by James Hunt
"Alright, you win. I screwed up worse. I kissed a spider." He grumbled with a betraying smile. He thought about all she said and digested it quickly. "If this little potion business is so big, then they stand to loose a lot if it's shut down. But I don't see how they could possibly kill The Father to prevent him from doing so." He stated rhetorically.
"My people's entire supply of Demon's Blood comes from your monastery." She glared at him with dead seriousness. "ALL of Zecair would march on your Monastery if The Father shut down production of Demon's Blood."
"Fuck." Trent cursed and grabbed his temples. "Fuck, and more fuck." The Mischievous couldn't help but smile despite the grave news.
"Then we need to make sure he doesn't find out," She suggested. Trent looked at her incredulously. "We have to," Trent wanted to argue, but he wasn't so naïve as to not see the insurmountable problem that would fall on them if they did. His head slumped back against the wall defeated and he stared off at nothing as he tried to wrap his head around it all.
"The liquor run was just a mask," he concluded. And then he scowled deeply. "Isn't Demon's Blood made from an actual demon's blood?" he pondered.
"That's one of the main ingredients I know of," she admitted.
"Wouldn't it take a lot to supply any entire nation? How long has this been going on?"
"I was given some when I was a child," She answered. "Some fifty years ago, and I wasn't the first generation."
"That would take a lake of demon's blood." He threw his hands up in disbelief. "I haven't seen or heard of any demons still alive! Where's it all coming from."
"Or it would take one really old, really powerful demon, that's had their blood harvested for years..." The Mischievous concluded. "The Monastery could hide one such demon." This news was even more unsettling to Trent.
"FUCK!" Trent shouted.
"What's more, if this operation is as big as all that. Then they are smarter than we think." The Mischievous said glumly. "They will know we destroyed the Spider's Den, they'll assume that we know, or the Den would still be standing if we didn't. They'll come after us."
"Fuck!" Trent dropped his head to his knees. "I really screwed up. We're both proper fucked now." The Mischievous let him be at that and leaned back against the wall, propped up on her pillows. Trent let out an uncharacteristic whimper as he tried to think through their predicament. Suddenly something came to him that he overlooked.
"Forgive me," he said. "What of your problem? When you lost control like that, it wasn't just the demon's blood, was it... something worse that set it off. You told me about your dreams, and Helrith. Was that part of it?"
"The demon's anger comes out when we don't sate it, or when we're grievously wounded – that's the point of it." She started to say and turned to look at him. She had been crying silently to herself just then, her eyes were red and puffy but she was trying to hide it. "I was in the middle of sating it when it emerged."
"That doesn't make sense," Trent took it all in on its value.
"I told you about me dreams..." she started and hugged her knees to her chest again. "About Helrith..."
"Aye," Trent nodded, remembering and taking this with more seriousness.
"When I dream of him, I'm chained up in a room, and he's hurting me." She admitted. This was painful for her to talk about. "It feels real, I know my dreams and this wasn't a dream. But when I wake I cannot tell which is real." Trent remembered that night in their room at the Monastery, and the times she talked about her dreams of Helrith. There was a link now – this business of sorcery, demon's blood, and The Mischievous's dreams all fell into place with Helrith. Trent rose slowly and went to sit on her bed next to her. He placed a hand on her shoulder.
"What did he do to you?" He said with all seriousness. There was a protective side to him that came out rarely. And when she dared to look him in the eyes she saw there was a righteous indignation there that would forgive all the trespasses they had made against one another for the sake of avenging this one evil. In that look, she found the part of him she could trust – she found her wolf.
****
Stumbling, half-dragging, half-walking, naked and caked in mud and dried blood, Rad arrived at the front gates. There he stood patiently clutching a broken forearm against his chest. He stared vacantly at the doors until they slowly opened and two men dressed in the formal uniform of the Huanguard peeked out to see what he wanted.
Rad meet their gaze, and the two men immediately fled back inside.
"My lord!" Screamed a steward as he stormed into the chapel and ran Helrith down. The fat monk looked as if he was about to garrote the man with the bell pull he was trying to replace. But his scowl melted when he heard the steward's message.
"The man hasn't moved, he's simply standing there!" The gate guardsman informed The Father as they walked hurriedly to the front gate. Despite his hutched posture, the old man could move fast when he wanted.
"Fetching me was wise. He would have killed you both if you hadn't." The Father grumbled.
"He looked like he was about to!" the man protested. "I've never felt something like that before, one look and a chill went down my spine. There's no reason I should be afraid of a naked, half dead man!" he complained.
"He did it on purpose," The Father chortled. "Rad can make you afraid." The guardsman wanted to ask more, but they had arrived at the gate. His partner grabbed the ring to the gate door and after the first guard followed suit to the left door, they pulled in unison and the wooden gate swung opened. The Father didn't wait for it to open all the way and squeezed through the opening.
Rad was collapsed on the ground before it.
The Father approached cautiously, and leaned down to touch the man's neck. There was a pulse and he was breathing, but there was something odd here. He looked him over; there were no visible wounds and no trail of blood.
Poison? There were very few things that could lay Rad low. The Father turned him over and started to check his body. He looked at the fingers and nails, the eyes, the mouth, and they all seemed normal. But there was a scratch on his arm that had healed, but the skin was puffy around the wound. His old mind had seen many men die, most often by his own actions. The Father recognized death in its many forms. Rad's affliction was unique -- a healthy body, yet dying inside. It could only be a poison that kills quickly but had been thwarted somehow. It had slowed down many of his internal organs, but had missed the heart. Considering the nature of Rad's last assignment, The Father had a good guess whom had done this.
"Bring porridge. With milk and honey." The Father said loudly. "And carry him to the sweat box." One guardsman saluted and ran off to the kitchens. The other picked up the prone man's body and carried him inside. As he passed The Father, the old man relieved the guardsman of a knife in his belt and fell into pace beside the body.
"He won't know where he is, and he may try to kill you." The Father said as a way of explaining.
They carried the body through the training yard, and around the side of one of the apartment houses. An unremarkable crate with a large door in it leaned against the side of the building. More of the Huanguard had come to see what the excitement was about. Many of them knew Rad, and were dumbfounded at his state of being. A steward spoon-fed him porridge from a bowl.
"One of us has been poisoned," The Father said aloud as he supervised the treatment. "This is the price of carelessness. This is why I train you so harshly. Our enemies are capable of more devious methods to kill us than a simple stab to the gut. With just a scratch a well crafted poison can kill the heartiest." He lectured. "For those that know our strength, it's their only weapon against us." He looked to the gazes of his students. "This is why I am so unforgiving. Your enemies will be less patient than I am." He paused as that lesson sank in. "In Rad's case, the poison was supposed to kill him outright, but he kept it at bay somehow. It's still in his body keeping him weak. He'll have to sweat it out, and even then he may not be the same afterwards." They fed him into the bo
x and locked the door after him.
"Under no circumstances open this box." The Father commanded sternly. "Send his meals through the opening in the bottom of the door, but never open it or he'll kill you. If he pleads with you... summon me immediately." The Huanguard, uniformed and trainees alike nodded in understanding. "Back to your duties!" The Father snarled at them, and the men scattered. The old man folded his hands behind his back and started to walk the grounds in thought. Helrith met him in the courtyard as he paced.
"You are not needed," The Father growled and ran a hand through his white hair. It never made a difference, there was not enough substance left to the whispy strands to go anywhere but where gravity dictated.
"I assumed," Helrith nodded in agreement. "you would have sent for me if so. But I was curious as to what this means. Rad? Poisoned? It looks like the Lunarin King is trying to remove witnesses."
"The Lunarin King is an idiot." The Father grumbled.
"But if he butchers his own people to remove dissention, it stands to reason he would use such crude means to eliminate those that helped him achieve his crown." Helrith offered.
"You have a point, Helrith. That baffoon has no idea who he is fucking with." The Father's dark mood was only getting worse with Helrith's words. "We gave him a throne, we can take it away."
"Indeed," Helrith dared to smile wickedly.
* * * *
Stumbling, half -dragged, half --walked, naked and caked in dried sweat and dirt, a delirious Niyana was pulled through the camp by the two scouts that had found her. A lady Lunarin scout with twin tattoos of vines wrapping up her bare, muscled arms parted the curious onlookers with an icy glare. Her companion had a less than enthusiastic, almost embarrassed look about his lean features. The two of them made a point not to look at their captive as they presented her before a tall oak. Niyana instinctually fell to her knees and waited there. There they waited, and discouraged the curious, as an old figure in a green robe made of leaves slowly descended by means of an uncoiling vine. He landed gracefully and the vine retracted back up to the heights above.
"Thank you my friend," he said lovingly and touched the tree's bark for a moment, and again with his forehead. He was old, very old for an Lunarin. Shallow cheekbones, sunken eyes, wisps of silver hair defiantly clung to his scalp, and yet despite his obvious age his demeanor was youthful and vigorous. He took one long at the bedraggled Niyana and shook his head.
"Oh no, this is embarrassing." He gasped and put a hand over his mouth in mock shock. "Where are your clothes my child?" he asked sincerely and leaned close to her. Those elves that had come to observe were warned off by the fierce glares of the two that had brought the captive before the old elf.
"I must have left them behind," Niyana admitted woozily. Instinctually she held her arms across her chest in an attempt to cover up and pulled her legs together.
"Oh my," The old man said regrettably. "That is unfortunate. Why are you so dirty, my child?" He squatted down before her, and rubbed her head affectionately. "you've been playing in the dirt it looks like." He smiled at her in a fatherly voice.
"I'm," Niyana started to say, but then scowled and looked around as if unsure of where she was, or if this was even real. "Gayne? Are you here Gayne?" she called out. "I'm dreaming again. I'm having that dream again." She muttered sleepily. For the first time, she looked up at the old elf and met his gaze, but she couldn't figure out who he was. "Who are you?" she asked casually.
High above the odd spectacle, from inside her tree tent, Kelria poked her head out and looked to see what the commotion below was. When she spied Niyana, she drew in a sharp breath, and she was about to scream a greeting before a silent hand rushed over her mouth. Kalek poked his head out next to hers.
"Remember your training," he reminded her in a quiet, kind voice. She replied with a bashful and embarrassed smile. Kalek removed his hand, and Kelria thanked him by touching her forehead to his. She leapt from the tent edge gracefully and plummeted to the ground, The wind whipped her long ponytail behind her, but the rest of her body remained firm and agile. At the last moment, right before she would hit the ground, her decent suddenly slowed and she touched down silently. Magic, it seemed, she had a talent for. But Kelria knew it was more because of Kalek's patient teachings that she had finally been transformed into the person she had always wished to be -- useful and capable. Her bare feet padded silently over the ground, and her leather leggings made no sound as she walked. Not magic, but careful training and a good tailor. Her green vest was a bit out of place from the fall, and she repositioned it to better hold in her troublesome bosom. She was built for the city, and the athleticism of the wild hadn't yet finished sculpting all the parts of her body. Kelria came to stand next to one of the scouts, Amel -- a boy just a bit younger than her, but one of the first to welcome her into their fold.
"Iala and Yyolun found your friend," he smirked at her.
"I can see that," she nudged him in the ribs. Amel was the closest thing she had to a friend here. Socializing was practically forbidden here -- the leaf knights didn't spend their off time chatting, but working and resting. It had been difficult for her to restrain her curiosity, she wanted to know so much about them and their order, but she had resigned herself to letting her imagination fill in their stories. Kalek, her Master and partner, who instructed her in the skills a leaf knight would need, was the son of the Cleric Tarin, and who came from a long an ancient lineage of leaf knights. The last part she imagined.
Iala, his former partner, the tall foreboding female with the twin tattoos on her arms, was a walking army. She was harshest when it came to camp discipline, and was peerless and utterly unforgiving in combat. The only time Kelria had witness Iala show compassion was her first night here. But deep down Kelria knew the lady's stern, fierce exterior was due to her unyielding love and protection for this group -- for they were her family now. And, if Kelria's imagination was true, they were the only family Iala had left as her once noble heritage was brutal slaughtered in a Zecairin attack. Despite her imagination, Iala had the regal composure of one of Lunar's ruling families -- when she was scornfully criticism an errant knight.
Fryak and Frell were twin brothers from the countryside, remarkable archers, but mischief makers. The were the exact opposite to Captain Iala. Slightly older than Kalek they had been the more recent recruits before Kelria. But they kept mostly to themselves. They would prented to nap and pull their blond bangs over their eyes when they did, but were secretly waiting for you to walk by before they grabbed your legs suddenly. When they first pulled that trick on Kelria, she had shrieked so loudly, they had to move camp immediately. The need for silence was her harshest lesson. But despite all their strict training, the leaf knights were forgiving and patient, and for that she was very grateful.
Amel, was friendly, and liked to pick on her during her training lessons. But his criticism was meant to help as well as motivate her. They rest of his identity was a mystery. As were the others in the camp, whose names she hadn't learned yet. There had not been time with her constant training and practice to get to know them. The group was in danger so long as her skills were so far below theirs, she needed to work constantly to keep from embarrassing herself. Amel was the only one she left a mystery, he was more fun that way if she could keep changing why he picked on her so much.
"She reeks," grumbled Amel.
"shssh, you." One of the twins muttered, and nodded towards the cleric. Old Tarin was looking directly at her. Kelria bowed apologetically, and touched her forehead with her fingers -- their silent sign for apology, and vigilance. But took a moment to elbow Amel hard in the ribs -- he refused to give her the pleasure of a pained grunt. The cleric turned his attention back to Niyana, who stared blankly at the ground.
"Yes, this is our long lost runaway princess." He concluded after long last. "However..." and he let loose a long profound sigh. "She has been corrupted." The mood around them grew dire. The emotions were sullen, depressed, sorr
owful, and pitying. Hardened eyes could only look on; Kelria knew this was a death sentence.
"There is an old ritual that could purify her," Tarin mused thoughtfully and massage his scalp as if to regrow his lost hair. "If I knew what possesses her it could work. There is an old spring in the mountains, it can purify most taints... " he trailed off that sentence as he looked up to the sky to think for a moment.
"Wise Master," Kelria spoke softly and pushed her way past. "I know what it is." Tarin looked to her and smiled.
"I thought as much, tell us Kelria." He stood up slowly and stretched his back. "Please set my old heart at ease."
"Before we parted, she told me the Zecairins made her drink something when she was a prisoner. A red liquid. It makes her crave bloodshed and... lovemaking. She has been fighting it. But the longer she resists, the worse she becomes." Tarin's eyes closed slowly and his whole person sank as if he had just learned his mother had died. He stumbled for a moment, uncharacteristic for his agile self, and collapsed onto his hind end - defeated. Iala was almost afraid for him and moved to help him up, but the old cleric waved her away.