Green Rising

by AZ Kelvin

  “Welcome back, Commandant.”

  “Olam.” Kwyett nodded to the man. “Tell the captains I’ve returned and await them in the lodge.”

  “At once, Commandant,” Olam replied and turned to fulfill his task.

  Kwyett walked the short distance up a central hill overlooking the rest of the encampment. The barracks, drill areas, and training halls bustled with activity. The ranks of the dreyg were at an all-time high and the coffers were full. His heart raced at the thought of having even more, yet he reminded himself to be patient awhile longer.

  The command and confer lodge sat atop the central hill. Pikemen guarding the entrance came to attention and brought right fists to left chests as he approached.

  Kwyett returned the salute and passed through into the lodge. An elderly man with the lower portion of his right leg missing acknowledged his entrance.

  “Greetings, Commandant.”

  “Calen, how fares the leg?”

  “Better every day, sir.” He patted the crutch he leaned on. “Croaker made me a new support and wrapped it so I wouldn’t get sores in my pit.”

  Kwyett blinked a couple of times in hopes of avoiding the visual. “That’s more than I wanted to know, old man. Consider yourself lucky, Calen, to have lost only a leg. The snake is called a death adder for good reason.”

  “At my age, I consider myself lucky for every day I wake up and draw breath.”

  “I should do the same. What is there to eat?”

  “There’s roasted pig, peppered whitefish, and stewed roots and bulbs on the hearth, sir.”

  “Very good. Have the servants lay out a table.” Kwyett moved to an array of bottles on a small stand and poured a glass of spiced rum. “The commanders will be joining me shortly.”

  “I’ll see to it, sir.”

  The captains gathered later around a table after eating and hearing their leader’s orders. A man leaned forward grabbing the edge of the table like he was about to throw it across the room. “I don’t like this. I am a dreyg mercenary. I fight against men. This sneakin’ around and mutilatin’ animals in their cages brings no satisfaction to me or glory to my name. Why are we workin’ for these disciples?”

  Kwyett turned to him. “Because they make us rich, Strand, or do you dislike the weight of their gold in your hand?”

  They held eyes for a moment before Strand grumbled, sat back, and looked away.

  Kwyett regarded the group. “Do you not see great rewards wait for us at the end? All of Shaan, Raskan, and Vakere will be ours to rule!”

  A man with a pleasant demeanor spoke up. “If there is anything left at the end.”

  “What is this resistance, Cairs? Was there a council while I was gone?”

  “No council, Kwyett, only questions. We are told we will rule over all of Northern Arden, yet we destroy that which we are promised to gain. If we clear the woods, destroy the crops, and poison the waters, what will be left for us but desolation?”

  “Lord Praven has assured me they hold the magic to undo all that we have done and have yet to do.” Even as Kwyett said the words he wasn’t sure if he believed them, but he best not show it.

  “As the reports go, only one of these disciples has been accepted,” a third man said. “Raskan, Vakere, and Kalnu have shown no interest or turned them away completely. Perhaps we are overestimating Praven and his plans.”

  “I agree with Aydgar,” a fourth man said. “I think the disciples have their own agenda and they keep it secret from us.”

  “If you feel that way, Reeve, then you and Aydgar can go ask Lord Praven what his plans are—in person.”

  The idea of personally voicing their concerns brought a halt to any more questions. The image of what happened to Kwyett’s predecessor was still fresh in their minds.

  Kwyett didn’t like bowing to Praven any more than they did, but at least he was still alive and he meant to stay that way.

  “Your orders, Commandant?” Reeve asked.

  “We are mercenaries and have been paid well. Form three search squads and scour Drifting Leaf for signs of any druid activity. If there are any druids out there, we will hunt them down and take them captive. Understood?”

  A unanimous affirmative ended the meeting and they went to carry out Lord Praven’s orders.

  *~*~*

  Chapter Nine

  “The full moon’ll be up, Quin. Will we dance tonight?” Sovia asked as they set up the first night’s camp.

  “I see no reason not to.” Quinlan pulled Askue from its sheath on the horse. “We’re still in kindly territory.”

  “Yah, I do be loving a good moon dance,” she said.

  “Truth be told?” Quinlan asked with well-meant sarcasm. Sovia’s love of music and dancing was known far and wide.

  “Och, be on with you now—ha ha!” She smiled without a hint of shyness. “I’ll out-dance you, and I’ll be singing, too.”

  “Ha! Don’t I know it! We are many years from our first sharing of the moon dance, Sovia. I know your energy.”

  “As I do yours, Quin.” She hugged him tightly and pulled him down to speak quietly in his ear. “I think Cassae be ready, yet she still be reluctant to reach out, you know, after what she’s been through and all. She’s grieved enough in the last two years to be filling two women’s lifetimes. Maybe she needs a little help, you know, being happy again.”

  He straightened up and hugged her this time. “Gratitude, Sovia, for looking after us both, and agreed, she and I have spoken of it. The time is near.”

  “Moon dance, you know—all I’m saying, love.” Sovia’s eyes twinkled. “I do be finding myself a bit aroused after a moon dance. Much to Therin’s delight—on most occasions that is.”

  “Ha ha, no need to elaborate.” Even for a druid, Sovia’s openness about intimacy brought color to most people’s faces. The moon dance was performed solo and the movements covered three to four steps of space in any given direction, so there was no physical interaction, yet the blending of one’s spirit with the natural energy of the world normally left the druid participant with an abundance of vigor. Druids were far more comfortable and open-minded about physical sex than most, but sharing that openness was optional.

  A shriek of surprise and a soft thud came from where the rest of the grove was unpacking the night’s gear and supplies.

  “Ticari!” Ticca exclaimed in irritation.

  Quinlan and Sovia both turned to see an angry Ticca sitting on the ground with her feet tangled in tievines. Someone had fast grown the vines around her feet and she hadn’t noticed until she tried to walk away. It was a popular joke among the younger druids as it had been since the beginning of the Order. Her brother laughed and seemed pleased.

  “Here now!” Sovia yelled. “You don’t be using the grace of Na’veyja for your self-serving shenanigans! You’re not a child no more, you ninny! Now mind your duties afore I dust your backside with the sole of my moccasin!”

  Ticari stopped laughing. “But Chyne plays jokes on us all the time.”

  Chyne laughed lightly and nodded her head with glee.

  Quinlan walked over. “Chyne is not a druid in the Order of Arden, you are,” he said. “And you will abide by the Order’s code of conduct.”

  “Yes, Quin,” Ticari said.

  “Besides, my brothers and sisters weren’t druids and they found plenty of things to get my goat without using druid magic.” Quinlan wiggled his fingers at the end. “And you, Ticca, a druid should always be aware of what is around them at all times. It is a skill you must hone to perfection if you—” He stopped when he saw Cassae try to hide a smile. “What are you smiling at?”

  She pointed at his shoulder.

  Quinlan turned his head and watched a small green and white ivy vine creep over his shoulder and down his chest. He looked down to see it had already wound around his leg and up his back.

  Chyne smiled playfully and laughed as she effortlessly controlled the vine’s growth.

  Quinlan grip
ped Askue with both hands and murmured a chant. “Graleth ma na zeezee.”

  Purple and yellow blossoms grew instantly at Quinlan’s end and followed the vine back to Chyne where they burst open leaving her face covered with purple and yellow splotches of pollen.

  The grove laughed together including Chyne, who was always a good sport when it came to jokes and games. Only Sovia scowled at them.

  “A grove full of children, I say!” she said sternly, before she grinned and joined in on the laughter. “All right now, that be enough chicanery! Kian, Swela, Therin, you trey bring in wood for a fire and remember only be taking what’s down and dead! Cassae and Ticari, fetch water from the river. Chyne, you’ll be helping me grow dinner. Ticca-love, it be your turn on the tinder boat.”

  The grove broke up to set about their individual tasks. Most were out of sight, but occasional noises indicated they were still nearby. Quinlan pretended to go over the map while in secret, he watched how well Ticca did at the task she was given.

  She chose a large spot of bare rocky ground to place the kindling pile. She built a square hut of long twigs, eventually placing thicker twigs followed by small sticks on top of those. She stacked larger sticks around the kindling hut in a pyramid being careful to leave a hole at the bottom of one side.

  She quickly braided some of the tall grasses surrounding the camp and used them to tie five sticks together. Next she placed two sticks on top of the other three, tying them so there was a V-shape between the top two sticks forming a tinder boat. At last, she built a pile of dried grasses and tiny twigs in the middle of the tinder boat.

  Quinlan took a wrapped package containing the fire striker from a saddlebag and walked it over to where she was building the fire.

  “Here you are, Ticca.”

  “Gratitude, brother, I was about to come after that. Which is your favorite striker?”

  “I prefer the chert or the quartz. They knap easier yielding bigger sparks but wear the quicker because of it. The ironstone will outlast time itself and give forth a shower of smaller sparks, but they are short-lived and you must be quick to ignite them or lose their heat.”

  “Ugh! This is heavy,” she said when she lifted the handstone from the bundle. The chunk of granite was narrow enough to hold and twice as long as her hand was wide. A groove ran down the length of the handstone worn in from years of service. Ticca dug through the bag of small striker stones and chose a milky-white stone with many sharp-angled edges.

  “Now, you have to—” Quinlan stopped when Ticca already went into action.

  She struck hard and fast at the handstone with the quartz until red-hot flakes of stone ran down the groove and landed on the grass pile. The flakes shot off tiny sparks for a brief moment before they died off. Ticca gently blew on the embers while she pushed more of the tinder around them. The pile of dried grass and twigs ignited quickly. She carefully placed the entire tinder boat with the burning pile into the spot she had left open at the bottom of the kindling hut.

  “Very well done, Osmey Ticca,” Quinlan said.

  “Gratitude, Siestrey Quinlan,” she said as she kept working on the fire. “Ticari taught me. He will tell a tale it took him days, yet in truth, it took him only the space of a single noon to night.”

  Quinlan laughed lightly at the thought of the two of them working together. “He’s a stalwart young man and a good brother.”

  “The best.” She looked up at him and smiled.

  The flames jumped from the tinder boat up into the kindling which flared up into the main pile of sticks. The small fire was catching on nicely when the wood gatherers returned to camp with larger limbs and logs. They stoked the fire as Sovia and Chyne finished preparing the fast-grown vegetables for dinner.

  Sovia said, “Chyne, give the horses some bee biscuits and let them be grazing. Be sure to tell them to stay close by.”

  “I wilst do so, Cinquey,” she replied.

  “Can I help?” Ticca asked Sovia, who looked at Chyne.

  “Certainly, thy company is most welcome,” Chyne said, and the two went off to care for the horses.

  Sovia brought a pot of vegetable stew over to where Kian had set up a nice place to sit around the fire. She held the pot out to him. “Slow boil then be simmering it for half an hour, love.”

  Kian held his hands out to the sides without committing to taking the pot. “Oh nae, Sov, come on now. Cookin’? I’ll gather more wood. How ’bout that? Ye know I’m a terrible cook.”

  “I know you be terrible at wanting to do it, you louseabout,” Sovia replied. “You take a turn like everyone else.”

  Kian grabbed the pot and sighed. “It shall be done, Cinquey.”

  “Good! Simmer until the carrots be tender—but not mushy, mind you,” she said. “And don’t you be nibbling, either.”

  “Aye, ma’am,” he said with the shadow of a wolf’s grin. “Nae nibblin’.”

  “Swela, be keeping an eye on that husband of yours and make sure he’s not eating dinner afore it’s cooked.”

  “Aye, Sov, I will.” Swela plopped down on the spot Kian had made for himself before he was put on kitchen duty. “Ahh—this’s nice,” she said. “Gratitude, hubs.”

  “Glad ye like it, Swayz-hon. Does ma heart good knowin’ yer fanny’s pleased.”

  “’Tis—ye can rest assured.” She settled back folding her arms behind her head.

  “Oh, a fine wife ye are—tauntin’ poor I as I toil ma fingers ta the very bone,” he said yet did nothing but squat near the fire watching the pot slowly bubble and stirring it occasionally.

  “Ha!” Quinlan laughed at his make-believe tale of woe.

  The rest of the grove had gathered by then and joined in poking fun at Kian’s misery. Idle chat occupied the time until dinner was ready and filled the spaces between mouthfuls of bread, cheese, and vegetable ciambotta.

  One sip of Swela’s favorite light wine turned Kian’s face sour.

  “Eck! Therin, please tell me ye brought a jug of yer wheat berry brew alon’?” he asked.

  “Yi, brother, I’ll grab it.”

  Therin returned and poured a bit of the deep violet alcohol for himself and Therin as the others quickly declined.

  “Yaaah!” Kian exclaimed after he downed the drink. “Now, that’s more like it, laddie. A proper drink has ta have a proper bite ta it.”

  “One hath not danced in delight, if one hath not drank of aged persimmon sujeon,” Chyne said with a sigh of remembered pleasure.

  “Ni, ni, ni, Chyne.” Therin waved a hand in playful distaste. “Sujeon is fit only for children cryin’ from the fire throat. Coats your tongue for days with its thickness.”

  “’Tis divine nectar for the enlightened spirit,” she said with the certainty of a temple sage.

  Singer and Flit flew in at that moment. Flit landed on Sovia’s shoulder, chittering up a storm.

  “Quin, riders be coming,” Sovia said.

  Several minutes later, a Raskanish woman called out, “Hail in the camp! May we approach?”

  “Come ahead!” Quinlan called back. “Is that Wylla and Freyn?” he asked as they drew closer.

  “Aye, ’tis,” Wylla answered. “Who’s askin’?”

  “’Tis Quinlan,” Freyn replied, but Wylla gave her a blank look, “from the gatherin’ we attended two days back.”

  “Oh! Aye, aye, right,” Wylla said. “Apologies, Quinlan, good ta see ye again.”

  “None needed. Please join us.” Quinlan motioned to Ticari. “Come care for their mounts.” He walked the women to the fire. “There’s ciambotta, bread, and cheese, if you’ve not eaten. Wylla and Freyn, this is Grove Seven: Kian and Swela here, and then Cassae, Chyne, Ticca, Sovia, and Therin. Ticari tends the horses.”

  “Lah quen ta ye all,” Freyn said.

  “Gratitude fer the meal,” Wylla said. “A much warmer camp than we were expectin’.”

  Cassae prepared two more bowls of ciambotta. Wylla spooned most of the vegetables into one bowl and pou
red the broth from that bowl into the first, then took the broth and some bread to Freyn where she had settled around the fire.

  “Wylla dinnae fret. I’m fine,” Freyn said.

  “Ye’re nae fine. Ye have nae eaten all day. Now, it’s mostly broth, but I’ve left a few carrots and zucchini. Ye need ta eat them.” Wylla stood there and did not look like she was going to accept any negative answer.

  “Gratitude…” Freyn said but did not act overly enthused as she took the food.

  Cassae took Chyne and they sat next to Freyn where they had a quiet conversation among themselves, after which Chyne disappeared into the woods.

  “Wylla, what brings you this far south?” Ticca asked.

  “Now, Ticca, don’t you go being a nosy Rosy,” Sovia said in a scolding tone.

  “Nae bother,” Wylla said as she waved off any concern. “We travel ta ma home city of Cammachmoor, child, in search of a druid there.”

  Quinlan saw Ticca stiffen the tiniest bit at the word "child” but only for a second before she smiled.

  Wylla apparently had noticed the same slight reaction. “Apologies—Ticca, is it? Only a phrase. I’ve nae doubt ye’ve earned yer place here.”

  “My first patrol,” Ticca said and smiled even wider. “I thought we’d be on the first leg of our rotation through the Great Marsh by now, but our orders send us to”—she stopped and looked quickly at Quinlan, who nodded—“a place called Drifting Leaf, a week’s ride on horseback.”

  “Aye, I know the place. ’Tis beautiful country, or once was leastways. Ye should keep yer wits about ye down there now, I hear.”

  “Befouled, or ni, it’ll be beautiful once again,” Therin said. He held his fist to his chest. “This I swear. The beauty of Driftin’ Leaf will be inked inta my flesh!”

  “Ha! There not be enough room left for a blade of grass tattoo, let alone an entire watershed, Therin-love,” Sovia replied.

  Therin smiled and winked before he mimicked her Kalnuvian accent the best he could. “You’re the one who’d be knowing, Sov-love.”

  “Yi, thet ah yam.” Sovia slathered on the Shaanlander and returned his wink, which got a laugh from the group.