‘Or would he?’
Felicity was very friendly with the animal. Could she have been responsible? Had she actually drugged Spyra, or perhaps cast some spell of slumber on them both!
‘Of course! Who else could have been close enough to cast a glamour spell upon me?’
And now, she was nowhere to be seen.
He looked around the woodland again, hoping to spy tracks and then heard a familiar and welcome sound. A call from the trees, above them it seemed. It was Scout. The hawk was circling, making use of a strong updraft allowing it to glide gracefully around them. While happy to hear his companion Dorian’s confusion deepened. Why secretly cast a spell on him, and gather his companions, his horse, and then transport them as one to...? There was a thing. ‘Where are we?
He decided to the only course of action was to find out and e set off at a pace towards what he thought must be the edge of the woodland. Unimpeded by gnarled roots and closely packed, thick trunks he reached the treeline very quickly. He peered out and opened his mouth. There could be no mistaking that horizon or the small clump of civilisation at the base of the land that lead up to them. He had been magically transported to the Town.
He stepped out from the trees and into the cool evening air, Scout, seeing him exit the woods dropped down and then swooped to his shoulder.
Dorian rubbed his knuckle under her beak and down her chest feathers.
‘I’ve missed you.’ He said. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen young woman around here?’
The hawk squawked, pushed its head against his cheek for a moment, and then leapt back into the air. It began to fly directly for the Town.
‘Yes. I figured as much.’ Dorian said.
He ran back, unleashed his horse and mounted it, satisfied the ground posed no threat to it should he ride at a pace.
‘Gee up girl.’ He called and rode towards the Town.
Holy Inadequate
Valeran observed the girl from a dark corner of the Tavern. He sat at a small circular table and in front of him stood a flagon of ale which remained untouched. All of the beers, of which there was a formidable array, had some strange name or description meant to convey some dangerous aspect, or hint at some heroic age, or of a reckless manliness about the person choosing it. Old Colby’s Distinct Brown, Dirty Dragon’s Claw, Chester’s Rapey Inclination, Bovac’s Old Familiar and its darker version Bovac’s More Recent Passing Acquaintance. Valeran had decided on Olde Arrogant Bastard, because irony was often a sure sign the Gods were near.
The girl also sat alone. In front of her a flagon not too dissimilar from the one Valeran was ignoring, except hers was empty. She caught the attention of a wench who drifted from table to table, customer to customer, offering to fetch their refills.
‘A fresh ale please child.’ She said.
Valeran could read her lips clearly. Without her helmet, and without sweat pouring down her face, he could see just how pretty she was. Not in the fashion of the court ladies though, with their perfectly accented features, almost childlike faces, but there was no denying that she had an appeal that would distract many of the men in this place. She would bring attention that she might not appreciate.
He felt a presence to the side of his vision.
‘Oy mate...’ A voice said, with depressing familiarity.
Valeran looked at the man through narrowed eyes.
‘Yes?’
‘Take a look at my old fella, will ya. It’s kind of burny when I pee.’
‘You need a witch son.’ Valeran said. ‘Black pointy hat.’
‘But you’re a healer ain’t ya? Hey, have you got a group? My names up on the board, its…’
Valeran turned to face the man fully. He was a solider, no doubt here to sell his services as a fighter to some group. It was tough for these lads. There were so many who had run from their units, sick of the lousy and only occasional pay, the awful and infrequent meals and the loss of their brothers in arms all too frequently. They all called each other mate so they didn’t have to learn names. At least the names of the new guys, they were lost so quickly to the blood sacrifice war demanded.
‘I don’t need to know your name solider.’ Valeran said. ‘And the cure for your itchy old fella lies with any one of the dear ladies scattered around this town who not only have the required poultice for you to lather onto the poor thing, but who, should they find out I had tried to muscle in on their business, would most likely cast some vile hex on me that will supply me with a few months’ worth of explosive diarrhoea.’
The solider stared at him. Having been lost at ‘I don’t need to know your name.’
‘What’s the fucking difference? You’s a healer right mate?’ The solider said with unmistakable aggression in his tone.
This was the other thing with soldiers. They fought without a name until ‘not being dead’ earned them the right to own one. They learned to be mean, and vicious and that if someone wouldn’t do what you wanted, you pushed until they got on board. People scared easy, after all they just wanted a peaceful life. They were cowed by men with scars, weapons and haunted expressions. But that was normal people.
‘The difference, you ignorant fuck-nugget,’ Valeran growled, ‘is that I heal wounds obtained in the pursuit of war, through the peril of adventure or the infestation of demonic forces. I am a conduit of the Gods. Not an unsociable harridan with a personality disorder and an obsessive interest in cats. So, take your unsanitary rape-stick to one of them to get it seen too.’
Valeran would be the first to admit that his temper occasionally got the better of him. It often produced moments
like this where he had not considered the speed that the soldier’s sword could be whipped from its scabbard and its sharp end jabbed into the soft skin under his jaw.
The solider applied a little pressure, forcing Valeran to lift his chin and look directly into the eyes of the man.
‘What did you call me?’ The soldier said, menacingly. He then scratched at his groin with his free hand.
‘I was merely suggesting that a witch would be better suited to both diagnosis and prescription for your malady good solider.’
Valeran began to run through his mental Rolodex of Gods who might be able to offer a little help here. Bunty, the God of Rash Decisions perhaps, Zorb, God of Social Faux-Pas, or Zebedy, Lord of Tight spots. His first choice would usually be Alan, Cosmic Prince of Regret.
Alan was revered throughout Clerical circles for his generous nature in terms of getting you out a bad position that you had just put yourself into, but Valeran had been a little tight on his prayers to Alan of late and knew his standing would be poor at best. His best hope would be to offer thanks to Byzan, God of Awkward Situations, who might then pass on a good word to Zorb, who, being a kindly and somewhat gossipy God would hopefully bend the ear of Alan and perhaps curry him a little favour.
As it turned out, he didn’t need to. The Soldier’s head fell off.
Valeran stared transfixed as the headless soldier, now deceased headless soldier, pumped blood from its stump of a neck for a few seconds, then got with the program and dropped to the floor, revealing the Sister of Steel, her swords crossed from the process of decapitation. It was odd how so many people remained upright when for a few seconds when dead in this world.
Valeran heard a ripple of grumbles from around the bar area, and the unmistakable voice of the landlord shouting ‘WENCH! Get the Head Bag and a bucket.’
The Sister looked up from her handiwork on the floor and directly into Valeran’s eyes.
‘Now we’re even.’ She said, sheathing her blades and making to turn away.
‘Wait!’ Valeran called to her.
The lady paused. She looked back towards him.
‘What? Cleric.’
‘These fellows usually have a Rogue skulking around somewhere.’ His eyes darted around the bar. A few patrons were looking over his way, mildly interested in the scene, mostly in the girl.
‘Not him
. He had returned from the mountains recently. They didn’t find a Gate and he wasn’t partnered. You’ll be fine. He was a solider, not a real warrior, they don’t get Rogues so easy. Usually just other soldiers.’
‘Oh.’ Valeran said. Relieved. He offered a quick prayer to Asif, God of Insanely Lucky Escapes.
The young girl who had been ordered to clean up eased through the crowd carrying a mop and bucket. Under her arm was a sack.
‘Scuse me masters,’ she said, then saw the outline and clearly feminine features of the fighting woman and corrected herself, ‘Sister.’
‘Oh yes, erm, please er… do young lady.’ Valeran said, shuffling around his table to offer more space for her to access the fallen soldier and his rapidly spreading pool of blood.
The Sister dropped a silver coin onto the table. The wench’s eyes became wide and her expression one of confusion.
‘For your trouble.’ The Sister said.
‘Ma’am?’ The wench said, nervously. A couple of copper pieces was considered a generous tip for cleaning up after an incident, maybe three if innards were involved. A silver would get a slaughterhouse bleached from top to bottom.
‘Get some reading with it. There’s a good teacher in the first village you’ll come to in the south. He doesn’t interfere with you and he will make sure you get writing as well.’ The Sister said, an order, not a request.
The wench snatched up the coin and vanished it into her apron.
‘Yes ma’am.’
Valeran’s eyes were also wide. Either this girl had more money than sense or… There could be no other explanation he decided. This girl was one unexpected and insane incident after another.
‘Uhm, are you looking for a group?’
The Sister turned as the wench dropped to her knees and began to tie the sack around the soldier’s upper body. Valeran could feel a weight pressing against his foot. The soldier’s head. He tapped it away and grimaced a little as he heard it roll against a chair leg.
‘A Cleric looking for a group? The Sister said, and not in a pleasant way Valeran thought. ‘I thought you people took your pick.’
‘We people…’ Valeran frowned. He began to wonder if perhaps he had made a mistake here.
‘I’ll be entirely honest with you my dear, this is my first foray into adventuring. Up until recently my employment has mostly been as a physician with an army in a state of siege.’
‘Oh. A Pox Doctor.’ The Sister said, ‘That must have been fun.’
‘I am NOT a POX DOC…’ Valeran thundered. He felt the wench’s head knock against the table as she jumped, spooked by his sudden outburst.
‘I apologise. What I meant to say was that I am more surgeon than I am physician. I specialise in the treatment of trauma and of the more supernatural maladies that come about from messing with Demons, and Gods and other stuff that people who have never read a book shouldn’t be getting their tiny brains involved in.’
‘Are you saying I can’t read?’ The Sister asked, aggression quickly erecting scaffolds made of threat under her evenly presented questions.
‘Not at all!’ Valeran thought quickly.
He had to stop being a clever dick and adjust his attitude with this fighting woman. She was clearly as quick with her wits as she was with her decisions regarding removing the heads of people in her reach.
‘In fact, tis I who lacks advantage here. You are clearly versed in the customs of this area.’ He couldn’t help but look down at the bagged upper torso of her latest victim. ‘Uhm, my name is Valeran. I’m a Cleric of the Euclidian Conclave. May I enquire your name?’
‘Daisy.’ The fighter replied.
‘Oh.’ Valeran repeated.
‘Oh?’ Daisy echoed. Her eyes once again nailing Valeran to his seat.
‘Oh… what a delightful name.’ Valeran said.
He attempted a friendly smile, but its sheer lack on integrity caused it to twist so that he looked like a grinning idiot.
‘Thank you. I was born near the forest lands west of the Trestfall Plateau. I had three sisters and a brother. My sisters were Lily, Rose and Poppy. My mother had a thing about flowers.
‘What was your brother named?’ Valeran asked.
‘Bastardweed.’ Daisy replied. ‘Dad hated gardening.’
‘Oh.’ Valeran said.
He was without any kind of compass with which to travel this highway of small talk and felt that he was being mowed down by oncoming traffic.
‘You fixed me didn’t you.’ Daisy said.
She looked down at the gap in her britches, it was heavily stained with dark blood that still looked damp.
‘You did that.’
Valeran chose to say nothing, not sure where this dangerous young woman’s thoughts on the matter lay.
‘How much did you make?’ She asked as the wench began to pull the soldier’s body away by his legs, over her shoulder was slung a smaller canvas bag.
‘Make?’ Valeran said.
‘You have a habit of repeating things Mr Valeran, do you know this?’
‘Repeating?’ Valeran asked, then realised that he had better get on track. ‘Right. Yes. No. Well, I acted out of purely altruistic reasons of course and…’
Daisy’s glare suggested that she was not going to run with this.
‘I made eight silver.’ He said. ‘Almost the whole crowd bet against you.’
‘And therefore, you both cleaned up my wound and cleaned up with your bet.’
‘I wouldn’t say cleaned up.’ Valeran said, frowning, ‘More a light dusting. I think most of them were also little light on coin.’
‘Yes, I suppose that’s probably true. Many people have returned from the mountains without finding a Gate.’
‘Oh dear. Have you…’
‘I haven’t managed to get into a group.’ Daisy said.
She pulled a chair out and sat facing Valeran. ‘I can’t get one because there are warriors all over the town and they always get preference over fighters.’
‘Prefera…’ Valeran interrupted himself, realising that he did in fact have a habit of repeating people’s words. ‘I thought that a warrior is a fighter. Er… and vice versa.’
‘No. Warriors are mad bastards who have no regard for their own safety, and more often than not no concern for the safety of others. They just like to swing whatever weapon they have to hand at anything in front of them.’
‘And fighters?’
‘We learn a style, it might be with a sword, or a polearm, or an axe, or even with bare fists, some even train in the Martial Arts of the far Western Kingdoms.’
Valeran shuddered a little. Thoughts of the art Wing Dong crept into his mind.
‘We are professionals, trained to follow and to fight for our Lord, our Order or in my case, my Sisterhood.’
‘I see.’ Valeran nodded. ‘But wouldn’t it be fair to suggest that you both do the same thing? Kill people with weapons?’
‘No. Cleric. It would not. Do you do operate in the same manner as a Witch, or a Wizard or a Warlock?’
‘No I bloody don’t.’ Valeran snapped back, offended.
‘Yet you all deal in the same business. Magic, the Essence, Gods.’ Daisy returned. ‘You all wear robes and a silly hat.’
‘I don’t wear…’ Valeran was growing to dislike this young woman. She caused him to pause during his speech almost constantly, ‘…a hat.’
‘I’ll bet you’ve got one though. Perhaps at home somewhere. In a box, and you wear it when you are meeting up with your cronies from the Cleric Club or something.’
‘I do NOT have a hat.’ Valeran stated firmly.
He did though.
It was a white and gold thing with little tassels and tiny gems encrusted on its brim. He wore it when his Conclave met for their Lustrum Holy Reunion of Brothers. Every five years an enormous piss-up was held under the guise of a grand meeting of Holy Debate. The only debate would be whether to start with a fish or meat dish.
He offered up
a silent prayer to Sham, God of White Lies with a solemn promise to make an offering to him as soon as he could get to a temple. Which he wouldn’t actually do, lest he offend Sham. He was going to have to spend a long time in the next temple however. There was quite a to-do list to go through.
‘Anyway. Why are you killing people? I thought the Sisters were a group of ladies dedicated to bringing equality to the sexes. Not marauding, head-removing psychopaths looking for adventures.’
Daisy seemed unmoved at his dig. ‘Sometimes, to make an omelette you have to break a few eggs.’
‘Break a few eggs? The two men you killed today weren’t breakfasts you know. That poor chap didn’t even know you were behind him.’ Valeran pointed vaguely in the direction where the wench had dragged the corpse. ‘Hardly sporting.’
‘That poor chap gutted an adventurer out on the road earlier. Another fighter in fact. He took his stuff and kicked the body
into a ditch. He would have pushed his sword into your throat had I not returned your favour of healing my wound.’
‘No one has come.’ Valeran said, absently. ‘Why has no one come?’ Managing to surprise Daisy with his sudden change of topic.’
‘Excuse me?’ She said.
‘Other than the young lady, who you massively overpaid by the way, no one has come to question you, or me, or to… I don’t know, do something.’
‘There’s no law here Cleric, other than what you make yourself. If you are strong enough to enforce that law, it will keep, until you are gone of course. That’s how the law works. This really is your first time here isn’t it?’
‘Yes. I’m afraid it is.’ Valeran looked at his ale. Then back to Daisy. ‘Would you like a drink?’
‘Yes. I’ll take a drink.’ Daisy replied without pause.
Valeran thought she seemed a little more comfortable, as though the small back and forth had given her some confidence that she was safe in his company. That he was no immediate threat. He raised his hand and with a tap in the air his forefinger caught the attention of the same wench who had dragged Daisy’s handiwork out of the building.
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