still recall a little knowledge of such things, if they aren't too far gone. Sire."

Paegar rolled his eyes as he stood and moved to the open window. He peered out across the vast ocean to the west, watching three ships sailing in formation, making the run down the coast to Saltwic. He folded his arms and shook his head, knowing that Wren could easily explain the situation to his brother himself.

The King looked at the sigil for a good ten heartbeats before standing and moving to the door. He opened it and summoned a guard before ordering the man to fetch the priest. Wren shrugged, sat back down in the comfortable chair and while they waited, he told the King the tale of his previous evening. He recalled how they had been in the inn at Mudroot, seen the Wrackbone's men and tricked the fools into giving chase, out along the Pinchpurse Path where Wren and his friends had waited in ambush. He skipped over the details of how he tore his way into the sigil-keeper's soul and crushed it in his eagerness to get his mind on the writhing, crawling thing within. Hasrin didn't need to know everything.

"But how did you know they were the Wrackbone's minions, Agodak?" the King asked.  He raised his goblet and swigged back wine.

"I recognised his eyes, from Hangman's Hill." Wren closed his own eyes and went back to the forest, to the fear and the blood, and to the young boy crawling on his belly in the dirt, his back flayed to ribbons. He remembered the Wrackbone's whip, flailing as he wheeled on Wren and delivered blow after blow to the unarmed legionary. Wren had tried to protect himself, throwing up his arms to cover his face and tucking himself into a ball on the ground. His mail had protected him from the worst of it, but he was beaten mercilessly, and bruises had purpled his body for weeks afterwards. It had been the messenger, the Wrackbone's sigil-keeper, who had saved Wren from the onslaught. He had come to pull his master away before they were surrounded by the King's men, who were fanning out through the forest and butching any survivors.

"He was there with the Wrackbone - and Flick," Wren looked at Paegar, who nodded solemnly, understanding.

"So that's why you didn't let them go," Paegar stroked his moustache, twirling a corner with his fingertip. "Must have felt good to end him."

Wren grinned, "It did."

"Almost as good as it's going to feel to bully this priest." Paegar chuckled to himself.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door, and the King barked at the visitor to enter. In came a priest of Mother Moon, his pitch-black robes cinched at the waist with a rope of purest white. His head was bald as a coot, and he had thin tufts of white fluff on his chin.

"I was summoned, Sire?" the old man croaked.

"Come closer, Danico, what do you make of this?" the King beckoned the priest to look at the parchment on the desk. The priest ambled over and leaned down to get a closer look.

"Blasphemy!" he screached like a parrot. "Sire, this is sacrilege most foul! A reprehensible abuse of the Mother's love!"

"Oh, do shut up, you blithering cock-knocker," Wren rose to his feet in objection. "What do you know of it, you conniving old crow?"

The priest turned on Wren, a shocked look on his face. He stuttered and mumbled, unable to form a reply in the face of such unused-to insults.

"You wouldn't know magic if I made you think you had wings, and sent you flying on your miserable way out the window right now," Wren contined, "And Mother Moon has no say in the matter!"

"Blasphemy!" the priest finally found his voice, "Sire, this man is a witch!"

"Quiet now, Danico. Tell me what this thing is or be on your way, man." Hasrin held up his hands, urging calm.

"It's a sigil, Sire. Ancient magic, as this one calls it," the priest waved a gnarled finger in Wren's direction.

"We know that, already. What does it do?"

"It could be anything, Sire. The old ones, in the time of your father's father, used to use them when performing their heathen sacrifices. They would creep inside the sacrifice's soul and defile it with such symbols, to enhance the power of their offering in the eyes of their wretched gods. Only a witch would use such a thing." the priest glared at Wren, "Ask him!"

"Damn your eyes, priest! Haven't you seen for yourself how your faith in the Mother can be corrupted?" Wren shouted back. "Haven't you witnessed the thieving and manipulation of your own fucking church? You know full well it's not that simple, you crooked old cunt!"

"Okay, I think I understand," Hasrin raised an eyebrow in Wren's direction. "You may leave us now, Danico."

Danico grumbled and muttered under his breath as he bowed his liver-spotted skull to the king.

Once the old priest had left, Hasrin sat back down and raised his goblet to his lips. He sipped at the thick, rich liquid as he pondered what to do with this ancient, sacrilegious thing on the desk before him. Finally, after a minute's thought, he looked up with a look of resignation.

"Well, you'll have to try it, then."

Wren appeared calm on the surface, though inside a thrill of excitement swelled.

"Are you sure?" he asked. "It will probably kill whoever I use."

"It's okay," replied King Hasrin. "We'll use a slave."