《Chaos Rising》


 Mort 1

    Mort squatted on his heels with an unconscious grace, his eyes scanning the landscape for sign of the ratten he''d been tracking for most of the brightday. He could feel the heat of Sol Alphus, the larger of Chabar''s two suns, beating down on the back of his neck, sending little rivulets of sweat down into his already sodden shirt. A small sardonic smile crept over his face. All this effort for a dinner that would have most people turning up their noses in disgust. Then again, most people didn''t know just how tasty seared ratten filet was when it was rubbed down with just the right herbs and basted in butter sauce.


    Mort''s sharp gaze focused on a stunted ember bush nearby, gauging whether it had recently been disturbed. The peculiar balances struck by nature always fascinated him. For a ratten, the nocuous thorns and oily leaves of an ember bush provided shelter, but to nearly any other creature they were an agonizing burning experience that would never be forgotten.


    Mort stood quietly and carefully, nocked arrow to bow, and slowly closed his eyes ¡ª bright blue eyes that would be too large in a human face. He inhaled deeply, filling his senses with scent and sound, and let the heat and any other distractions fall away from his awareness. He exhaled slowly, ever so slowly, until there was nothing but sound and scent. His oddly pointed ears quivered, swiveling slightly forward and back as his senses tested his surroundings. He continued like that for several moments, ears twitching and moving almost like a cat''s ¡ª a peculiar trait that only half-bloods like himself possessed. It was also the trait that earned half-bloods the disparaging nickname "Sha''aroosh", or mongrel, by the full blood Chataraini.


    The faintest rustling of leaves, a nearly imperceptible scrape of claw on sand, and then the thwip-hiss as Mort let the arrow fly. There was a brief chirp, abruptly cut off as the arrow took the ratten. Mort opened his eyes and spotted his target, and then counted paces as he stepped off the distance to the dead ratten. His arrow was buried just behind the ratten''s head at twenty-seven paces. Mort allowed himself a little self-congratulatory grin ¡ª that was a new record for him. Even the full bloods couldn''t blind hunt as well as the mongrels. Maybe it wasn''t much, but it was still a source of pride for a half-blood like himself. Mort picked up the ratten gingerly by its prehensile tail, examining it carefully to ensure that none of the corrosive ember oil had gotten smeared on the armor. The creature had a narrow, beady-eyed face with a mouth full of sharp gnawing teeth, and a blunt, short body covered in a chitinous shell. It was certainly ugly by anyone''s standards, but that thick body was full of sweet, succulent meat, if you knew how to prepare it. They''d eat well tonight!


    Mort glanced up at the setting sun, just now beginning to sink below the World''s Spine far off to the south. If he could see the outline of those jagged mountains at this distance, he could only imagine how tall they must truly be. He stuffed the ratten in his hunting pack and turned back to the north with a sigh. Sol Betus, the smaller of the binary suns, was just beginning to peek its dim blue-white face over the northern horizon. It would be gloaming soon, that time when it was neither fully bright nor completely dark, and it was generally not a great time to be out alone on the Arish plains. The damned ratten had drawn him out farther than he''d meant to go. He''d be home late, and there would be a lecture from his father waiting for him when he got there. Mort shook his head, gave another resigned sigh, and headed toward home.


    It was full gloaming by the time Mort reached the house that he shared with his father, and the shadows had grown deep. It wasn''t much of a house, really ¡ª more just a framework of rough-hewn boards held together by prayers and only the gods knew what else. He could see light flickering through the shutters in the gloom. His breath puffed steam in the swiftly cooling air. It always amazed Mort how very chilly it could get at gloaming out here on the plains, even with a sun up in the sky. He turned, looking around at the rocky terrain that had become his home, delaying for a few more moments before he had to go inside. By now, Pa would be well into the bottle and letting his memories swarm him again.


    "Might as well get on with it," he muttered to the gloom.


    Mort stepped up to the door and eased it open, making the old leather hinges creak faintly. As he''d expected, his father was where he nearly always was at this time of the gloaming, sitting with his chair facing the door, a bottle of homemade garja on the table next to him, and a glass in his hand. Garja was a type of cactus found in this area that made quite a flavorful and potent alcohol, and Mortigan senior had become a master distiller of it. People sent orders from all of the local villages for it. Lamentably, Mortigan senior was also his own best customer.


    Father pinned son with a watery gaze. "I''d rather you got in before gloaming¡­ you know it''s not safe out there when Alphus is down. Prowlers come out then."


    "I know Pa, the ratten took me farther out than I thought." He held up the dead ratten, as though it might vouch for him. ¡°I didn''t notice how late it was ''til I had him in my pack.¡±


    The senior Mortigan dropped his gaze and took a sip of garja. "I know you can take care of yourself, boy, I just worry. I don''t need you ending up as prowler shit." He took another sip. "We have a delivery tomorrow. Old man Tinkson is having his eldest daughter''s wedding, and he wants a dozen bottles. That''s gonna clean me out."


    Mort looked at the bottle on the table at his father''s elbow. ¡°Almost,¡± he thought sadly.


    Mortigan senior swallowed the last of the drink in his glass with a toss of his head. "I have a feeling most of it''s for the groom. You remember what Zala looks like, you know what I mean. Gods be merciful! I never thought a man would get so desperate for a woman''s company that he''d marry that girl. Got her mother¡¯s disposition, and..." He shuddered dramatically as he poured from the bottle and took another drink. "I hope he''s handsome enough, or it''ll be two ugly people thumping up a whole new generation of ugly people. It could end up being an endless cycle."


    Mort scowled and gave a disapproving shake of his head. "I''d better get this ratten cooking," he said shortly. He walked past the table and tossed the ratten down on the small counter in what passed for the kitchen area.


    "I''ll give you a hand." Mort heard the chair scraping behind him, and a brief curse as his father nearly fell over backwards in his chair.


    "I got it, Pa. I''ll have it cooking in no time. You just sit still."


    "Plenty of butter sauce?" The old man''s tone seemed to brighten. "It''s always best with lots of butter sauce!"This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.


    "As much as I can whip up, Pa." Which made Mort wonder how much longer their old nanny goat would be giving milk. Buttervine was pretty tasty, sure, but there was just no substitute for the real thing sometimes. Maybe he could get old man Tinkson to give up a kid as partial payment for the liquor. He ought to be in an expansive mood after all, with the wedding going on.


    Mort tested the edge of his boning knife with his thumb, then stropped it a few times on a rough leather strap hanging nearby. His hands worked quickly and deftly, with the surety of much practice, and the ratten''s armor began to come apart as he worked.


    He stopped and stared speculatively at his hands for a moment. The fingers were long, like those of a full blood, nearly half again as long as a human''s. But unlike the full bloods, whose hands were slender and graceful, his fingers were thick and heavy like a human''s. His lip curled imperceptibly. Just another trait of the Sha''aroosh. He''d had to wrap extra leather around the handles of all the knives just so he could maintain a better grip. He clenched his hands into tight fists, until they looked almost like heavy, bone-knuckled hammers. Quite a few would-be bullies had learned not to call him "mongrel" to his face, or those hammers would be put to very good use.


    "Mort, be home before gloaming next time." Mort could hear the slur in his father¡¯s speech. "I couldn''t stand to lose you, too. Promise me."


    He stolidly went back to work on the ratten, clenching his teeth. "I promise, Pa. I promise."


    --


    Mort cleared the dishes and cutlery from the table and put them in the wash bucket. His father already had his head down on his arm on the table, and was snoring gently. Mort took the empty cup and garja bottle from his Pa''s hand and put them in the wash bucket with the rest. He went to the fireplace and swung the pot with the last of the day''s stew away from the fire. It looked like there was enough left to last Pa for the brightday it would take Mort to deliver the garja shipment to the Tinkson homestead.


    Mort sighed and leaned his head against his arm on the mantle, letting weariness and melancholy wash over him for a moment. Sometimes he felt like each day was just the same as the one before it, which blended into the one following it, and life just droned on. The suns rose and sank, the heat came and went, the garja was made and drank. Every day, every week, every month, and every season. Mort vented another sigh and straightened, chastising himself. He took a lantern, his pipe, and his chertweed pouch off the mantle, and walked silently past his sleeping father and out the door into the cool air of gloaming. Stepping off the porch, he breathed deep of the fragrant air, then went to the well and drew up a bucket of water. He removed his shirt and pants, and splashed the chilly water over himself to wash away the day''s grime. Finally, he dunked his head in the bucket and scrubbed his thick brown hair. He heard his father''s oft-repeated admonition in his head, "We might be poor, but by the gods we don''t have to be dirty!"


    Mort drew up some more water to wash out his shirt and pants, and then stretched them on the edge of the well to dry over the gloamday while he slept. He sat naked on the ground, disregarding the chill, and leaned back against the well''s edge. He took up the pipe and pouch of chertweed, and stuffed the bowl full of the pungent and spicy herb. He used a twig lit from the lantern to ignite his pipe. He pulled in a deep slow draw of the aromatic and slightly acrid smoke, followed by a gradual exhalation. Another long puff, and Mort could begin to feel the effects of the chertweed creep across his limbs, relaxing him, calming his tensed up muscles bit by bit. Some people considered chertweed a bad habit, but Mort saw no harm in it. It did little more than relax the body and relieve some of the aches of the day. He even knew of healers that used it on their patients to help them combat pain.


    Another draw, then he leaned his head back and exhaled into the twilight above his head. He watched the smoke dissipate as he scanned the stars in the gloaming sky. Mort had always wondered if there was someone out there in those little pinpricks of light studying the sky like he so often did. Did they too dream of worlds far away? Of lives different than scraping out a bare living in the scrubs?


    Draw and exhale. Drifting smoke formed tiny, writhing serpent battles in the air.


    Mort hoped whoever might be out there dreaming would have their dreams come true. A fine home, a fine wife, a fine family. He wished them all the best, whomever and wherever they might be. His introspective gaze returned chabarward as he looked to his own house. Perhaps it wasn''t the finest home, but it kept out the rain and wind well enough. A fine wife? It was possible. He secretly had his hopes set on Tinkson''s middle daughter, Myana. She wasn''t a queen, but then he was certainly no prince! And she was always kind to him when most others shunned him because of his blood. A fine family? Mort''s mouth drew down to a frown, and his teeth clamped down on the pipe stem. A half-blood passing that curse, that hardship along to his children? That would never happen. No place for the tainted ones in this world! Mort looked down at his over-large hands and clenched them into giant fists again. He leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and drifted into reminiscence.


    In his memory, Mort could see her standing on the porch of their house back in the village. He saw her big lavender eyes and shining black hair framing a faintly feline face, with soft, smooth olive skin stretched across long delicate bones. He could see her moving with that uncanny grace that made even the most mundane tasks look like an elegant dance. He also remembered getting angry so often as a child, clenching his hands into tight fists when the others would make fun of him and call him bad names. But she would take his big hands into her slender ones and gently pull the fists back open, kissing each palm.


    "So much anger in my little man," she would say as she pulled him up to her lap and kissed his brow. "A fist destroys things, my love, it is a hammer that breaks."


    "I didn''t break anything Momma! I swear, Momma!" Mort looked at his mother with wide eyes. She smiled a smile made of sunshine, then laughed lightly with her deep, throaty laugh. Mort loved that sound, it always made him feel safe. It made him feel... accepted.


    "No, my little darling boy, you didn''t break anything. But a fist is made for breaking, Mort, it is for anger and causing harm. And a fist on one so young breaks your Momma''s heart. An open hand is used for creating, and that makes your Momma''s heart sing!"


    Mort thought about that as he leaned his head on his mother''s chest, listening to the heartbeat there. She began to rock him gently.


    "Why am I different Momma? Why can''t I be like you or Poppa?"


    She ceased rocking for a moment, then started back again. Mort couldn''t see her eyes with his head against her breast.


    "How many plants are there out in the fields, Morty?"


    "I don''t know, Momma, maybe a ba-jillion!" He turned his big eyes to the field outside, where the growing season was in full bloom.


    "Are all of them the same?"


    "No, Momma, there must be a zillion different ones."


    "Which is your favorite?"


    Mort thought long and hard. "The blue creeper vine, Momma! It makes good berries."


    Shashara smiled down at her son. "And what about all the others? The buttervine or the yryt bush? Without those, we''d have no butter sauce or the tea you like so much."


    "Yah! I like them too!"


    "You see, Mort? Everything is special in its own way, and needed just the way it is. You are the best parts of your Poppa and me. You are a special little man, and one day you''ll be a special big man!" She smiled again and hugged him tight. Mort thought about what she¡¯d said. He liked the thought of being special. He didn''t know why the villagers hated him or his Momma so much, but maybe it didn''t matter, because they were just who they were supposed to be.

 Song of the Cycle

    Greening fields ''neath brightsun''s day,


    Sparkling lake and newborn''s breath,


    Here the Builder''s Blood abides.


    Crumbling stone, blight and decay,Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.


    Rot and ruin, disease and death,


    Ever there the Breaker hides.


    As one does rise, then brother must fall,


    Even as the suns come ¡®round again,


    An¡¯ has been so since the birth of all,


    Eternal gyre ¡®twixt blessing and bane.


    --Ancient Chabarran ritual chant

 Severil 1

    Severil stepped cautiously off of the last step¡ªthe sixty-first one, to be quite precise¡ªinto cold, dark, ankle deep water. There was no meaning that he could currently decipher from the exact number of the stair steps, but one should always pay attention to details, regardless how insignificant they may seem at the moment. Severil always paid attention to all of the details. That''s why he was Severil, master procurer of fascinating items both mundane and obscure! He always smiled to himself when he thought of himself that way, since everyone else considered him to be little more than a common thief. Really? A common thief? Why, that was plainly offensive! Few others could have found this obscure hole in the ground, even if they had known of its existence to begin with. Fewer still could have survived to get this far in to it. Granted, it had cost him two of his hirelings thus far, but it wasn''t his fault they couldn''t pay attention to detail. A loose stone in the floor might be a trap, or it could simply be nothing more than a loose rock. Unhappily for his associates it had been the former, and they had found out the hard way. Daven alone remained with him, hugging close behind Severil ever since the massive stone block had crushed his two companions.


    "''Er we at the end now, Mister Severil?" Daven whispered, "''Er we gonna be rich now, like you said?"


    By the gods, the man''s breath smelled like sewage! But he had a remarkable talent when it came to disabling locks, and so was quite invaluable on a mission like this. Severil sighed in exasperation. He supposed that one must occasionally make concessions in order to achieve a goal.


    Daven stood nervously on the last step above the water, watching as Severil moved guardedly forward into the room. Severil tested each step carefully beneath the frigid water, treading lightly and gingerly with each foot before putting his weight fully upon it. He watched intently as the flickering light from his lantern played off the inky ripples. How long since someone else had disturbed this water? Decades? Centuries? More?


    The water was cold enough that it seemed like it should be solid ice! He was beginning to lose feeling in his feet, which could prove disastrous. He ducked his head under the low ceiling and moved deeper into the room, pausing frequently to look around. The room was small enough that his lantern could illuminate nearly the whole space. It had roughly chiseled stone walls and a low, coarse ceiling. Severil dipped his head even lower to avoid the rough ceiling as he advanced. When he reached what he guessed to be the center of the room, he scanned the area meticulously, pivoting slowly withershins until he had turned a complete circle.


    Severil cocked his head to one side as he studied the walls. That was odd. Was it just his imagination? The scoring and tool marks etched into the stone seemed to suggest a hint of pattern, almost as though there was more to the roughness of the walls than simple hasty excavation. Could this perhaps be some kind of script written in an unknown tongue? Hmm, no symbols there that Severil had ever seen before, and he was well versed with many written languages. In his line of business, it always paid off to be well prepared. He couldn''t make out any character or glyph that he could recognize, not even from any of the several ancient languages with which he was familiar. After several more moments of inspection, Severil finally decided there was nothing to it ¡ª his mind was trying to impose order where there was none.


    He was now twelve wary, sliding steps into the room, in as straight a line from the bottom stairway as he could manage, and roughly at the room''s center. In the outermost fringe of the lantern''s light, at the edge of the opposite wall Severil could dimly make out what appeared to be the top of a small chest jutting up out of the water.


    "Details, Severil, details..." he muttered quietly to himself, unconsciously massaging his lower lip while he considered his next action.


    "Whut is it, Mister Severil? Is it anudder trap?" Severil could hear the panic rising in Daven''s tremulous voice.


    ¡°Hsst! Be silent, you idiot!¡± Severil slid another watchful step forward and stopped, considering the area before him. He had an intuitive sense that something here wasn''t quite right. The chest was maybe a foot long on each side, but it wasn''t sitting square and flat on the unseen floor below. Instead, it was tilted and partially propped up against the wall behind it. Severil carefully moved another pace forward, trying fruitlessly to feel the floor under his benumbed feet. Why was the chest cocked like that? He examined the ceiling and walls more closely. He couldn''t see any cracks or crumbling stone. If there had been an earthquake there would be some visible sign of it.


    He moved a few feet more, and could now see the chest clearly by the light of the lantern he held outstretched in his hand. It was solid ironwood and wrapped on the sides and corners with heavy, thick bands of silvery metal. He couldn''t see the lock, but he had a hunch that it would be heavy and remarkably strong. Severil approached to within a few feet of the chest. Looking at the chest, then back to the stairway, and back to the chest again, he pursed his lips in concentration while he calculated distance and trajectory. He concluded that the chest was in that position because it had been thrown across the room from the area of the steps. Someone had been in such a hurry that they hadn''t even carried it in to the room. And by the look of things, it hadn''t been touched since then. Why throw the chest like that and take the risk of damaging or destroying what was in it? It might have been for fear of triggering more traps, he supposed, but Severil hadn''t yet detected any threat in this area¡ªand he was very, very good at discovering traps. His life depended on it.


    Severil smiled slyly. Unless, of course, they hadn''t been concerned about the condition of the chest or its contents. He once again turned very slowly and carefully in a full circle, eyes darting about and evaluating, until he faced back towards the chest again.


    "Mister Severil, what''r''ya... " Daven''s quavering voice trailed into questioning silence at Severil''s upraised a hand.


    Never taking his eyes off of the chest, he whispered, "Patience Daven. Patience."


    He lowered himself gingerly to his knees in the bitterly cold water and shifted the lantern to his right hand. He began to explore under the water with his left hand.


    Long ago, an old thief had admonished him, ¡°Always use your sinister hand when you explore for traps," he''d held up a three-fingered hand to emphasize his point, ¡°just in case you find one." It was a lesson that had stuck with Severil throughout his career. So far, by dint of skill, caution, and a healthy dose of plain dumb luck, he still had all of his digits attached. Although by this point he wasn''t quite certain about his toes anymore.


    "Details, pay attention to the details," Severil muttered his mantra to himself as his hand explored the rough stone of the floor in front of the chest. At first he felt nothing out of place, and had a brief flash of uncharacteristic self-doubt. He began to fear that his hand would go numb from the cold before he could find anything, but then finally his questing fingers found what he''d already suspected was there. To nearly anyone else it would have been undetectable, little more than a shallow crease in the floor, full of ancient mud and grime. To Severil''s skillful touch, however, it might just as well have been a signpost. With practiced dexterity ¡ª and a healthy dose of caution ¡ª he traced out the shape of the furrow in the floor. Oh, the maker of this trap had been very clever, and truly skillful. The crack was not straight and regular, but rather seemed to follow the natural contour of the stone, wider in some places and narrower in others. The one thing that remained consistent, and thereby alerted him to the danger, was that the area of stone contained within the groove was almost imperceptibly higher than the floor surrounding it. Once having found this, Severil reexamined the walls and ceiling with a new insight. The shape of those rugged rocky surfaces suddenly coalesced into a whole new pattern, a deadly pattern to the eye that knew how to see it. Trigger this stone, and trigger a collapse. Severil stood up slowly and slid his feet carefully away from the trap. Icy rivulets from his soaked trousers trickled down his legs, making him shiver involuntarily.


    "Hmm¡­ so, if you collapse the room, you''d bury that chest and whatever else you were hiding in here ¡ª maybe for good. That doesn''t make sense," he mused aloud, "because you''d want to kill the thief, but you''d still want to be able to retrieve your treasure later, even if the trap had been sprung."If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.


    Severil held the lamp up as high as the low ceiling would allow, and turned in a circle so slowly that he was barely moving. He swept his eyes over every crevice and divot for what he now knew had to be there somewhere. He could hear Daven shuffling his feet in an effort to stay warm, could hear his nervous breathing. Severil kept turning until he faced back to the stairway where Daven was standing. Sixty-one steps, why such a strange number? The methodical mind tended to prefer nicely balanced figures, so multiples of anything most often occurred in even numbers. Severil mentally traced his route back to the steps, where Daven continued to shuffle his feet nervously.


    Panic welled in Daven''s eyes when Severil began sloshing through the water back towards the stairway. "''Er we leavin'' wifout the chest? We done come a long ways, Mister Severil, and it done cost us two good men! We cain''t leave wifout it! You said we was all gonna be rich!" Daven''s mouth snapped shut and he cowered back as Severil glared at him.


    "Oh, we are going to be rich my fellow, but that chest isn''t what''s going to make it so. Now, if you would be so kind, move your ass back up the stairs a few steps, and by the gods please shut your irritating broken mouth!" he snarled.


    Daven recoiled as if he''d been slapped, and backed hastily up the stairs. He watched wide-eyed as Severil again went to his knees in the cold water. Severil set his lamp on the steps above him, and ran his skillful hands delicately over the bottom-most step. It was quite solid, hewn from the same stone as the walls and the rest of the stairway. Only the sharpest eye would have spotted the tiny crack between it and the next step above it. A very fine, very minute crack, but a crack nonetheless. Severil pulled a small, flat pry bar from a pouch at his belt. He worked the wide flat edge of the bar along the crack, gradually increasing pressure until he was finally rewarded by the grating sound of stone against stone as the second step from the bottom shifted just the slightest bit. He continued to work at the crack until it was wide enough to fit the tip of his crowbar. Whoever had built this was undeniably a master craftsman! Even the mortar that had once held the step in place blended indistinguishably with the surrounding stone.


    Severil pried carefully at the bottom of the stone step with his heavy pry bar. He moved it back and forth along the crack, prying and twisting the tip until he felt the step break loose from the mortar. Driving his pry bar hard into the widened opening, he bore down against the handle, staying alert and prepared to leap aside if anything unexpected should happen. Stone splinters popped away from the edge of the metal bar, and then the step abruptly fell out of the casement and tumbled down into the water with a loud splash. Severil had to jump back to avoid getting his toes flattened. Just as he had surmised, there was a small cubbyhole carved out behind the stone where the step had been, above the water line. Tiny rainbows jittered on the surface next to the hole, dancing in time with the flickering of the lantern''s flame. Severil pushed the tip of his bar warily into the opening until it grated against the back wall of the niche. When that action garnered no response, he took up the lantern and bent over to peer intently into the hole. Satisfied now that there were no more traps, he reached back into the opening and cautiously withdrew a small, gray, metallic-looking cube, about six inches to a side. When light fell on the cube, indistinct rainbow shapes began to coalesce and dance just beneath the surface of the metal. Severil exhaled a long excited hiss from between his teeth, and his austere face broke out in a huge triumphant smile.


    "And now we are rich Daven, richer than you can even imagine." Severil watched, mesmerized as the ever-changing hues roiled and spun throughout the odd oily-looking metal. It was as though the strange metal absorbed the light and broke it up into many colors, and then shone it back curiously distorted.


    "What is that thing, Mister Severil?" Daven asked in an awed whisper. He was staring at the metal now too, hypnotized, with his mouth hanging open.


    "It''s Taas, my friend, but more common folks refer to it as Builders'' Blood. Holy cats, I''ve never seen or even heard of a piece of it this big! The richest of the rich pay incredible sums to have but a small thread of this material traced over or around a piece of jewelry, just so they can show it off and brag to their rich cronies about how much it had cost. It''s the rarest of the rare, and we have here a king''s ransom several times over!" Severil placed the box flat on the palm of his outstretched hand, trying to gauge its weight. "No, make that several kings'' ransoms'' worth!" he crowed. He could barely keep himself from dancing an undignified little jig right there on the spot. He rolled the cube over in his hands, examining it from every possible angle, admiring its eerie beauty. As he inspected it, however, his sharp eyes picked out a tiny hairline crack along some of the edges of the cube. Severil turned the cube in all directions, peering closely. Why, this wasn''t a solid cube, it was a gods-forsaken box! He drew his stiletto and touched the fine point to the crack. Whatever treasure might be stored inside must surely be stupendous, to be kept in such a priceless box as this!


    He worked meticulously at the crack with the razor-sharp blade, until he felt the top begin to loosen. Prying carefully, he lifted the top back to expose the interior of the box, which turned out to be nothing more than a small concave depression with some nondescript dust in it. Hmph! Probably the ashes of some ancient despot¡¯s pet ratten! Disappointed, Severil huffed out the breath he¡¯d unconsciously been holding, inadvertently blowing the dust up out of the box in a small cloud. He sneezed once, shook his head, sneezed again, and then looked back up. Shock ran bony fingers down his spine as he realized that Daven was gone. He''d been replaced by a tall, cadaverous man with an impossibly large mouth. The man was naked, save for a rough loincloth of some peculiar and unknown fabric wrapped around his bony waist. His eyes were volcanic glass in sockets set back deep in his head. His skin was thin parchment stretched tightly over a skeletal body. As Severil stared dumbstruck, the man''s nightmare mouth broke out into an oversized smile filled with ghastly pointed teeth.


    "Well well, who have we here?" The man''s voice was all at once smooth and soft and sibilant, like silk rubbing against satin. "I do appreciate your aid, good sir! It has been such a long while, and the quarters where quite cramped!" He stretched his scrawny arms up over his head, joints popping and creaking in protest. Those obsidian eyes locked on Severil''s. "So, you hoped to find a great treasure did you, Severil Svenson? I tell you now that you have found a treasure truly beyond your understanding!"


    Severil felt a thrill of fear run up his spine under the gaunt man''s supernatural gaze. "H-how do you know my name?" He wanted to drop the box and bring his dagger to bear, but his body wouldn''t obey him. "Wh-who are you?"


    "Who am I? Ah, dear Severil, ask me the question you truly need answered," the thin man murmured, leaning close to Severil''s face,  "Ask me."


    "W-what... what are you?" Severil''s throat constricted around the words, making it hard for him to speak. Terror gripped him, and he wanted nothing more than to run away. His traitorous body continued to ignore his panicked commands.


    The creature laughed, and it was the sound of ruination. "I am entropy! I am disorder and chaos. I am the utter end of all things! And you are to be the first step to that end!" The man''s loathsome mouth stretched open wide, much wider and farther than should have been possible, and Severil screamed in horror as he felt himself engulfed. His final thoughts shrieked of stark insanity, and then all was darkness.


    Daven watched Severil pry the box open, and saw the powder puff up into his face. He saw Severil sneeze, and then suddenly stop moving or even breathing for a long, terrifying moment. He seemed still as a statue. Daven didn''t know what to do, and he felt on the verge of complete panic. "Mister Severil? ''R you awright? C-can ye talk?" He reached a shaking hand out toward Severil, then snatched it quickly back when Severil''s head slowly came up and his eyes bore intently into Daven''s. There was something not right about those eyes. Daven backed up the stairs a few more steps. "Uh, ''r you awright?" he asked again in a faltering voice.


    "Oh yes, Daven, I am quite all right! Right as rain and all the stars in the universe!" Severil closed his eyes and inhaled a deep breath. "Ah, the simple joy of drawing breath. The wondrous scents and odors of life!" He took another deep breath, smiling broadly.


    "So, uh, so ''r we gonna be rich then? Be men of the world like what you said?" Daven¡¯s voice had a quality of desperation to it.


    "Men of the world?¡± Severil¡¯s dark, dark eyes glittered with madness. ¡°Why yes, my good friend! We will be beyond men of the world. We will own the world!" Severil locked eyes with Daven again, and Daven felt another wave of horror wash over him. "We will own the world, and then we will burn it to ash! We will tear this whole universe asunder." With that, Severil stepped around Daven and started up the sixty-one stairs. After a long hesitation, Daven followed.

 Ragni 1

    "Awright, who''s got some balls around here?" The man was a veritable bear, huge and hairy. His brawny arms were easily as big around as a small tree. "Beat me, and your drinks are on me for the rest of the gloaming! Lose, and you pay my gloamday''s tab!"


    He turned as his eyes surveyed the barroom, an insolent smirk on his lips.


    "Come on, ladies! No challengers?" He dropped his bulky frame into a wooden chair, which creaked alarmingly under the weight. "Y''all couldn''t pass up a bargain like this, could ya? Surely one of you milksops wants free drinks this day!" His comment was greeted by more than a few rolled eyes and snorts of amusement from around the room.


    "You mean you want free drinks, Ollan!" a voice called out from the crowd. "And your tab could break the mayor''s budget!"


    Everyone laughed and jeered at the jibe, and Ollan bellowed a hearty guffaw, his teeth flashing from within the black bush of his thick beard. "Ah, ''tis true, but a big man builds up a big thirst! Come now, at least one of you?"


    "I''ll take you on," came a deep gravelly voice.


    Near-complete silence ensued as Ollan, in concert with every other person in the room, turned to look at the man by the door. He was uncommonly short, not much over four and a half feet tall. But despite his diminutive stature, his solid barrel of a body was stocky and broad, with powerful-looking arms and a thickly muscled neck. A bushy, rust-colored beard was surmounted by a crooked beak of a nose, and startling green eyes gleamed with amusement from beneath bushy red eyebrows. He pulled a battered cloth cap from his head, rolled it up, and tucked it in his belt. His frizzy red hair was thinning on top, but what was left looked like an explosion of coppery hair bursting out in every direction.


    "Well, all right then! You look like you could use some free drinks!" Ollan waved a meaty hand at the chair across the table from him, "Have a seat and we''ll get this going! What shall I call you, friend, since I''m to be buying your drinks?" The drunkest man in the room couldn''t have mistaken the sarcasm in Ollan''s voice, but the newcomer didn''t appear to take notice.


    The stranger bared his teeth in what might have been a grin. "You can call me Ragni, ''friend''. And I hope you have mighty deep pockets, because I have a mighty deep thirst!"


    Ragni took a seat across from Ollan and scooted the chair up close to the table. Ollan rolled up his sleeve in a showy display, his massive arm muscles rippling impressively as he moved. Many of the men around the room chuckled knowingly and went back to their drinks. They had seen this happen so many times before that it had ceased to be interesting any more.


    "Th'' rules are simple. When we both settle on the grip, we go. First man to drive his opponent''s hand to the table wins." Ollan set his right elbow on the table and worked his fingers, making his forearm pulse and swell. "Y'' ever done this?"


    "Oh, maybe once or thrice¡­ " Ragni propped his right elbow on the table and gripped Ollan''s hand firmly. His forearm was shorter than the Ollan''s, forcing the big man¡¯s hand into an awkward angle. He crossed his left arm behind his right elbow and gripped the edge of the table with his left hand, and Ollan did the same.


    "Are you ready, my friend?" With a cocky smile on his face, Ollan began to apply heavy pressure to his grip, watching Ragni wince.


    "I suppose¡­ ¡° Ragni gritted out stolidly, ¡° ...best get on with it."


    With a shared nod, both men threw their effort into the struggle. Ollan started off with his favorite strategy, putting all of his considerable strength into a quick and sudden surge against his opponent''s arm. Many times before, he''d caught his challengers off guard and won the match before it even got started. He watched Ragni''s eyes widen and smiled with satisfaction when he saw alarm flare in them. Ragni''s hand began a rapid descent toward the table.


    "Sorry, my friend," he said with a grim smile, "but I never lose."


    "I''m sorry too, my friend," Ragni said through clenched teeth, "I don''t have any money, so I can''t pay." Ollan''s smile faded to a snarl as their clasped hands gradually stopped moving only scant inches from the tabletop, and then, with excruciating slowness, rose back up to the upright position. A few of the men in the room suddenly took renewed interest in the contest.


    Ollan voiced a guttural growl, his arm and shoulder bulged and flexed, and the back of Ragni''s hand crept once more toward the table. Ragni''s eyes narrowed in determination, and the movement again stopped, reversed, and the men''s hands returned once again to the center. More of the people in the room had taken notice and were watching now. Incredulous gasps came from some of the spectators as, almost imperceptibly, the back of Ollan''s hand began to creep toward the table. A low murmur of disbelief rolled around the room, and all eyes were now fixed on the two straining men. Ollan spit a low curse through his teeth, and then their white-knuckled hands were back to the center again. A little bead of sweat formed on Ollan''s forehead and slid down his cheek toward his chin.


    From the crowd of onlookers a voice called out, ¡°I''ll put five silver on the short fat guy to win!¡± Ragni shot a brief murderous glare out at the crowd before returning his concentration to the match. First one bet, then another, and then many more were offered up and taken as the two struggling men continued to seesaw back and forth, with neither of them gaining a clear advantage. Back, neck, and arm muscles pulsed and swelled, and sweat began dripping off the faces of both men, splashing in little puddles on the tabletop. Each tiny movement elicited new cheers, jeers, and enthusiastic encouragements from around the room ¡ª along with a new surge of animated betting.


    Ragni locked eyes with his opponent, who was now openly growling aloud as he strained, and let a sly grin steal slowly across his face. "You should always save back a little bit for the end, boy, don''t burn it all up right at the start." He let his grin widen as he steadily increased the pressure on Ollan''s arm. Bit by inexorable bit, the back of Ollan''s hand began to creep toward the table. Ollan threw all of his remaining strength into his arm, howling with exertion, but he couldn''t stop the relentless decline. He watched, unbelieving, as the back of his hand was finally pressed fully against the tabletop and held there for a brief moment. A tremendous cheer ¡ª and more than a few loud groans ¡ª resounded throughout the barroom.


    "Bartender! Set me up with a nice, tall, cool ale! And that''ll be on my new friend''s tab! Mind you keep that mug full up, now!" With a devilish grin, Ragni patted Ollan sympathetically on the shoulder, then got up and waded into a flurry of hearty handshakes and back-slaps from his well-wishers, as money from bets eagerly ¡ª or reluctantly, as the case may be ¡ª changed hands.


    --


    Ragni pushed through the tavern door and stepped out into the last of the gloaming day, stuffing his unruly hair up into his worn cap. He peered with bleary eyes at the horizon, where the light of Sol Alphus was giving rosy notice of its impending arrival. By the Breaker''s butt cheeks, he''d been drinking longer than he''d thought! He didn''t stagger at all as he walked, but then again he''d had a lot of practice at drinking. A whole lot. Maybe too much? He laughed out loud at the thought. Never, ever too much! He walked along the quiet street to the narrow alley next to the tavern, then turned and strolled into the alley.


    A shadowy figure formed itself out of the shadows and moved out to block his way. "About breakin'' time! I''ve been out here cooling my heels half the damn'' dimday while you''re in there carousin'', having a grand old time playing the hero!"


    Ragni laughed again and clapped the man fondly on the shoulder. Griffor was a gangly, long-limbed man with weathered skin. He sported a shaved head, deeply tanned, and there was a long white scar tracing from his hairline down his left cheek. His lanky frame seemed almost frail, but many an enemy soldier had found out ¡ª usually with fatal results ¡ª that he was anything but. Despite his harsh-seeming greeting, he had a broad smile for Ragni ¡ª although his dark-colored eyes always held a certain hardness in them that never went away.


    Ragni flashed a lopsided grin as he punched his friend not so gently in the arm. "Serves ya right, ya big bastard! ''Short fat guy,'' my breaking ass!¡± He blew a derisive snort. ¡°Besides, I had to be cordial to my new friends, and sweet to my new enemies, didn''t I? There was quite a bit of coin wagered and lost in there this day. Wouldn''t do to seem too eager to be gone." He rubbed his hands together and winked at Griffor, "Speaking of which, how''d we do this time?"The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    Griffor''s smile widened. "Oh, we turned a tidy little profit today!" He held up a fat purse and shook it, making a pleasant jingling noise. "Copper, silver ¡ª even a few gold! Enough to hold us over for a little while, I''d say."


    Ragni examined the pouch, weighing it with his eyes. "Ah, that''s the good life! I do feel a little bit sorry for that Ollan, though, he seemed a good enough fellow. Definitely had a good enough purse!"


    "One that''s a lot lighter now than it started out today," growled a voice from the shadows farther down the alley, towards the back of the inn. Ragni looked past Griffor and saw Ollan and another, younger man stalking towards them. Ollan definitely looked quite a bit bigger standing up than he had seemed sitting down. Ragni stepped around Griffor and moved out to the center of the alley.


    Griffor shook his head in resignation as he spoke in a low tone that only Ragni could hear, ¡°Go easy on ''em, Rags.¡±


    "You know, I don''t mind the loss of the money near as much as the sting what comes from all the wisecracks that goes along with it." Ollan strode up to Ragni and loomed over him belligerently, while the other man with him moved slightly over to one side. "Everyone in there finds it just oh-so amusing I lost, and especially to some short... little... pipsqueak!" Ollan emphasized each of the last three words by poking Ragni hard in the chest with a sausage-sized forefinger. Ragni could smell the sharp odor of whiskey coming from both men, and hardly needed to look to see the red-eyed courage they had both been working up.


    "Ah, come now lad, we all of us take a bit of a ribbing now and again. It ain''t nothing but good-natured fun! I''m sure you''ll be the top man here again the moment I''m gone! Let me take ya back inside and I¡¯ll buy you a round on me."


    Ollan sputtered with indignation. "I''ll be top man again? Oh, really? Because I''m not no more, is that it? I''m guessing some fat-assed little piece of pig shit is top man now, is he?" Ollan bellowed, red-faced, spewing spittle at Ragni as he raged. "I got a better idea! How about I crack your breakin'' skull open and use it for my cup when I go back in?"


    Ragni saw Ollan begin to clench his hands into ham-sized fists and shook his head, letting out a long sigh. "You don''t wanna do this, son, you really, truly don''t." He calmly pulled the old worn hat from his head and tucked it back in his belt.


    "Breaker take you, I don''t!" Ollan screamed, and swung a huge right fist at Ragni. Ragni had seen the punch coming long before it had even started moving, in the man''s posture and the placement of his feet. Ollan was uncommonly big and remarkably strong, but his size made him slow, and his strength made him overconfident. He relied mostly on intimidation to win, and had little actual training. Ragni didn''t try to dodge the blow, but instead tilted his head down so that Ollan''s hand crashed into the heavy dome of his forehead. The maneuver was rewarded with a loud crunching noise as Ollan''s knuckles shattered against Ragni''s bony skull, and Ollan screamed out in pain. Ragni realized that he had underestimated the man''s raw strength, though, as his vision filled with bright sparkles and flashes for a moment.


    He shook his head to clear it, and immediately stepped slightly to his left, towards the big man¡¯s friend, before the man could recover from his shock at hearing Ollan''s howl. They should have both attacked in tandem if they''d been practiced fighters, but the friend had actually been expecting Ollan to finish off the fight with the first blow. Ragni swung a hard right fist, backed up by the momentum of his weight, hitting just above the waist on the man''s left side. He felt as well as heard the lower ribs break. The luckless wretch clutched his hands to his side, wheezing out a thin wail of agony, and dropped to the ground. Ollan was still nursing his broken hand, howling, when Ragni turned back to him and slammed an open hand, palm-first, up between Ollan''s legs. He grabbed the man''s groin with a vise-hard grip and lifted. Ollan''s scream dissolved rapidly into a whistling wheeze, and he flailed his arms in the air for balance as he came up on his toe tips, his eyes bulging and mouth working wordlessly.


    "''Twas your choice, boyo," Ragni snarled quietly. He gave a vicious twist of his hand before releasing his grip. Ollan dropped to his knees, clasping his crotch with his one good hand while retching his stomach contents out on the ground. "''Twas your choice."


    "Well, well, well, would you look at this! Public drunkenness, assault, and robbery, looks like to me." Ragni spun around at the voice, and found himself facing a pair of town guards. Both were dressed in the distinctive livery of the Eastern Alliance and holding their spears at the ready. "I''d say that''s good for at least 24 hours in the stocks, wouldn''t you say, Brin?"


    The second guard gave a nasty smile, "Oh, at least. Unless, maybe you''d like to return the bets what we lost to that match in the bar. Plus a little extra for us to look the other way long enough for you to get the hell out of our town. No, come to think on it, make that a lot extra!"


    "I was attacked by these two,¡± Ragni grated out as he gestured at the men writhing on the ground, ¡°and it was two on one. I''ve done nothing more than to defend myself." Ragni felt his vision begin to narrow as his breath started to hiss between his teeth, "And I''ll be damned if I''ll pay a bribe to a pair of lowlife, crooked, piss-ant excuses for guardsmen!"


    Griffor''s face flashed alarm as he stepped up behind his friend. ¡°Ragni, no, stop!¡±


    The guards'' faces flushed red from the insult as they glanced at each other and then angrily back to Ragni. "I''m going to say 48 hours in the stocks now, my little friend, for resisting arrest along with your other crimes." Brin showed his teeth in a malicious grin and lowered his spear to point at Ragni''s chest. "You just might want to reconsider your decision¡­ "


    Baring his teeth in a grim snarl, Ragni stepped forward until the point of the spear was a finger''s breadth from his chest. Consciously, he knew that Griffor was speaking somewhere behind him, "Ragni, no, please don''t... it''s not worth it." But the words were no more than indistinct noises in his hearing, and they made no sense to him. They were drowned out by the rushing of his blood in his ears, and the rage was upon him.


    Faster than a heartbeat, Ragni stepped quickly to one side and grabbed the spear shaft just behind the head with his left hand, pushing it up in the direction of the second guard. At the same time, he hammered his right fist down hard on the leading hand of the man holding the spear, breaking the thumb with an ugly crackling noise. The second watchman, caught off-guard, was scrambling backwards in an attempt to bring his own spear to bear. Ragni yanked on the first guard''s spear, snatching it out of the man''s weakened grip. He instantly reversed direction on the spear, bringing the butt up, and drove it ferociously into the stunned guard''s mouth. Head and helmet flew back, and the man screeched as his lips split over cracked teeth, and blood and broken teeth fountained from his ruined mouth.


    Before the first guard had even dropped to the ground, Ragni was already ducking to avoid a clumsy spear thrust from the second attacker. He still held his spear by the shaft near the bladed end, and he swung it roundhouse, like a club, into his opponent''s knee. The man yelped and dropped to one knee, and Ragni brought the spear haft around, up over his head, and smashed it down across the top of the second guard''s helmet with a resounding crack. The guard''s eyes rolled back, and he fell in a senseless heap. Ragni reversed the spear in his hands and stepped over to the first guard with the weapon raised, point down. The man whimpered through hands clasped over his mangled face, and terror shone in his eyes. Ragni heard his name being called insistently from far away, and an odd rushing noise, as if the voice was carried on the wind.


    "Ragni! Stop! It''s done! You won! It''s over!"


    There was a light touch on his shoulder, and Ragni spun around on the spot, whirling the spear to the ready. Griffor stood there, distress on his face and sadness in his eyes.


    "It''s over Ragni, it''s over¡­ "


    Ragni felt the rage drain out of him like water from a bucket, leaving him weak and weary. He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts, and looked down at the two watchmen. "Are¡­ are they dead?"


    Griffor looked around at the men on the ground. "No, but by the Breaker''s buttocks, they aren''t very far from it." He looked back at Ragni, "Sweet mother''s teats! You were about to kill them!"


    "I didn''t, though." Ragni tossed the spear to the ground with a clatter, his face bleak.


    "Not for lack of trying! Dammit Rags! They''re guardsmen, not some common street trash! We''re gonna catch all kinds of trouble from this!"


    "Guardsmen, pfah! Guardsmen didn''t act like that when I was ¡ª "


    "But you''re not, you idiot! You''re not Sergeant Ragni of the Vertrex''s Arm anymore. You''re just one more down-and-out, broke old bastard trying to live a bygone dream! Dammit Ragni, this just can''t go on! I can''t do it anymore. We are in more trouble in more cities than I care to remember!" Griffor inhaled deeply and let his voice drop to a low rumble, "This is the last time for me, Rags. We''re done."


    "Griff?"


    "I told you before, Ragni, I''m trying to leave that life behind me. I''ve seen too much ¡ª too much fighting, too much death. I want to go somewhere quiet, tend a Breaker-begotten garden, maybe learn how to milk a damn goat. Hells below, I may even try to find an ugly old widow who''ll take a deadbeat ex-soldier in and let me keep her bed warm at night." Griffor''s eyes and voice softened, "This has been a long time coming, Ragni. Peace doesn''t suit you. You take care of yourself, and keep in mind you''re getting older, so some of these young pups could become a match for you one day soon." He proffered a hand to Ragni.


    "Ha! That''ll be the day!" Ragni swatted Griffor''s hand aside and pulled the man into a tight bear hug, "You go find yerself that widow and goat, Griff, just make sure you remember which one to stick your willy into!" He shoved the heavy purse of coins into Griffor''s pocket. "And that should pay for the garden," he said gruffly.


    Griffor stepped back and saluted Ragni with three quick fists to his chest, and then walked wordlessly past him and out of the alley. Ragni stared after him for several moments, face expressionless, before he knelt and quickly rifled the barely-conscious men, relieving them of any coin or valuables he could find.


    "Sorry boys," he said quietly, "had to give my old buddy a parting gift."


    He stood and left the alley.

 Arin 1

    Arin swung his axe at the knotted and scarred root of the stump yet again, only to have it bounce off yet again, leaving barely a mark in the wood where it had struck. He stood back, pulled a floppy wide-brimmed hat from his head, and wiped the sweat from his face with the back of his arm. He ran a thumb across the edge of the axe blade, and judged it to be about as dull as the priest''s weekly sermon. Blowing a frustrated snort, he looked back at the house across the field and saw Larell sitting by the front door, working industriously at the churn between her knees. She glanced up just as he looked at her, and flashed him a smile that nearly tempted him into dropping the axe and heading for the house. He returned the smile, if somewhat wryly, and reluctantly turned his attention back to the accursed stump. He pulled his hat back on his head, and swung the axe in a wide overhead arc, hammering it down on the stubborn root. To his dismay, the blade skittered harmlessly along the impervious bark. By the gods, had there been a spark? He stood the axe on the ground and leaned wearily on the handle. Nine growing seasons since this old ironwood tree was knocked over in a storm ¡ª and what a storm that had been! ¡ª and then nine frustrating seasons of trying to get that stump up out of the ground. He''d tried burning it out, but the dense hardwood would barely smolder, much less sustain an open flame. He''d tried digging it up, but the overgrown root system had rendered that impossible¡ªunless he was willing to dig a hole deep enough to set the Breaker free! So here he was, chopping uselessly away, and still not having much success. He wasn''t getting any younger, and the stump was showing no signs of giving up any time soon.


    With an oath, Arin swung the axe around for another strike, only to halt his swing as he stared out across the field. Four riders were approaching from the east, trotting heedlessly across his freshly plowed buttervine field. From their postures and the way they rode, Arin got a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. He dropped the axe on the ground, taking care to avoid any hint of aggression, and pulled the hat off his head again, worrying it in his hands nervously as they drew close.


    "Kin I hep ya, gentlemen?" He squinted up at the four riders as they arrayed themselves in an arc in front of him. They were begrimed from the road, but under the coating of mud and dust he could see that they were hard men ¡ª not the kind of men to be trifled with on a whim. They wore leather armor of uniform design beneath their cloaks, and it wasn''t the cheap beeswax leather you''d get from cut-rate backstreet shops. Arin recognized the crest embossed on the breast of each man, as well as the distinctive gold-trimmed emerald colors of the cloaks they wore, and his feeling of disquiet grew stronger. One of the men spurred his mount abruptly forward, forcing Arin to step back hastily to avoid being trampled. The stranger leaned over his horse and looked coldly down at Arin for some time before speaking.


    The man was tall and wiry, with a long, narrow, clean-shaven face framed by short dark hair. From the condition of his gear, it was apparent that he was a seasoned veteran. "I''m Corporal Rom of the Eastern Alliance. I assume you''re familiar with that name," he said flatly. It was a statement rather than a question.


    "Aye, that I am, sir," Arin continued to twist his hat into a knot, "but I think ye might be a bit west of your normal haunts, though."


    Corporal Rom¡¯s thin lips twisted into a sneer, "The Alliance holds jurisdiction even farther west than this ¡ª especially when it involves hunting war criminals." He studied Arin intently as he spoke.


    Arin''s eyes widened in surprise and alarm, "Wa... war criminals?" he twisted his hat furiously, "Um, beggin'' the corporal''s pardon, sir, but I was only just a cook in the Arm¡¯s legions! I got a writ of clemency, just like the rest, from the Vertrex his self! I can show ¡ª " Arin snapped his mouth shut at Rom''s curtly upraised hand.


    "I''m not here looking for cooks, ypu fool, I''m here looking for rag-men. Or I should say, rag-man,¡± he said, emphasizing the singular. A small smile curled at one side of his mouth, ¡°The last one of them."


    Arin''s eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Rag-man? Where in tarnation do you think you''re gonna find a rag ¡ª " Sudden realization, followed by astonishment, and then finally humor crossed Arin''s face in rapid succession. "You¡­ you be thinking I''m a rag-man?" He started to chuckle, which built into a laugh, which escalated until finally Arin was bent over laughing, with tears rolling down his cheeks. Rom¡¯s companions exchanged glances, then glared balefully back at the man, obviously not amused by his reaction. The corporal maintained his grim look, watching dispassionately until Arin got himself back under control.


    Wiping the tears from his face, a smiling Arin looked up at the four men. "I am powerful sorry you rode all this way for nothing, sir, I truly am. I''ve been called an awful lot of things in my days as a cook ¡ª mostly because my cooking was something horrible ¡ª but I ain''t never been accused of being a rag-man before, that''s for sure! Hells, they made me a cook ''cause I couldn''t fight worth shit!" He chuckled again, "Only way I might¡¯ve assassinated anybody was with a bad batch o'' beans!"


    Rom stared at Arin, unsmiling, "If that is indeed true, then surely you won''t mind if we have a look around."


    Arin¡¯s smile vanished as he looked at the four grim men before him. "Doubt I could stop ya, even if I wanted to. Be my guests, I got nothing to hide. When you''re done, come on into the house and have some of my wife''s yryt tea, or some of my homemade wine. I ain''t much of a cook, for true, but I can make some pretty tasty wine!" He stepped aside, bowing to the men as they rode past him toward his home. Shaking his head ruefully, he followed along on foot. He looked down at the shapeless mess he had made of his hat. Larell was going to chide him for that. And laugh at him. Doing his best to pull it back into shape, he plopped it back on his head as he walked.If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    By the time Arin arrived at the house, the riders had already dismounted and were busily searching through his barn and outbuildings. He smiled to himself as one of them even looked inside the outhouse. Probably won''t find much of interest in there, but you never can tell! His wife was standing by the open door of their house, with her arms crossed tight over her chest and a stormy expression on her face. He knew that look, and it usually meant that someone was about to get a tongue-lashing. This time, he knew ¡ª or at least hoped ¡ª that she would hold her tongue in check. He caught a glimpse of movement inside the house beyond the open door. He frowned, realizing that he''d been foolish to expect any manner of courtesy from the Vertrex¡¯s flunkies.


    "What do they want?" she whispered at him furiously, fear and anger eloquent on her lovely face. She was a petite woman, and her straight dark hair and dusky skin hinted at her eastern origins. She came to his arms as he reached for her, huddling against him for comfort.


    Arin pulled her close and hugged her tightly, trying to reassure her. "Rag-men," he replied in a low tone. Even after all their time together, he was still amazed at how tiny and fragile she seemed when he held her like this. Nor at how misleading that seeming truly was.


    Anger gave way to alarm as she pulled back and looked up into his face. "Sweet Builder! Here, now? After all this time? Did you tell them you were a cook? You have your discharge from duty papers, with the Vertrex''s own signature!"


    "They didn''t seem much inclined to take my word for it," he replied wryly. He winced as a crash and the sound of shattering earthenware came from inside. Hugging Larell close, to restrain her before she could run into the house, he warned, "Don''t rile them, love, just let them get it over with." He twined his fingers in her long black hair and pressed her head against his chest.


    The search lasted for more than an hour, although to the distraught couple it seemed as if it might never end. Finally, long after they felt they could bear it no longer, Rom emerged from the house, carrying one of Arin''s wine bottles in his hand. He met his squad in the dooryard and had a brief conference with them, voices pitched too low to be overheard. Rom shook his head in frustration, then turned and approached the anxious husband and wife, making no effort to conceal the disappointment on his face. As they faced him, Arin held his wife''s shoulders and squeezed firmly for reassurance.


    Rom regarded the pair suspiciously. "I found your discharge affidavit, which appears to be genuine, and we can find no evidence you''ve been harboring a criminal of war or that you are one yourself. So for the time being you''re in the clear," he informed them reluctantly. He gestured with the bottle he held, "I will accept your offer of some wine. I hope it''s as good as you claim." Arin carefully allowed nothing to show on his face as he nodded acquiescence. Rom scowled and hitched a thumb into his belt, "Do you know of any others who have moved into this general area within the past ten seasons?"


    Arin scratched thoughtfully at his chin, "No sir, not that I heard about. Sorry." He looked at the soldier in front of him with a casual air, "You said you was hunting a rag-man? What in hells did he do? If you¡¯ll pardon me askin¡¯, sir. Back when I was with the Arm, I always heard where the rag-men was the Vertrex''s own private squad of killers."


    The corporal studied him momentarily, as if considering whether or not to answer. "Yes, they were, at least until one of them tried to kill him ¡ª and almost managed to do it. Crippled him in one arm, so the Vertrex wants him pretty bad. We''ve been ordered to track every lead we hear about, no matter how slim. There''s a bounty of the Vertrex''s body weight in gold for anyone who leads us to him."


    Arin whistled appreciatively, since the Vertrex was no small man. That would be one respectable pile of gold! "For a reward like that, someone''s bound to give him up ¡ª I sure would! ¡ª if he''s still alive, that is."


    Rom stared  at the couple for a long moment, then grunted and turned to his horse. He stashed the bottle of wine in a saddlebag, then swung his lanky frame up to the saddle. His companions were already astride their mounts, waiting in stony silence. As Rom and his men rode past, he gave Arin one last hard look. "Remember, the Vertrex''s body weight."


    Arin nodded once, impassively, and he and Larell watched silently as the four riders set off across the fields. When they had finally disappeared over a distant rise, Arin blew a sigh of relief. "Heading for the Colpit''s farm, most likely. Ha! They won''t find a rag-man there, unless he''s one grubby fat bastard by now."


    Larell made a sour face, "It was probably the Colpits who sent those four here in the first place. They''ve wanted to get their greedy hands on this farm ever since we''ve been here." She turned and walked into the house, "Come on, ''cookie'', I''ve got to clean up the mess they made, and you have to have your dinner."


    Arin sat at the table dipping warm bread into the savory stew his wife had made. Larell had certainly mastered the skill of cooking, no doubt about that! Ruefully, he wondered to himself how many pounds he might have added over the past few seasons. That couldn''t be good. He continued to eat as Larell sat down across from him with a worried look on her face.


    "Do you think they''ll find their rag-man?"


    Arin stopped eating for moment, considering, then continued to chew. "Doubt it," he said around a mouthful of stew, "It''s been ten years since the Vertrex was attacked. If they were going to find him, I think they would have by now."


    "And even so, they still continue to look," she fretted as she drummed her fingers on the wooden table, "They''re not giving up, and I don''t like that they¡¯ve come poking around here."


    "Don''t worry, love, it''ll be alright."


    "I have a bad feeling they''re not done with us yet. What if they come back?"


    Arin stopped tearing at the loaf of bread and looked Larell in the eyes. His face was suddenly an impassive, emotionless mask, and his eyes were cold.


    "Then I''ll have to kill them," he said matter-of-factly. He looked away and finished breaking off a chunk of bread. "The stew is excellent tonight, my love."


    Larell watched her husband and shuddered inwardly. Arin was the sweetest man she¡¯d ever known, the most loving ¡ª and the most deadly. She wished again now, as she had so many times before, that he had succeeded all those years ago. Things would be so different for them now.