by Paul Yoder
“Yeah, well it’s a long story. You know Reza? That saren we’ve been tagging along with?” Fin said, looking down at the legs of gin on the hazy glass.
“Yeah, what? She got you into religion? Those saren’s tend to be overzealous—not to mention, over pretty. You fell for her?”
“No,” Fin said flatly, ignoring Matt’s jest. “We took a mission to find out what was happening in Brigganden. We liberated that city, but in the mix, one of our friends got cursed by an Illimoth blade. He’s turned rotten. Not himself no more. He’s drawn to an avatar of Telenth. That avatar is the lord of the arisen that took that city. He’s on the run, or hiding. We’re not sure where he is, but he needs to be stopped, and our cursed friend is going to lead us to him. Brigganden is only a slice of what he’s capable of. This whole region is in unwitting danger. Our little force is growing, but we’re still under matched to face him. We need your help, Matt. This whole nation is on the line.”
“Any payment involved, or is this just a ‘hero’ kind of job?” Matt probed, looking to the back room as they could hear the clink of glasses and plates sloshing around as Geric began washing the day’s dishes.
“I’m not sure yet. I mean, last time we helped with this issue, Sultan Metus compensated us. I’m sure there’s someone that’s going to pay us this time around as well.
“What it really comes down to is saving Nomad and stopping the arisen lord before he can ravage the countryside. You’ve heard of what happened to Brigganden, I’m sure. That’s going to be every city and town from here to the neighboring regions if we don’t stop him now.”
Fin waited for an answer, watching Matt intently as Matt emptied the last drops of his spruce beer on his tongue.
“Not really feeling it,” Matt finally said, satisfied that there was no more beer in his bottle.
“What? Matt, the Plainstate is at risk, Brigganden already fell to this monster, and Tarigannie is next! You trained me and Cavok how to take care of ourselves out in the world because you said it was your way of making a difference out there, your little contribution. That maybe someday we would go on to do great things.
“Now I know we haven’t really done much good, actually we kind of done the opposite, we got in a lot of trouble for a long while there, but since joining up with Reza, well, this is the first time I feel actually involved in something bigger than a reward, something that could make a real difference in people’s lives, and now you’re telling me when one of those real ‘hero moments’ pops up, you’re not feeling it?”
Matt sat back, looking uninterested now that the beer was gone, snapping back at Fin with, “Tarigannie may be in trouble and all, maybe even the whole continent, but believe me when I tell you, I don’t give a damn. What I care about right now is what I’m involved with, and that’s keeping this new group of idiots alive. They’re young, and they’re full of ideas, but that’s about where you and Cavok were when I trained ya.
“The world can wait. It’s always in danger, or at war. Someone’s always a threat, and it always turns out, eventually, even if it’s a couple hundred years, it always turns out whether you get involved or not.”
Fin shot the rest of the gin in one go, forcefully let out a fume-heavy sigh, and placed a disappointed hand over his face. Had he left Reza on the road for this? His friends needed him, and if he came back empty handed….
An old, wrinkled hand patted him on the back. Though Matt couldn’t see Fin’s exasperation, he could surely hear and sense how crestfallen he was; regardless if it was indeed he who had gotten him into his sour mood.
“Fin…” Matt said in a hushed voice, “I’m gettin’ there in years. Not sure I’d be much help to you or your crew at this point,” he admitted in a quiet voice, his usual spunk receding as he leveled with his former pupil.
Fin looked at the old rag man, studying his rickety frame for a moment. Matt had indeed aged since last he had seen him. It was the first time Matt had brought up his age as an excuse, and that thought was more than a little sobering for Fin.
Matt turned around, looking to the door as Fin began to hear frantic foot-fall running up the saloon’s porch, throwing the swing doors wide, a large man, bigger even than Cavok to Fin’s surprise, came rushing in.
“That weren't no bandit troop at the old fort, there’s arisen camped there. They jumped us, snagged everyone, shackled ‘em. Comon’, Matt, we got to go get ‘em,” the man spouted out, catching his breath afterwards, the bartender coming back in the room to see what all the commotion was about.
“Arisen you say?” Matt said, his eyebrow raised in thought.
“Yes. Dead as they come. Up, walking, taking orders from a wicked looking fellow. Not sure, but I think he’s arisen too. Mighty pale. We got ambushed, least they did. I was out scouting the perimeter while they were back at camp. By the time I got back, they were already surrounded. At least twenty of them. Thought it would be best if I came and got you.”
Matt had slipped out an old pair of brass knuckles, gouged and well-rounded, and was fiddling with them, flipping them through his boney fingers.
“Aye, probably best you did,” Matt said, staring off through the still swinging door, patting Fin on the back. “Fin, you better had not jinxed us with all that talk of arisen earlier. Show us the way, Cray.”
Matt got up, stretching out as Fin remarked, “Us? Matt, we don’t have time. I’ve got to get you to Sheaf now!”
Matt cracked his neck with a loud pop and looked dead in Fin’s eyes, betraying how blind he really was and replied, “If you need me, you have time. Save my boys, and we’ll talk about Sheaf and this arisen lord. Till then, use what good sense and skill I trained into you and help me out. I’m not as young as I used to be, sounds like we’ll need an extra hand or two for this one.”
Fin stared hard at Matt’s timeworn face and softened. The man had been like a father to him and Cavok, had taught them and honed their skills. He raised them rough, but it was a hard world that they inherited, and Fin was grateful for what guidance Matt had given them early in life. It was probably due to Matt’s care that they survived through that merciless start of life in the city streets.
“Alright, Matt. I’ll help you. You had better be there for me and Cavok after this though.”
A slow, wicked smile appeared on the old man’s face, placing his hood up to drown him in a dingy shadow. Throwing his shoulders back sharply, his rags popped behind him, a bit of dust coming off their folds.
Geric shuddered slightly as Matt’s ripped physique showed clearly now at his readied stance.
They started out of the saloon, Matt almost smacking right into the doorframe just before Fin readjusted him to walk out the door without incident.
Letting out another long, frustrated sigh, Fin shook his head at the unnecessary delay he had just signed on to.
19
Clandestine Arrival in Sheaf
She laid the folded silken desert outfit gently down on the newly dusted dresser top. Next to it lay his sword and other personal belongings Reza had gathered before Nomad had lost himself. After standing, looking into the dresser’s mirror at herself for some time, noticing how tan she had gotten over the past few months which stood out in contrast against her platinum hair, she sat down to take a moment of silence on Nomad’s bed.
Sultan Metus had kept their rooms cleaned and empty since they had left. It had been a kind gesture, though since arriving a few days prior to, she was feeling the pangs of worry and loneliness as no signs of any of her group’s return had been announced.
She had briefed Metus on the status of their journey and the severity of their mission and her intentions going forward. She had asked him for help, for him to join their cause, but he had remained unusually quiet and vague with a response. He wanted first for the return of Arie and Cavok and to see Nomad for himself before addressing her call for action. And so, she had been resigned to wait, and rest, both her body and mind needing the reprieve.
> She had visited Nomad’s quarters quite a few times over the past few days to sit in silence and reflect of the path that lay before them, and to reflect upon her seemingly lost friend.
She had needed the distance from him, she now realized. The distance was needed between them as he continued to spiral down a self-destructive tare he had been on. This did not make her miss him any less, however.
She had told Metus about the destruction and confiscation of the outfit he had had made for Nomad, and suggested something even more durable for next time, and Metus had conscribed the same tailor to immediately set upon making a double lined, double stitched outfit, similar to the first for when Nomad next needed sturdy clothes.
The tailor had just finished the outfit and delivered it to her for safekeeping that morning, and now it lay amongst his other belongings that Reza hoped he would some day come to use and appreciate once more.
A knock at the door brought her out of her reflections, an older man’s voice saying in a low voice, “Miss Reza, Sultan Metus is calling for you.”
Getting up, she made her way to the door and opened it, seeing that it was Garik, the serviceman that Metus had assigned to Reza’s group. He was a nice, quiet old fellow. Seemed solid enough a guy, and never pried. Knowing how good a judge of character Metus was and to what caliber of character he surrounded himself with, she was sure he could be trusted at least to some level.
“What is this regarding, Garik?” she asked, closing Nomad’s door, locking it behind her.
Looking around to make sure no other residents were in the courtyard, he leaned in to whisper, “Lady Arie arrived moments ago. She’s requested a special unit to secretly escort sir Cavok and company into the palace to keep one of your members discreetly housed. We’ve made the arrangements but were told to gather you upon their return.”
“And Nomad is with them?” Reza asked, excitement clear in her voice.
“Yes—he is with them,” Garik hesitantly admitted, uncomfortable with the subject she could tell.
“Let’s waste no more time here then,” Reza told Garik.
Taking a few side passages Reza was unfamiliar with, the two made their way to the entrance of an underground structure. Unlatching and opening the building’s large, iron doors, Garik offered Reza to go first, which she did, Garik closing and locking the doors from the inside afterwards.
“I’ve never been here. What is this place?” Reza asked quietly, once they were on their way down a hallway with a few off-shooting corridors.
“I see no reason why you would have known of the foundry. It’s a small one, compared to some of the ones I’ve seen out in the world, but it suits the palace’s needs. We produce heat here for various purposes.
“It’s a central furnace, our best blacksmiths use a set of forges here. We have a steam room that delivers steam to some of our more neoteric projects and systems.
“Aside from the foundry, we keep a single holding cell here. We only use it for high-priority persons. It’s a secret to all but a few of the senior staff, supposedly. You know how word travels in a court. It should be a suitable place though for your Nomad friend. Lady Arie said he needed to be out of sight and bound, so the cavity will have to do.”
‘The cavity’ surely didn’t sound pleasant to her, but Reza knew firsthand how uncontrollable Nomad could be, and how dangerous he was on the loose.
The sounds of the forge were slowly becoming more noticeable the deeper they went into the subterranean structure.
Entering a large, open room holding all sorts of piping, crucibles, gears, carts, and tracks, heat workers were scurrying about, performing various jobs, completely ignoring Garik and his guest, fully engaged with their respective heat-sensitive tasks.
It was fascinating seeing all the various trades working so interwoven in one place. Glassblowers were carrying rods of molten glass from the furnace to corners of the room to mash and twirl into various shapes and color patterns, metal casters were pouring molten alloys into molds, blacksmiths were laboriously pounding out lines of bright steels and irons, and a bubbling set of huge copper vats and glassware held boiling liquids, steam piping through tubes through walls into other rooms.
The foundry’s main room was busy, but organized, and not overcrowded. It was a place Reza thought she’d much like to return to tour again sometime in less immediate circumstances.
The deep bellows whooshed and whirred in rhythm, fueling the molten flames of the central furnace that spanned half the length of the back wall. It was noticeably hotter in that room, though the ventilation ductwork installed in the ceiling and floor seemed to cut the heat by a remarkable degree as to what it seems it should have been.
She stared fixedly at the furnace a moment longer. At first hard to distinguish, what looked like a yellow brown, compacted large brick of material, upon closer inspection, Reza could see that it was a various mash of desert foliage, all compressed into a form-fitted brick of biomass fuel for insertion into the furnace’s fuel shoot.
The production line and intelligent designs she saw surprised her, especially having been present in the city for years and never once having heard of, or visited, the place where so much work was done.
“This way,” Garik softly said, taking her attention away from the workspace, directing her through a dimly lit side tunnel, leaving the heat of the burning room behind, the tunnel walls quickly muting the sounds of industry within a few turns.
“Rarely do we use this cell. The last time was when holding a council member from Tarigannie during a brief war. It was more a dispute, really. That was nearly ten years ago,” Garik’s deep voice droned as they drifted through the dim tunnels, passing only a few side channels that were not lit.
A bright glow of torches lit the threshold up ahead. The door at the end of the tunnel was framed in iron, and as Garik produced a key and unlatched it, Reza could see that the thickness of the door was as wide as her hand. Though not made completely of iron, the door had a heft to it that seemed to indicate the wood was filled, be it with sand or something heavier, she doubted even Nomad’s demonic power could punch through it.
The room was domed, and large. Many familiar faces were there, though greeting her was not their first concern—Nomad took the center stage.
He looked more wild than ever. His eyes left streaks of red in the air, an unnatural glow and a demonic aura flickering about his crown. An invisible madness billowed from him, striking prudent caution and fear into those tasked in containing him in the heavy shiny steel shackles locked tight around his limbs, torso, and neck.
He was ferociously attempting to break loose of his bonds, snapping at his captors, threatening any who dared get close. And there was blood—quite a bit of it too. After her gaze drifted to a bloodied and wounded Cavok, she wondered if most of that blood was his instead of Nomad’s.
“Cavok!” Reza cried, startled by the scene she had walked in on, moving to go to support the beaten and battered man.
“Reza,” Cavok acknowledged with a weak smile, attempting to rouse spirit enough to abate her concerns over him, failing to do so.
“It has been a long two weeks,” Cavok said, tiredness thick in his voice. His one line spoke more to her of the trials he had been through than probably even a full-length explanation.
Cavok leaned on a guard for support, attempting to move as little as possible as Garik let in a doctor and nurse through the big door. They went straight to Cavok, seeing where they were needed. He had scratches up and down his body, and horrific bite marks and deep bruises speckled his tanned skin. He held a leg up, favoring it, keeping as much weight off it as possible.
Surely she had seen him with more grievous wounds, but Reza didn’t know that she had ever seen the man this exhausted in all the time she had known him.
The doctor immediately ordered the guard to lead Cavok out of the cell and into the infirmary wing in the palace complex, and the small group began to leave.<
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Cavok paused as he passed Nomad, looking him in the eyes, winding up, and slugged the chained wildman directly on the nose.
“One for old times’ sake, friend,” he said, a satisfied smile gracing his cut lips, before the guard pulled him rather roughly out of the room, following the doctor and nurse.
Nomad sprung to life again, renewed in his thrashing routine, no one speaking until Sultan Metus attempted to excuse Cavok’s behavior, “Looks like he took enough licks to deserve that shot.”
Reza looked around, taking note of everyone present now that Cavok was out of the room and with Nomad seeming secure enough to reduce her worries over him breaking loose.
Sultan Metus was there, flanked by two guards, the same personal escorts she had seen accompanying him most times he was out and about over the past few years. Prophet Henarus stood tall and stern to the side of the room with an assistant or cleric of his own, watching Nomad like a hawk. Arie was there, looking terribly sleep deprived and haggard, but standing on her own. Leith, Arie’s sister and personal assistant to Sultan Metus, was between Arie and Metus. A disheveled fellow slunk in the back of the room within the shadows, crowblack hair fallen over his face. There were four guards tending to Nomad which Reza suspected were the prison guards. And then there was a woman and a girl standing between Metus and Henarus, looking quite out of place. Reza did not know them, though they looked familiar enough, she could not place where or when she would have met them.
“Two weeks we’ve been separated,” Reza said, shaking her head in sympathetic disbelief. “What happened to you three, Arie?” she questioned, realizing the horrendous truth of the matter just by the sight of her, Cavok, and Nomad.
Prophet Henarus stepped up, shaking his head as he said, “There is no time for a retelling of things already past. There is a sickness here that is in need of purging. Reza Malay, Sultan Metus called me here to aid in a healing, but you are a child of Sareth, with a heritage having a long history in healings. Your kind are best known for your ability to cure even the most dire of wounds and illnesses. We’re all here to aid you in drawing the sickness from our tormented friend. If we don’t act now, those bonds he wears will be broken eventually, and he will escape into the city, and all the death and destruction that follows will be upon our heads—upon your head.”