Rendering Nirayel-Stepping on Arbitos

by Nathan P. Cardwell

  The flare reached its apex, and exploded soundlessly into three pieces. Crimsin failed to see where the two smaller pieces went. This was due to the ever-brightening first piece that had shot like a meteor in his direction. Its trek terminated when it positioned itself directly above the northeast wall, where it commenced a slow downward drift, nearly blinding him with radiance.

  He looked away, returning his attention to Borin. What he saw was nothing but swirling violet spots and only the vaguest impression of those about him.

  ***

  He had recalled an accounting by Marcus while discussing the philosophy of strategic proprieties in warfare. The subject had turned to an old debate concerning an arguable policy. Marcus had taken one side of the argument, while Borin defended the other.

  Marcus saw no dishonor in concealing weapons, unless such were applied to an open challenge of one-on-one combat.

  Borin had countered, quoting regulations. "The act of concealed arms is the act of a Coward and shall bear no Honor. I recall no passage offering exceptions outside of dueling."

  Selina, who had at first been content to remain neutral, decided to add her own counter. "Perhaps you two should have read further. In the following subdivision, on page three hundred and sixty four, paragraph two to be precise, it states, and I quote, 'The bindings of Honor shall only be applied to honorable adversaries. To extend Honor to a dishonorable opponent is but the folly of those who seek their own grave.' Un-quote," she concluded with a distinctive air of superiority by reaching into her training harness and withdrawing a dagger, thus illustrating her support for the passage she had just recited.

  ***

  The task had proved altogether more involved than anticipated. Borin fortified his efforts with intent to ignore the improper image his actions painted. Unfortunately, the landscape in which he rummaged offered several somewhat precipitous obstructions that did in fact resist said intention, and thereby inducing an internal alarm within his own sense of propriety. This, compounded with the inconvenient structure of her harness, had effected a small delay in determining the location of its hidden scabbard, said location then lending a certain advance to his already rising panic as he determined that it was seated inside, rather than outside, the structure's thin elastic hide.

  To further his dismay, the scabbard in question was finally discovered, but devoid of its cargo. After the initial impact of this revelation, wherein he embraced the possibility, there may be no dagger, he then realized the answer lay within the question, Why wear an empty scabbard?

  He plunged his hand even deeper and came to find the object of his desire wedged within the lower waistband of Selina's corset. It had obviously broken free of its scabbard during her encounter with the Dis'Errant. Besides an urgency to retrieve the blade, there was also a vague impression of just how fortunate she had been. She could just as easily have been impaled.

  As he grasped the dagger, he was beset by a most disturbing image of Selina's regaining consciousness before he could withdraw. Horrified beyond description, he pushed this altogether unwanted thought completely out of his mind. Finally, he withdrew the dagger as if coming to the end of a harrowing Quest.

  He spun around to face his fate. Now he would not wait for them to come to him. Now he would bring the battle to them. Still, what he encountered was no more expected than the empty scabbard.

  The Dark-elf appeared distracted, squinting at the sky as if observing some distant star only he could see, while the Colonel simply continued to gawk at him with an odd mixture of astonishment and revulsion.

  His focus returned to the Dark-elf, whose attention had broken from the heavens to center back upon Borin, though his continuous blinking and squinting suggested a certain difficulty in his own focus.

  One other aspect of the situation had also altered. For reasons beyond his ability to comprehend, the ambient lighting outside the radius of torchlight, which had previously been severely curtailed by the intensity of the torch, was unexpectedly brighter itself. Not greatly so, but enough to make out solid silhouettes, enough to recognize the specific shapes of Arbitos guard armor. The effect lasted but a moment, and then faded back to its previous pitch, as if some unseen light from above had just burned out. Still, he had seen what he had seen. Clawtorn was obviously not the only Traitor here.

  Chapter Five-Heroic Hearts And Little Farts

  The stage had been roped off. The crowd had been quarantined, and then subsequently released as they were each identified. All dignitaries had been confined to their respective Consulates, and the Rangers had been called in to investigate the crime scene. Everything that could be done was being done.

  Of course, some things were simply beyond the Captain's ability to control. Some things would be as Fate ordained. Some answers would come, or not come, according to the course of events as they unfolded. Reginald knew this better than most. Such was a Captain's lot.

  This is not to say that he was immune to the feelings of fear and helplessness associated with the missing Ambassador, who just happened to be his son. Nor did it reduce the mind-numbing revelation that the man he had hand-picked to replace the Assassinated Spurious Ambassador might well turn out to be the Magistrate's Assassin. Neither did it relieve the unmitigated foreboding generated by the missing Colonel, who by all rights should be the one shouldering the majority of these responsibilities. Ironically, he found himself concerned more about the Colonel than anything else. He felt an odd apprehension that somehow suggested Clawtorn's involvement. It was unlike the woman to simply up and leave an occasion such as this.

  "This seat taken?"

  Reginald raised his weary eyes. Magnatha stood before him, still wearing her old dress uniform. He didn't ask how she had gotten through security, though he would not have been surprised to learn that somewhere, there was a half-giddy guard bearing a proper knot on his noggin.

  He stood, gesturing for his old Master to sit, which she did.

  "You know? I miss those old uniforms," he offered wistfully.

  "Well, I gotta admit, I still cut a strikin figure, even if I do say so, meself," she smiled, sitting up to as great a height as her crooked back would allow.

  He returned her smile absently, missing the implied witticism.

  She considered him for a moment, and then relaxed, placing both canes on either side of her knees. "Long day," she exhaled in a tired voice, sounding very much the way he felt.

  "Indeed," he agreed.

  Poor Regi, she thought, wishing there was something she could do to help.

  "Magi? There was nothing I could do about Jester. You know that, right?"

  "Course I do. Same as I'm sure ya know that what we sometimes believe we see…isn't always the whole story."

  "Yes, of course," he agreed.

  She considered him, as if debating something of a delicate nature.

  "It may not offer ya much comfort, Regi, but I do know what yer going through."

  Now he turned to briefly face her. Her career had spanned a time equaling his entire life three times over. She had lived through two wars, spanning almost a hundred summers between them, and this did not count the countless skirmishes, infractions of factions, and general day-to-day defense of the city, century after century. Regardless of the situation, he must remain mindful of just who she once was. Her impropriety now was but a minor infraction by comparison to the unfathomable debt this city owed her. He returned his attention to the matters at hand, content to allow her intrusion.

  She paused in length, shifting her gaze to him, and then facing forward again. "I once told ya, same as I told others before and after, that there be many peoples. We all got our ways. We all got our strengths, and we all got our weaknesses. Yer no different. Nor are Druids…"

  "Master?" he cut her off unceremoniously while bearing an expression of exhaustion. "I do appreciate your tutorial, though I regret to say that it is hard evidence I require in this situation. Perhaps Philosophy is a thing more suited for reflecti
on, than the search for substantiation."

  She suppressed her initial anger. For an instant, she had forgotten her place. She was no longer Captain of this Garrison. Her time had come and gone. This was his time, and his weight to bear. He would take council with whom he saw fit, just as she had once done. For better, or worse, the information she had meant to impart, must be quelled.

  She felt a sudden urge to be elsewhere, but forced herself to relax before addressing him again. She even managed a smile. "I've naught to teach thee, Reginald Krue," she began in a dialect used by few remaining souls. "Ye have the Law to guide thee well enough. Ye have thine eyes to see, and ears to hear, same as any other. All else for thee lay in thy wits and heart. Let these be thy counsel, and let the fates worry for all else."

  With that, she pulled him to her, kissed his cheek, and then got to her feet and hobbled about to his other side. Before taking her leave, she paused one last time. "All me Grubs are real corkers, Regi," she declared with pride while patting his shoulder. "Especially thee."

  Then she continued on her way, crossing to the pavilion's southwest exit where a young guard, who was yet bracing her head as though it pained her greatly, held the rope up with her free hand until Magnatha passed under.

  He watched until she was out of sight. To most, she appeared to be nothing but an old woman, a simple peasant, or perhaps a crafty Tarot. To Reginald, she was so much more.

  ***

  The Colonel's sense of propriety was pushed aside in recognition of Borin's recently acquired blade. Her reaction was nothing short of pure instinct.

  She jumped deftly to her right, which was directly behind Crimsin, who now stood between her and the threat she sought to avoid.

  Crimsin, who had yet fully to recover from the effects of Ultra-light, was still unable to make out more than the rough outline Borin presented. However, he was close enough to Clawtorn to notice her odd reaction. Quickly, he twisted about, in order to protect his flank from what he perceived as a hostile advance on her part.

  "Fool!" he spat, still squinting at the shadows about him. "You've a poor sense of timing if you think you may switch sides now!"

  "Huh?" was the only response she could offer while continuing to back up.

  At last, the after-image was fading. Crimsin's vision began to clear as Clawtorn's retreating figure came into focus. He prepared to pounce on the sniveling coward.

  "Milord?" she inquired uncertainly, half turning in preparation to upgrade her backward recession to a full forward retreat, and then suddenly stopped short as the threat abruptly ceased.

  This was due to the Dis'Errant's transformation of expression, and posture. In the blink of an eye, he had shifted from a seething fury to a slouching vacancy. His arms dropped, dragging his sword across the alley's cobblestone floor. It dangled for a moment, and then his relaxing fingers released their grip on his blade, which fell to the cobblestone with a metallic resonance. He wavered a moment, swaying back at first, then forward, dropping to his knees, and finally toppling face down to rest beside his sword.

  With eyes opened wide by fear, she leaned forward, just far enough to make out the tiny incision made neatly between the Dis'Errant's vertebrae at the base of his skull. She also noticed the low-swaying hemline of someone standing where the Dark-elf had been, just prior to his demise. A few tiny droplets of blood stained the robe's white silk in a trail leading upward to the dagger still gripped by the would-be Ambassador.

  Still staring widely, the Colonel slowly began her retreat yet again, and then caught herself, recalling the others about her. These were her soldiers, loyal to her alone. She drew her own blade, motioning the circle to close in.

  Still staring at the fallen Wognix, Borin found his peripheral vision enclosed as the shadows about him converged.

  As her band of traitors advanced, she grew bolder. "What of your precious Code of Honor now, boy?" she asked, stalling. There was no danger of his escape, but as Tyde might have testified, had he been alive, one can never be too careful.

  Borin spat on Crimsin's corpse, and then shifted his attention to the Colonel. "Page three hundred and sixty four, paragraph two," he quoted.

  His reply fell upon deaf ears as she raised her sword high, preparing to give the signal to end his life. Then the weight of her sword was suddenly gone, as if she no longer bore it. This was followed by a sound quite similar to that which had occurred when Crimsin's own sword fell. A low groaning commenced, directly behind her. She turned in time to witness one of her loyal crew fall, and then roll to his back and expire, his dead eyes staring off to some distant point behind and above her.

  She heard a splattering sound, like rain striking the cobblestones at her feet, and glanced down to witness her own blood falling, not unlike the imagined precipitation. There, in the expanding pool, lay her sword, still clutched by her severed hand. She drew in a deep breath, preparing to loose the scream that had already commenced in her mind. Instead, she released her breath as the world about her tilted, and then twisted.

  As her vision dimmed, she had the faint sensation of drifting. When her head struck the stony ground, she opened her eyes to a different vantage of her severed hand, now joined by the bloody stump it had abandoned.

  One of her men stepped forward, and retrieved the throwing star that had first hit the Colonel, and then continued on to kill his corrupted comrade. No sooner had he removed the razor sharp disk, than he was struck in the back of his head by yet another star. Having dropped in a heap over the first man, he expired at the instant that the weapon crashed through his skull.

  This would be all that the Colonel would remember of this night. She closed her eyes, and then opened them when someone grabbed her up and swung her over his shoulder like a feed sack. This was merely a reaction, as she was beyond the capacity to direct her concentration. Then she closed her eyes again. She would not open them for several days.

  ***

  Magnatha had sent the others back via teleport. It had been expensive, but under the circumstances, it was the only safe way. With the general animosity directed toward Jester, she couldn't take the chance. Anyone connecting him with the others might be just as quick to harm them as they would Jester himself. With the burden of their safety lifted, she was now free to concentrate on getting that blasted scallywag out of this mess.

  She hated going against Regi like this, but what choice did she have? She could have simply blurted the cold facts out to him, but to impose such a humiliation from the likes of her was more than she could bear to place on his already weighted shoulders.

  Besides, the truth would eventually surface. It was but a matter of time. Until then, what justice could Jester hope for, when everyone had already condemned him? She doubted that the general public would remain content to leave this sort of thing solely to the proper authorities. For that matter, it wasn't impossible that some of the Garrison's own number might forget their place. There are almost always a few bad apples, a fact she had never been able to properly convey to Reginald. He was always too wrapped up in the letter of the Code. To him, the possibility of any Warrior or Paladin not loving the military Code of Honor as he himself did simply could not exist.

  She hobbled about the corner, pausing to catch her breath. After a moment, she looked up, and there stood the Arbitos Garrison. It looked much as she had left it, so long ago.

  ***

  "And you say this was the weapon used?" Amara asked skeptically.

  "Yes, yes," replied Reginald impatiently. "I've been through this several times already. I'm sure your investigators can confirm that the wound matches the weapon."

  "And you have witnesses?"

  "Yes, of course! Why do you people keep asking me that?" he asked, rapidly losing patience.

  "You have witnesses who can testify that they actually observed Ambassador Thistle insert the pick?"

  Reginald was just about ready to explode. With all the problems he was already facing, the last thing he needed was more in
sipid questions. He opened his mouth, prepared to put an end to this foolishness once and for all, when the full impact of her last question finally sank in. "Come to think of it… I don't believe anyone mentioned witnessing that specific detail," he answered honestly.

  "I gathered as much," Amara returned, trying not to sound too smug. "I've just one more question, Captain. Were you aware that due to their binding covenant, Druids are literally incapable of utilizing any form of piercing weapon for violent purposes?" Then she held the ice pick up, making several exaggerated stabbing motions in midair to demonstrate its association with the piercing Class of weaponry.

  There followed an uncomfortable silence wherein Reginald sought to provide reason for the ignorance of both his guards, and himself. Then he recalled cutting Magnatha off before she could impart something about Druids. In resignation, he covered his hand over his brow in self-disgust. "Umm…no. I wasn't."

  "Yes, I rather thought that might be the case."

  At this point, Merfee turned to face away from both Amara and Reginald. Things were looking up for Jester, but openly expressing mirth at the Captain's embarrassment would hardly expedite the situation.

  "Well… It would appear that a mistake has been made, yes?" Reginald offered with a sheepish grin.

  "So it would seem," Amara replied, showing signs of her own impatience.

  Then the Captain's posture seemed to stiffen, as if something disturbing had just occurred to him. "I say! I do hope this little misunderstanding doesn't generate any negative effect on our Alliance."

  "Enlightenment may forgive ignorance, Captain, but to do so would depend," she intoned expectantly.

  "Depend?" asked Reginald, failing to glean her meaning.