CHAPTER 21: SORROWS
“Nothing in this ephemeral universe is truer than pain. The blessing of pain defines consciousness; the ability to suffer and hurt is universal across awareness. But even in this great cosmic connector, there is a hierarchy; not all pain is created equal, and not all creations can touch its higher forms. As people, true people, we can experience the purest form of pain, love, and loss. The ability to grieve, to drown in pain, is what makes us special. Never forget this: your pain is your truth, and the only real thing about you.” - The Sermon in the Pit, attributed to Jalda the Many-Voiced.
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Aloysius Wolfgang hated having an audience while he worked; they could too easily become a distraction, something that didn’t mix well with dangerous necromantic rituals. Standing atop a makeshift dias in the town square of Ludaford, Wolfgang tried to ignore the dozens of red eyes staring at him as he created another Gashadokuro. The entire flying court of Duke Mika Gens Umbria stood in silent judgment of Wolfgang, witnesses to his success or failure. Among them was Caladus Corpsefriend, chief Necromancer of the Duke, and Wolfgang’s potential usurper if he proved inadequate.
Doing his best to ignore his grim audience, Wolfgang spat the last words of the ritual and felt the storm of misery condense into the Gashadokuro’s core. As the new Rattler pulled itself from the pool of black ectoplasm, Wolfgang allowed himself the tiniest amount of relief. He’d managed the ritual despite everything and bought himself a little more time.
Polite clapping issued from the flying court, a gesture Wolfgang genuinely couldn’t tell was mocking or sincere. Seated upon the gilded curule he used as a throne, the Duke watched as the new Gasha stood alongside its four battle-tested kindred. Glancing at his Necromancer, the Duke asked. “Well, Caladus, what do you think?”
Corpulent with small beady eyes, the Necromancer looked more like a corrupt tax collector than the ancient monster he was. An impression Wolfgang knew must be intentional; any Vampire Magi worthy of the title could alter their appearance. Not all Vampires were sired with the inhuman youthful beauty characteristic of their kind; many stole it for themselves.
The Necromancer’s wide, jowled mouth split in a fanged smile. “It's magnificent! I’ve not seen such a clever blending of Necromancy and Demonic communion in a long time. Bravo to the young lord for bringing us this weapon.”
Wolfgang bowed his head in response to the greasy compliments clearly meant to butter him up. “You honor me, Lord Caladus.”
Stroking his chins like another man might a beard, Caladus said. “I do believe with young Wolfgang’s guidance, I should be able to create more of these ‘Gasha’ myself.”
Meeting the older Necromancer’s eyes, Wolfgang replied. “That shouldn’t be an issue; in fact, with your aid, Lord Caladus, I might be able to make progress on other matters of arcane importance.”
Caladus’s smile widened but never reached his eyes. “But of course! I’m always happy to help a prodigy reach his full potential.”
Hidden beneath the smarmy geniality, a deal was struck between the two Necromancers. Wolfgang would allow Caladus access to his research in exchange for some of the older Vampire’s magical secrets. Another example of the sub-rosian politicking that defined Vampire relationships.
Leaning forward on his stool, the Duke smiled like a hungry wolf. “Good. How long do you think it will take the two of you to convert all of Ludaford’s dead into Gasha?”
The two Necromancers exchanged glances, and Caladus said. “It depends on young Wolfgang here; if he is willing to share his secrets with some of my coven, then I don’t believe it will take any time at all.”
Every time a secret is shared, it degrades, becoming less and less of a secret until it is naught but petty information. If Wolfgang let knowledge of creating Gashadokuro spread, he’d be devaluing a treasure gained at significant expense. “If Lord Caladus has a select few he deems worthy of this information, I’m sure we can come to an arrangement.”
Getting up from his stool, the Duke gestured at a clear cobblestone space and snapped his fingers. Four thralls quickly moved a large rolled carpet to the space and unfurled it, revealing a woven map of the surrounding region. Stepping onto the carpet map, the Duke spoke. “The Alidon forts have stalled us for too long. But with the plague rampaging through the Marches and the Gashadokuro at our call, I intend to break the defensive line.”
There was a stir among the assembled Vampires; it had been long since the Duchies pushed past the Alidon. Traditionally, the lands between the Tya and the Alidon were what the League and Duchies squabbled over; moving hostilities deeper into mortal territory signaled a major change.
Among the assembled nobles, a burly Strigoi count spoke up. “Where shall we strike lord Duke?”
Unsheathing his gladius, Duke Mika tapped a spot on the map where the Alidon River turned sharply south. “At Crowbend Castle, that is where we break through.”
This time, there wasn’t a stir among the Nobles, just stunned silence. Of the Alidon forts and cities, only three were considered impregnable: Harmas, Crowbend, and, where the Prince of Vindabon currently nested, Fort Erdom. A dozen weaker forts dotted the river's east bank, each an easier prize.
Eventually, the silence was broken by a fearsome female knight with short red hair. “Why Crowbend? It seems a tough skull to crush. Why not just take one of the other forts and spread out from there, get a proper bridgehead, and flank the livestock from either direction? Hells, why don’t we just crack open Harmas and use it instead?”
Sir Jilian DuMord of the Iron Fang Order was beautiful and horrible to behold. Possessing all the lean lethality of a leopard and none of its paltry mercy. A battle-tested soldier and one of the Duke’s favored commanders, she spoke her mind with both tongue and blade.
Moving his gladius so its tip pointed at Harmas, the Duke explained his reasoning. “The city is lost to the League, but that does not mean it's in our grasp. Until the Spirit bound to the city is dealt with, Harmas is useless as anything other than an impediment. As for why we don’t attack a weaker fortress, matters are arranging themselves, so Crowbend is within my grasp. Once I’ve taken the castle, the lands from it to Norica will be ripe for the taking, and we can finish strangling the Prince’s army.”
Crossing her arms, Sir Jilian frowned. “Will the Black fly’s pets be enough to take the castle? From what I’ve seen, they are certainly powerful, but if power was all that we needed, Crowbend would already be ours.”
Shaking his head slightly in mock disappointment, the Duke asked. “What’s the fifth rule of true battle?”
Sir Jilian’s frown faded as understanding dawned. “Present the enemy with dilemmas, not choices.”
The Duke nodded. “Exactly, force the enemy to face multiple complementary threats and make them fail in the face of at least one. The plague, the Gasha, Harmas, and my other surprises will be used in concert to force a dilemma. There will be no right choice, merely a question of how much the mortals will fail.”
Pale lips peeled back around ancient fangs; the Duke stabbed his sword into Fort Erdom, where the Prince of Vindabon camped. “The Seraphblood sent to aid our enemies is frail and limited; she cannot protect the enemy army for long or move her protection. The great host of the Holy League is trapped by their own miracles. While the Angelspawn withers away, our friends from the north will keep snapping at their supply lines.”
Drawing his blade up the Alidon river, cutting the map, the Duke stopped at Harmas. “My agents inside the city report slow but steady progress; soon, the first signs of collapse will be visible, and that will be our signal.”
Scarring the intricate rug, the Duke let his blade rest at Crowbend Castle. “As the death knell of Harmas rings across the land, we will strike at the castle with our full might. Thirty Gashadokuro and twenty thousand armored corpses will march on the fortress, and my banner will fly high above its broken gates!”
Situated perfectly on a bluff over the river, guarded by a well-trained garrison, and layered with old and new magics, Crowbend Castle had weathered worse storms than the Duke had planned. If anyone other than the Duke proposed such an attack, Wolfgang might think them mad or stupid. But with Duke Mika, the Black fly knew this wasn’t the case. No, the Duke simply wasn’t sharing every weapon in his armory. His words to Sir Jilian were confirmation enough; the Duke would force dilemmas, and Wolfgang could guess the nature of some. Barrels of Wolfgang’s cure were shipped across the Marches and Norica ahead of the plague, a remarkable temptation to any would-be traitors, one the Duke clearly intended to capitalize on.
As matters of logistics and warfare became the topic of the court, Wolfgang allowed himself to shrink away from the discussion. He needed to start work on more of the Gashadokuro and decide what notes he would share with Caladus. The Duke wanted thirty Gasha in a few nights, a conceivable number with Caladus’s help but not an easy one. Slipping away from the court, Wolfgang started for the urban manor he’d claimed as a nest.
When Wolfgang entered the building, he knew he’d made a mistake. A deep, oily itch caressed the edges of his soul; something else was in the manor with him. Slowly, cautiously, Wolfgang walked towards the main parlor of his nest, feeling waves of Aetheric malice wash against him. His uninvited guest had kept their presence hidden until Wolfgang was within the building and beyond escape. Creeping towards the parlor, Wolfgang heard conversation and a voice he unfortunately recognized.
Turning the corner, Wolfgang found three people in the parlor. Cleanor was unconscious, shallow breaths escaping her prone form on the floor. Sitting in chairs near the incapacitated Lamia were two Vampires; the first was unfamiliar to Wolfgang, a short man with dark hair and a prominent nose wearing a green half-cloak. He was listening to the other Vampire, a figure Wolfgang knew all too well. Tall and famine-thin, the speaking Vampire was completely hairless, with a black silk ribbon covering his eyes and similarly black priestly vestments clinging to his mortified form.
Turning from the stranger, the Priest smiled, revealing the thin thread binding his mouth half-shut. In a voice like a funeral shroud dragged along sand, the Priest said. “Ahhh, Aloysius, we were just discussing you.”
As a rule, most Vampires dismissed religion, viewing it with equal parts disdain and fear. But those few outliers among the night’s children seemed to compensate for the rest of their kind, diving into fanaticism with only the intensity an immortal could muster. Pater Epulo, the spindly Priest sitting before Wolfgang, was the perfect example of these dark faithful.
Eyes flicking to his incapacitated bodyguard, Wolfgang debated his choices. Raising a bony hand lacking fingernails, the Priest said. “Don’t worry about your protector. She will awake in a few hours unharmed. I’d never destroy such a blessed child without good reason.”
Finally finding some words, Wolfgang asked. “May I inquire as to the nature of your visit, Pater, and that of your companion?”
The shadows in the room seemed to grow darker as the Priest ran his pale tongue along the threads binding his lips, making a noise like a broken lyre. “Debt, I come to discuss both yours and my friend’s.”
Careful not to show any emotion, despite the stab of fear this comment elicited, Wolfgang asked. “The plague is spreading through the Southern Marches and Norica. Surely your… patron is reaping a good harvest?”
Epulo nodded, “My God is claiming many grieving souls thanks to your creation. But there are ill omens in the Beyond; our enemies have moved much faster than anticipated.”
Wolfgang was confused, a feeling he hated more than almost anything else. “What do you mean?”
In a blur of movement, Pater Epulo moved from his seat to half a meter from Wolfgang’s face. This close, the Black fly could see past the thin silk blindfold and into the empty eyesockets of the Priest as he spoke. “A cure has been found.”
Ice filled Wolfgang’s veins, and his eyes widened in genuine shock. “Impossible. It should take months! Even the Lych couldn’t find the Bane this quickly, the… the…”
Wolfgang trailed off as Epulo’s empty eyesockets bored into him. “The grief of nations, that is what you promised us, Aloyisus. But the feast you offered is quickly becoming naught but table scraps. Your debt is lessened but not removed; my God’s aid has not been repaid in full.”
Empty eyes never leaving Wolfgang, the Priest moved back to his chair, sliding along the ground, his vestments dragging on dirty flooring. Returning to his seat, Epulo gestured at his guest, the man in the green cloak. “Yet, there are options available to you, Aloysius; you are not the only one with an outstanding debt to the Reaper of Sorrows.”
The cloaked man smiled a vaguely vulpine expression. “I believe we can help each other, Black Fly.”
Recovering himself slightly, Wolfgang asked. “And you are…?”
Standing up and bowing with a flourish, the Vampire said. “Call me Scapino.”
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Yara liked horses; they reminded her of happy times with her mother and scratched a deep itch in her mind. Horses were powerful and useful but required near-constant care, something Yara was equipped to give. As long as horses were involved, Yara could be useful, and Yara liked being useful.
Cuff and Clout trotted along, pulling their lightened load with ease. The strange Magi did something to the cart, and the draft horses walked faster and longer. While she was still leery of the stranger and his strange music, Yara had to admit his spell’s effectiveness. She’d been worried the two horses wouldn’t be enough for the entire journey until Kit enchanted the wagon. Sitting on the front bench, Yara held the reins in hand and watched the kilometers pass by. The forest grew less dense as they moved towards the rolling hills surrounding the Alidonian Mountains. If Mina’s map reading was correct, they’d pass from wilderness into settled land pretty soon.
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Priestess Mina and her mongrel lover both wanted to stop at the next village they reached instead of skirting around it like they’d done before. They wanted to resupply and maybe gather information before taking the mountain pass. Mistress Natalie and Cole weren’t so certain, fearing exposure and delays. Right now, all four were discussing this behind Yara while Kit slept off his exhaustion from enchanting the cart. Yara didn’t particularly care about the choice; she’d just do what Natalie ordered.
Thinking of her mistress sent a slight tingle of joy through Yara. Natalie was nicer now, drinking more of Yara’s blood and giving her more orders, something Yara guessed was Isabelle’s influence. Ever since Isabelle controlled the body during the plague, life was better for Yara. She’d been given a clear purpose and praised for her efforts, not left aimless and useless like before. By Yara's reckoning, the only fly in the ointment was the Paladin. Her mistresses paid him exorbitant attention, and every time Yara looked at Cole, she thought of her previous master.
Yara felt it when Dietrich died; the strong connection forged by his feeding snapped by cold, terrible power, the power of the Paladin. Twice, her master, Sir Dietrich, faced Cole, and both times he’d lost. That fact sent shivers down Yara’s spine every time she looked at Cole, an effect compounded by his hideous scars and icy presence. To her, he seemed more of a monster than Dietrich, but he was Natalie’s loyal paramour and served the mistresses in his own way.
Looking at her hands, Yara realized she’d been gripping the reigns tight enough to be painful. Relaxing a little, she tried to think about something other than the Paladin, an effort aided by the sound of running feet coming up beside the wagon. Turning her head and reaching for the shortsword Natalie bought for her, Yara relaxed marginally when Kit the Magi came into view. He’d clearly jumped off the back of the wagon and ran up to catch with the driver’s bench. Gripping onto the bench, Kit hoisted himself up and next to Yara with surprising dexterity.
Smiling, the Magi plopped down next to Yara and said. “Hi!”
Staring at him with undisguised confusion, Yara asked. “Do you need something?”
Kit shrugged and leaned back against one of the rib struts of the wagon. “I wanted to know how the enchantments are working, and besides, you’re the only member of our little pilgrimage I haven’t talked with.”
Frowning, Yara said, “The magic is working fine; the horses are having an easier time of it.”
Returning her attention to the road ahead, Yara tried to ignore the stranger, something he seemed intent on making impossible. “So you are Natalie’s servant, right? What’s that like?”
It took Yara a moment to comprehend the question and formulate an answer. “It’s… good.”
Smiling at her, Kit said. “A woman of few words, huh? Well, I bet you have interesting stories if you ever decide to share them.”
Unslinging the violin case he always carried on one shoulder, Kit asked. “What type of music do you like? I need to practice, and if you have a favorite song, I’m happy to play it.”
Yara shrugged. “I don’t like music.”
Kit might have been less shocked if she confessed to ritual cannibalism. In retrospect, Yara realized such honesty around a Magi musician might not have been wise. Hastily, she added. “But if you wish to play, that’s fine.”
Opening the violin case and removing the bow, Kit used it as a pointer, jabbing it towards Yara and making her flinch. He started to say something, but upon seeing her twitch, he paused, a pensive look on his face. “Does music scare you?”
Yara kept her expression neutral. “I just don’t like it.”
Absently, Kit rubbed one of his ears and hesitantly said. “In my experience, two types of people say they don’t like music. Liars and those who haven’t found what they like.”
Yara felt her back muscles tense at the Magi’s words. Being called a liar by someone with power rarely ended well. “I…I don’t like the noise.”
Kit stared at Yara, his gaze intense to the point of disturbing. “Ah, so that’s how it is.”
Glancing behind her to the innards of the wagon, Yara felt a surge of panic, would Natalie protect her from the Magi? Natalie had repeatedly made her views on Yara clear, and if push came to shove, a Magi was more valuable than a mere thrall. Speaking quickly, Yara tried to salvage the situation. “Please play if you wish, master Magi; pay me no heed.”
A pained look spread across Kit’s face, and Yara spoke faster. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you; please just play. That is if you want to.”
Setting his violin bow back in the case and buckling it shut, Kit scooted away from Yara, moving so half his butt was hanging off the wagon bench. Hanging her head, Yara prepared for whatever punishment or pain the Magi would unleash on her.
Kit said softly, in a gentle tone that reminded Yara of the one she used with horses. “I loved my dad even though he hated me.”
Yara was so shocked by these words that she pulled on the reigns by instinct, earning an annoyed snort from Cuff and Clout. Quickly recovering a bit of her composure, Yara glanced at Kit and saw old sadness carved into his roguish face. Scratching at his ear, Kit elaborated. “My mom died when I was young; she and my little sister both. Dad started drinking, trying to drown his sorrows and forget his pain, except I was there to always remind him.”
Patting his violin case affectionately, Kit continued. “My first fiddle was his, actually. The first time he caught me playing with it, he nearly broke my jaw. Which I guess kind of makes sense; I nearly ruined the fiddle just getting it out of the case. I mean, it was head and shoulders above his usual reasons for hitting me, like asking for stupid shit like food or warm clothes.”
In a tight, confused voice, Yara asked. “Why are you telling me this?”
Looking at her with genuine sadness, Kit answered. “Cause does any of it sound familiar to you?”
Quickly, Yara looked away, trying to keep her hands steady, confirming Kit’s theory as well as any words might. After maybe a minute of taught silence, Yara rasped out a single question. “How did you know?”
Kit smiled, a weary expression filled with memories. “You remind me of myself before my master found me. Just a big lump of nervous terror, expecting the next blow to come from anywhere.”
Swallowing the lump in her throat, Yara asked. “Is your master good to you?”
Nodding, Kit stared off into space. “Yeah, he rescued me and taught me how to be a person again. Sure, he had an ulterior motive in helping me, but that doesn’t change what he did. Because of him, I could finally put myself back together and grow into who I am.”
Old memories, dusty and crusty with blood, itched into Yara’s mind. Memories of utter terror when she was sold to Dietrich by her father. Memories of the long walk to Castle Glockmire and her first meeting with the other thralls. Memories of the first time Dietrich fed on her and the first time he complimented her service. Memories of the icy tomb of the Alukah and dripping blood into a frozen corpse’s mouth.
Slowly, Yara said. “My master rescued me too.”
A sad chuckle escaped Kit, and he shook his head. “Did he? Cause from where I sit, you are still broken. Did he rescue you, Yara, or just hurt you less than you were used to?”
Choking on a slowly growing lump, Yara managed to say. “Leave me alone.”
Nodding, Kit started to climb off the wagon. “As you wish. Just think about this: not being hated isn’t the same as being loved.”
With a thump, Kit landed on the road and caught the back of the wagon, climbing back into its covered section. Leaving Yara to practice an old skill, crying without making a sound.
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The group reached a compromise on the matter of visiting the next town they passed. Cole, Natalie, and Kit would camp outside town with the relic. Being considerably less conspicuous, Mina, Alia, and Yara would venture into town with the wagon, get what supplies were needed, and gather information. Mina wanted to know how far the plague was spreading and get an idea of mountain conditions. Argentari’s route called for them to travel through the Alidonian mountains, which should be easy considering the Turul pass cut clean through the small range.
As the wagon and its group disappeared down the road, Natalie nodded to herself and went over to Kit, who was fumbling with a tent tarp. With the unnatural strength gifted by her nature, Natalie gripped Kit’s collar and hoisted him into the air. A surprised yelp escaped the Magi as Natalie stared at him with bloody eyes. “What did you do to Yara?”
The thrall hadn’t spoken much for the last day, refusing to use more than one syllable while actively avoiding Kit. Natalie knew the look of a scared woman, of someone unwilling to get close to a threat, especially a man. More than one patron of the Silly Goat learned the Vampire’s rule about spilling blood didn’t mean Natalie couldn’t break the fingers of those who deserved it.
Trying not to be strangled by his own clothes, Kit asked. “Did you know about her childhood?”
Lowering him enough so he could talk, Natalie asked. “What do you mean?”
Kit let out a low breath. “Someone hurt her bad, probably a parent or similar. I asked Yara about it, and she didn’t react well.”
Face set in a hard frown, Natalie asked. “Why do you think that, and why did you poke your nose into her life?”
Reaching up and touching one of his ears, Kit laughed bitterly. “I recognized the signs; she’s scared of everything and desperate for love. Just like how I was before Master Lupa found me.”
Cole gently touched Natalie’s hands and guided her to set Kit down. Glancing at her partner and letting go of Kit, Natalie crossed her arms and said. “Yara’s mind is warped by the Sting and whatever else that bastard Dietrich did to her.”
Kit nodded and said. “In part, but I’ve been reading about Vampire thrall-making, I brought a book on the topic. They say the Leeches like broken people, that it’s easier to mold them as they see fit.”
Memories of her discussion with Pryia danced in Natalie’s mind, and she realized the truth of Kit’s words. Lost in this thought, she was surprised when Cole asked. “Your youth wasn’t pleasant; I take it?”
A bitter snort escaped Kit, and he glanced between Natalie and Cole. “Well, since it's just the three of us, I might as well share with Natalie what I told you.”
Natalie had to force down the spike of instinctual terror she felt on learning of Kit’s ancestry. Even after everything Natalie had experienced, the old childhood stories of Changelings and their twisted magic were hooked in her mind. Still, considering her own nature, Natalie tried her best not to judge Kit for what slept in his blood.
As he finished his explanation, Kit pulled his hair back and turned so they could see his left ear. “I get my faeblood from my dad, and as much as he hated it in himself, he hated it more in me.”
The outer fold of Kit’s ear was mishappen; it was oddly flat as if… as if someone cut it with a pair of shears. Running a finger along the old scarred flesh, Kit said. “It’s funny how many generations can pass, and you still get kids with pointy ears.”
Horrified and mortified, Natalie said. “I’m so sorry for what happened to you and what I just did.”
Kit shrugged. “You thought I hurt Yara and reacted accordingly. As far as I’m concerned, that’s a good thing. So tell me, why do you have her as a thrall if you give a shit about her?”
It was Natalie’s time to share an ugly story with lurid details. As she finished, Kit shook his head sadly. “Well, fuck, I hate to say it, but she might beat me in the tragic backstory competition. The undead monster who rescued me never turned me into a drug-addicted food source.”
Nodding bitterly, Natalie asked. “Do you have any advice to help her? I don’t want to own her, even if she wants to be owned!”
Chewing on a cheek and rubbing his scarred ear, Kit said. “I think just treating Yara like a person and giving a damn about her is a good step. I’m no expert, but I think part of the problem is you’ve been coming at this just thinking of her as someone mind-warped by the Leechs, not an already damaged person taken advantage of by predators.”
Those words had solid truth, and Natalie felt like kicking herself. She’d viewed this as a Vampire problem in need of a Vampire solution when perhaps that was the dumbest thing she could’ve done. Maybe instead of seeking out Pryia or ignoring Yara’s desire to serve, Natalie should have spoken to the Eighth Temple and gotten a Mind Priest to help. But now they were more than a hundred kilometers from Vindabon and with markedly smaller options, so Natalie would need to do her best and hope not to jag up even more.
Natalie bobbed her head in a conciliatory nod. “Thank you, and thank you for sharing your story with me.”
Kit shrugged. “It only seems fair; I read the Ivory Tower's dossier on you and Cole.”
More than a little taken aback, Natalie asked, “The what?”
A wide smile broke out on Kit’s face. “Is it true the city watch ambushed the pair of you mid-coitus while hunting the Heart-stealer?”
Head in her hands, Natalie let out a low moan of utter embarrassment. “You’re telling me that’s in the official record ?!”
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After four hours of waiting, the wagon finally returned; Cole watched as the pair of horses pulled the sturdy cart down the road and towards the makeshift camp. Sitting on a downed tree at the edge of a farmer’s copse, Cole sharpened his throwing knives; he’d been practicing with the enchanted quartz and wanted to keep his weapons in top condition. Cole called out as he sent another shower of sparks flying with his whetstone. “What’s the name of the city guard I concussed the first night we met?”
Hopping off the wagon’s main bench, Alia responded. “I think there was more than one, but Temir got it worst.”
Grabbing Cuff’s bridle, Alia helped steer the horses towards the campsite. “We going to do that passphrase crap every time?”
Standing up from the fallen tree, Cole nodded. “It’s basic safety.”
Mina climbed off the cart and glanced around. “Where are Natalie and Kit?”
Cole pocketed his whetstone. “Natalie is out hunting, and Kit’s recovering from casting a few detection wards around the camp.”
Alia’s nose wrinkled, and she made a disgusted noise. “Eguhh, I hate having Natalie’s leftovers; the meat’s always so dry and flavorless.”
Yara and Mina finished removing the horses’ harnesses and tying them to a grazing spot. Clapping Cuff on the rump, Mina said, “It’s just your imagination, and besides, better a rabbit or deer than us.”
Rolling her eyes, Alia replied. “Just because your weak human tongues can’t detect the difference doesn’t mean it’s not there.”
Raising an eyebrow, Mina said. “I thought you liked my ‘weak human tongue.”
Cole, Alia, and even Yara just stared at Mina with undisguised shock. Blinking rapidly, Mina choked on her words. “Oh gods, did I just say that out loud?”
Alia howled with laughter, throwing an arm around Mina, who rubbed her face. “You are a terrible influence on me; you know that, right?”
Before the Catblood could reply, Cole cleared his throat. “So, what did you find out from the town of Hugelhoff?”
The Priestess and Citywarden exchanged looks, and Alia sighed. “Well, there is good, bad, and worrying news. What do you want first?”
Sighing, Cole replied. “In order of increasing shittiness.”
Alia nodded. “The plague isn’t spreading as fast as we feared. It seems whatever magic the Temple worked has stopped Plague Ghouls from becoming an issue, and our friends on the river are distributing barrels of the cure to the worst infected settlements.”
Mina added. “People are taking things seriously; the villagers wouldn’t let us get close until their Priestess checked us. I dunno if she could even sense the plague in people, but she knew what symptoms to look for. So it was good that you and Natalie stayed behind; I can’t imagine that examination would have gone well.”
Leaning against the cart, Alia got to the next order of business. “As for the bad news, the Turul Pass is shut. We’ll need to backtrack, find another route, or do something stupid.”
Frowning and thinking about the maps he’d seen, Cole asked. “How can the pass be shut? It’s an entire valley between mountains; no landslide could block that off.”
Yara spoke then, her voice soft and scared. “Orcs, White Orcs.”
Cole swallowed and then uncharacteristically spat onto the ground. “Truly?”
Alia nodded. “Yep, that’s the worrying news. A whole clan of them has set up camp in the pass; from what the villagers said, they aren’t the only ones. I dunno how true the rumors are, but supposedly, a tribe is ranging through these parts, picking off travelers and merchants.”
Orcs, the tusked nomads of countless worlds, a diverse people with a talent for spacial magic and an intense wanderlust. Most Orc tribes were decent sort, moving across and between worlds, happy to trade and work wherever they went. White Orcs aren’t like that; they are raiders, slavers, and worse. Wherever a group of White Orcs goes, bad things happen, usually to anyone weaker than them. That was just inevitable, considering the traditional White Orc diet. Unlike humans, Orcs' skin color changes with what they eat. Green, red, brown, black, and grey were all common colors for Orcs; white was not. An Orc’s skin only turned white after consuming humanoid flesh, a lot of humanoid flesh.
Rolling his shoulders, the stretch he always did before a fight, Cole said. “We best make a new plan then.”