by RG Long
Ladis was a very odd place in Ealrin’s mind.
Much more frequently used than the dusty benches or tables was the bar of the inn, or so it seemed. A half-dozen men and two women stood there, drinking out of stone mugs and signaling the barmaid to get them more.
Martta had introduced the young girl as her granddaughter. She worked diligently and got everyone fed or watered within moments. Ealrin thought her a girl, but she had to be a little older than Blume. Then again, that would make Martta quite old. And Holve, for that matter.
After they had all eaten whatever of the soup they could swallow and drank enough purple liquid to quell their thirst, Martta had the dishes taken away and the other guests thrown out. Blume was already laying on her arms on the table. Ealrin was preparing to ask for a room for her so she could sleep, but the matron cut him off.
“These rooms aren’t free, Holve,” she said, cutting right to the problem they had: a serious lack of funds. “And that meal wasn’t on the house either.”
“Martta,” Holve began as he rubbed his mouth with his napkin.
“Don’t ‘Martta’ me you old sellsword,” she said, pointing a knobby finger in his face. “I already have my payment in mind and you’re not gonna change my mind.”
Holve let out a sigh.
“Martta, we don’t want trouble and we don’t want to stay on Ladis any longer than we have to. In fact, we’d love to be on a ship headed out to Irradan as soon as possible.”
Martta crossed her arms and glared at Holve. Ealrin had the distinct feeling that she was trying to look past Holve’s outer expression and see something deeper. Like trying to read his mind.
“You do this for me,” she said. “And I’ll not only get you free room and board here until your business is up. I’ll personally see you off on a ship headed west back for elf country.”
10: Grudges and Grievances
The wreckage of the wall was already being repaired by various guards and priests of the Temple. Rocks and debris were scattered everywhere. Jerius had never seen such a hole made without a hundred warriors hacking away with maces and hammers. And even so, such a feat took hours of concentrated siege. This had happened in a moment.
From a little girl, no less.
Who had he encountered in the forbidden islands? And what trouble had he brought upon Ladis by bringing them back?
He didn’t have time to contemplate these questions very long. So quickly had the guards rushed to the palace and pulled both he and the other Triad of Priests that they had to sprint to see the commotion while it was still in complete chaos. Their consultation had been completely abandoned. This was the strangest of cases. Normally, the sacred ritual of the Keeper revealing a death rune and the Writer inscribing that onto a special parchment was never done. It would be Jerius who would present the rune to the Prince.
People were screaming about a witch and a rebellion general and Jerius had a hard time understanding what in the world was going on.
That is, until Prince Farnus came up to them.
“Jerius,” he said from behind him. The Prophet didn’t have to turn in order to know who was addressing him. The calm growl of the Prince was recognizable anywhere. Also, he was one of the few who addressed him without his title. The last part irked him, but he was outranked here by the Prince.
It wasn’t so in the rest of Ladis. The Triad of Priests were on the same level as the eight other princes of the Theocracy. But not the White Prince. He was the eldest prince and brother to the High King. Why he chose to rule this small realm when others were available to him was outside the reckoning of the young priest.
Jerius turned and bowed to the Prince, adjusting his face to an appearance of mild gladness.
“Prince Farnus, what brings you down to our humble temple? After returning from our journey, I sped to the Palace looking for your grace.”
“Your Grace was interrogating the dangerous criminals you brought to Ladis, Jerius. And I think we have a very difficult problem on our hands.”
“Whatever do you mean?” Jerius said through gritted teeth, trying to smile.
Obviously there was a problem. A little girl put a hole into a wall and enabled the escape of the prisoners. How many guards did they evade? Ten? Twenty? Certainly not more.
Prince Farnus came up to Jerius’ side and kicked aside a stone from the wall that had been blown apart. A few guards scrambled to collect the debris from around the area at their feet. Farnus waved them off and they all went off in different directions carrying wheelbarrows, shovels, and brooms.
Jerius knew that it would take days to clean up, and even longer to rebuild. The stones would take a long time to acquire from the far mountains. Some could be salvaged and reused from the wreckage. But Jerius saw how some of them had turned to powder and knew someone would have to go and fetch the stones. He didn’t envy them.
“We have more than just a witch on our hands,” Farnus answered, placing his hands on his hips and looking up at the setting suns. “There is an enemy who should not be underestimated, though he has mostly been forgotten by time and overshadowed by the successes of the Theocracy since the Rebellious Wars.”
“The...” Jerius started, a little struck. “The Rebellious Wars, Your Grace? But those were...”
“Before you were born,” Farnus said with a sideways glance that had the effect of making Jerius’ face feel hot. “There was a great war of rebellion in the Theocracy.”
“I am aware of the rebellion and the heretics who caused it,” Jerius cut in, potentially speaking out of turn in the presence of the prince.
“Your grace,” he added in quickly, hoping to defer to the prince and cover up any malice in his voice.
“The wars were terrible,” Farnus continued, apparently missing any disrespect given to him. “We crushed the rebels, of course. Their heathen ways did not save them from the gods of our great empire. We were victorious and erased every trace of them from the Theocracy. We live in peace now. A peace hard fought and won by the blood of faithful prophets and warriors of the temple.”
Jerius knew these things. He had been told them every day of his life. Surely Farnus knew this fact. Every person in Ladis was told of the great victory over the rebels. Especially the priests that served the nation and the gods. He put his hands behind his back and kicked a small stone away from them, losing interest in the conversation quickly.
“Several of the generals and leaders of the rebellion were publicly executed. I was there. As a younger man I had led troops against the rebels. It was glorious to lead such forces and stomp out the heathens. But one general evaded us. He was never found after any battle nor was he heard from again after the last great battle in front of the Grand Temple’s steps.”
Jerius perked up at this. The names of the rebels were not recorded in their history books. They were only referred as “The Heretics” or “The Heathens”. Perhaps this was Ladis’ way of writing them out of history.
“Holve Bravestead was the general who got away. The man who was a master strategist and warrior. He escaped me. This is unacceptable.”
With those last words, Farnus pounded his fist into his hand. Jerius could sense a great emotion surging through the prince. This was not something he had felt from him in the years he had served him here in Arranus. What had occurred back in those wars of rebellion that would cause the man to feel such anger?
“Prophet Jerius,” he said, turning to face him fully for the first time. Jerius registered the correct title given to him. “You will join me as we pursue him and give him the proper trial and exact justice on the man who is responsible for thousands of Theocracy deaths!”
Jerius recognized two terrible truths in that statement of Farnus. It was not a request. It was a command. Jerius would have to accompany the prince into the dreaded jungle where panthers and tigers and other, more terrible monsters lurked.
Also, this was potentially the thing that would raise him in the ranks of the priesthood. Something he very much de
sired but was unsure of how to attain. Until now. Had it been anything other than a trek through the dreaded jungles, he would have been thrilled.
“Of course, Your Grace,” he said, bowing to the prince, who had already left and was busy commanding the nearby guards to gather supplies for him from the temple. Jerius watched him go, wishing he had someone to command to fetch his own things. Resigned, he sniffed and began walking to the temple in order to gather the things he would need for the journey ahead of him.
At the same time, he found himself being both glad and sorry he had brought back the prisoners from the island. Perhaps things would have been easier if he had just returned with their heads.
11: The Veiled Ones
The jungle was quiet.
All around, trees were swaying with the wind as it blew. Vines hung heavy and moved along with the other vegetation. The usual chattering of birds and the song of insects was still. It appeared as if nothing was out of the ordinary.
A lazy bug flew in between the trees of the jungle where an amber orange flower was blooming. It attempted to land on the petals of the colorful plant, extending its legs and using its antennae to search for pollen to drink.
A whip-like sound snapped so quickly that any passerby would have assumed the wind had given an extra gust. But the bug was gone. Following the whip was a slow and steady crunch, crunch, crunch.
Suddenly, the jungle was alight with the movement of thousands of eyes.
Pops of color suddenly began appearing all over the trees where before there had been nothing. Green and purple and red and blue contrasted with the dark brown and green of the trees. One by one, these bursts of color let go of the trees and fell to the jungle floor in quiet thuds.
All over the wet carpet of vegetation, lizards the size of men began to appear as if they had been, moments before, invisible. Giant eyes moved in different directions, depending on where their owner deemed they should see. Large claws grasped the floor as they began to stand up right. Stretched to full height, the Veiled Ones were taller than most men, and twice as wide. Their long limbs ended in claws as sharp as daggers and their long heads held teeth that could snap a man’s arm in two with a snap.
Most wore belts around their waist, made from the skins of their kills and cloth that they had stolen from leftover caravans lost in the jungles of Ladis. Other articles of clothing hung from strong, muscular bodies. These bits of cloth were woven with tiny flecks of Rimstone. This allowed the lizards to make the clothes change color as they did. Each piece of cloth or belt glinted on rays of sun as the light caught the small rocks.
Veiled Ones were, as a rule, toned and fit. This was mostly because of their choice of climbing through trees to travel, instead of walking on the floor.
As they dropped, a pattern arose. Several Veils of similar colors grouped together. One group in particular was rather large. One of its members stretched his claws up and grabbed a spear from the sling it rested in.
“Ssshould get more meat meat,” Snart said, scratching the top of his head with his spear tip. It was metal and precious. The best he had ever had. He never threw it. He would stab with it and kill with it, but it was too precious to throw. It was his best spear.
“Ssshould go south south,” Sharc responded.
Sharc was an orange Veiled One. Supposedly, the color orange had meant that they were the best Veiled Ones. Snart didn’t hold to such nonsense. He believed that the best Veils were the strongest ones. The ones who killed the most. The ones who had the best spears.
He hissed at Sharc and let his long black tongue waggle, the remnants of the giant bug he had eaten covering the jungle floor and Sharc’s feet. This was an insult. Veils nevers spit food at each other. Unless they were challenging them to a fight.
Snart was not the smallest Veil in the jungle around them. He was getting bigger by the day. He ate more on purpose. He trained with his spear and tried his best to be better than all the other Veils. But he was a blue. A lesser color. Not worse than a green or purple. But still not an orange. Oranges had taken over ever since the blacks had all died out in the last purge. No more black Veiled Ones meant their congregation had grown weaker. Snart wanted to change that.
Sharc was an orange. And Snart knew he was challenging his superior. But he didn’t believe that oranges were better than any blues. He had several blues he had talked with about becoming better. They had eaten together, hunted together and talked of one day becoming better than the oranges.
The oranges had led them this far. From their dark holes and caverns in the mountains where they had waited to grow and become strong again. The oranges had fought and won many battles against the other colors, assuming their dominance.
They would not be dominant for long.
Snart took his best spear and tapped the end of it on the jungle floor twice, before thwacking the shaft of it on a tree.
Tap tap. Thwack.
Tap tap. Thwack.
“Ssshould get more meat meat. Kill men men,” Snart said over the sound of his spear’s dance.
Thud. Click click.
Sharc’s own spear danced a different beat. He was slamming down the butt of his spear hard into a tree’s root, then lightly tapping the head on the same root. His own argument.
“Ssshould go south south,” he said through a barely opened mouth. “Find warm tree tree.”
Tap tap. Thwack.
Thud. Click click.
Slowly, the jungle became a chorus of dances. The Veiled Ones cast their vote of what to do by clicking or tapping their own spears or claws to one of the dances.
Tap tap. Thwack.
Thud. Click click.
Thud. Click click.
Thud. Click click.
Snart was beating his spear furiously. Many blues were beating their own dance to match his. But it wasn’t enough.
Thud. Click click.
Sharc lifted his spear high over his head and let out a low, guttural hiss that echoed throughout the jungle.
He had won. He was still the Veil who decided what their congregation would do. And Snart knew it. He bowed down, resting his spear on the ground, though he dared not take his claws off of it. Many a Veil were killed for challenging above their station. And Sharc had killed before.
Snart looked up and saw that his rival was gloating in his victory. His eyes moved all around, taking in the sights of hundreds upon hundreds of veiled ones tapping out his dance. His call. His orders.
Snart stood up slowly, both of his eyes forward, focused on Sharc.
It had been Sharc who had led them out of their hideouts after years of trying to recover their losses. It had been Sharc who had ordered the raid on the first human settlement in their generation. Now Sharc wanted to find a place where the Veils could live and grow and slowly become a new threat to the men of the big land.
But Snart wanted men. He wanted to kill them. Bugs were fine. Tigers and panthers tasted tough. But men were delicious. His long tongue licked his wide mouth just thinking about the taste of the man he had feasted on with other blues at the settlement they had destroyed. He wanted more. More meat. More men.
He couldn’t get them alone. He knew that. He needed more Veils on his side. For now, he would defer to Sharc and his orders.
For now.
“Sssharc boss boss,” Snart said, lifting his spear.
All over the jungle, the hissing call was echoed again and again.
“Sssharc boss bossss!”
“Ssharc boss bossss!”
Sharc hoisted his spear into his claw and then leapt into the trees. For one slow moment, he looked down on Snart and hissed, a sly smile covering his toothy grin. The leader of the Veiled Ones was pleased with himself.
Snart was fine waiting. For now. He would taste the sweet flesh of men again. And he would lead other Veils to do it. Just not today.
He too leapt into the trees. His blue skin began to meld into the the greens and browns of the jungle, until he looked like the vines
and the trunks of trees he climbed on. The other Veils followed suit, blending into the jungle around them. A gust of wind blew across them. Snart twitched his skin at the cold but kept his color.
He would have his time.
Soon.
In just a breath, to even Snart’s trained eyes, the entire jungle looked like the wind was blowing through it as hundreds of Veiled Ones moved quietly through the trees, spears in hand, claws ready, mouths dripping with the fruits of their last kill.
In just a few moments, the jungle was quiet again.
12: Gods of the State
Ealrin had walked around the village twice since Holve and Martta began hashing out whatever deal she had in mind for them. It wasn’t until she had agreed to let Blume sleep in a bed upstairs and Serinde promised to watch over her that Ealrin felt he could roam Three Way to get a proper feel for the place.
Blume had fallen off her stool twice before Martta had agreed that the teen needed sleep before she got any form of payment. The only room their entire party was given for the time being was a one bed, one table room. Ealrin had carried Blume up the stairs and laid her in the bed before covering her with a moth worn blanket and piling some of their belongings on the table.
Serinde offered to watch by the door to make sure Blume wasn’t disturbed. Ealrin had come to trust the quiet, sullen elf. She was a hard worker and didn’t complain when Ealrin thought she had the right to. Instead, she was helpful and diligent, if a little quiet about her life before meeting the rest of them on Irradan.
She leaned against the wooden wall of the inn and nodded at Ealrin.
“She’ll get her rest,” she said.
Ealrin nodded back his appreciation and had walked out the doors, followed by Gorplin and Jurrin. Silverwolf had already left a long time ago. Ealrin made a mental note to keep from being startled when she popped up behind him as was her custom.
The village of Three Way was brighter than Arranus, and certainly more cheerful. The residents here ran from stall to stall in the market area, laughing and talking out loud. The children played in the street and people had a generally happy disposition. From what Ealrin could tell, this village was completely different, even in color.