Epilogue - New Allies

  Too much had been taken from the farmers of northern Xenaria. Too much taken and nothing gained in return. Weapons had been outlawed by a lord who'd spent all revenue funds on the pursuit of a woman. Food, iron, and firewood stores had been taken by armed bands bearing the mark of High House Galadin to aid in the war efforts. Fields had been turned to cinders and families hung for their lack of obedience. Rebels roamed pillaging where they went. And then had come sowing season, where even more soldiers arrived, pleading for food whilst claiming to fight for the people.

  Trust had been waning, and little was spared.

  But then had arrived the holy legions of Trillia to rescue all, and the people gave to them earnestly, thinking perhaps the Goddess would repay their charity in doubles or triples. Of course, no such thing occurred. Oh the pestilence of rebellion was swiftly ended. But what had been left? With firewood scarce, too many had succumbed to the biting winter winds blowing from the ?ld Mountains. Many more yet starved from emptied storages. The robbery of iron coupled with the ban on weaponry had left the people ill equipped to hunt even, in a land where wild game was plenty. And bandits on the road ballooned.

  The people grew distrustful of the Goddess, and all men bearing the ill uniforms of soldiers and bandits. They kept to themselves, silent, pitiful, and headless. Oh, a new lord had arrived, young and a claimed descendant of the previous one. He'd given a fitting speech in the town of Red Vine, or so the rumors on the road had went. But with him had arrived more armed hands all wearing Trillia's sigil.

  So, as with the current situation, it was no surprise to the drunk that his presence on the road was met with bitter welcome. Another winter had passed since the poorly orchestrated, yet utterly damning civil war that had ravaged these parts. Farmers were again tilling their fields to prepare for a new round of crops. And they were also hurling slurs and rude gestures at the drunk who leaned forward in his saddle, the wolf shaped helm on his head weighing his neck down. The sword on his waist dragged, feeling like a falling weight caught at his knees as if his trousers had fallen. Children threw mud balls his way from a safe distance, all of them coming short by many feet. But the drunk heard their splatters on the ground. And that was enough to cause him pain.

  It was nearing evening when the town of Red Vine entered his line of sight. His oak furred horse, Avlora, trudged along the dirt path, snorting out white puffs all the while. Her dark hoofs were caked in mud. Poor thing hadn't had proper care in too long. She trekked despite her obvious exhaustion, reaching the town of Red Vine well past dusk. The town had no walls, but there was a single watchtower with a bell, and no one occupied it. Such poor security bothered the drunk. He might just have climbed the tower to do the job himself if he wasn't so tired.

  Avlora clopped on down a mostly bare street until her master tugged on her reins near the town's only inn. A respectable looking thing, clean windows through which the light of orange luminte flowed. Above the door was a signboard that said The Drunken Fairy.

  The drunk pulled out his waterskin, tipping it to his mouth to find only a few drops of piss-like whisky coming out. He grumbled incoherently, dismounting from Avlora and stumbling toward the inn. Dried blood of bandits marred his scrap armor pieces. There were hardened bits stuck to his neck and overgrown beard. He scratched at it as he pushed open the inn door. A jingle sounded to announce a new entry and the common room which had been bustling with noise went all quiet at the appearance of a soldier.

  The drunk tried scratching his head but the helm he wore prevented such an action. He was far too tired to bother with taking it off. He shuffled inside and the townsfolk tensed. “Horse outside,” the he said, pointing over his shoulder. Seeing him stumble without control, the people resumed their conversations, their talk now all about who this new arrival in broken soldier attire might be. A stable boy ran past him to tend to Avlora.

  The drunk sat down heavily at an unoccupied table. It was stuffy and hot in the common room. With more disdainful moans, he took his helm off, revealing his sweat soaked earthen hair that had grown to be long enough for even the most ragged of vagabonds to disparage. Many stared his way. Or more at the blood all over him. They should've thanked him for taking care of a number of bandits, but these ungrateful townsfolk did no such thing.

  He scratched at his beard again. His mouth was terribly dry. He fished out some coins from a hidden pocket in his dark grey cloak and slapped them on the table just as a young girl with bright hair passed by his table. “Get me something strong,” he said.

  “Oh, um, I don't work here,” the girl said.

  The drunk peered at her, thinking it might've been the princess, wondering what she would even be doing this far north. But no. It wasn't her. He shook his head, noticing the three point flower robes that this girl wore. He clicked his tongue. “Trillian bitch.”

  The girl seemed to pout but said no more. She went along her way, dirty glares following her. Not even the townsfolk had any goodwill to offer her. A man twice her size went out of his way to bump into her. The girl fell, barely making a squeak as the man sneered and spat before his feet.

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  The drunk felt his face twist in rage. He snapped to his feet and put a hand to the hilt of his blade. “Now what kind of man would be so uncouth as to push a helpless girl?” he demanded with a grizzled voice.

  The common room went silent.

  The girl picked herself up but her attacker only pushed her again —with his palm this time. He didn't even have the decency to make it seem an accident. “And what has the Goddess and her kith done for us, eh? We all heard you call her a bitch. And a bitch is what she is.”

  Did I call her that? “Say that again and I'll cut out your tongue!” the drunk declared. That made the attacker hesitate. Strangely enough, no one was taking his side in this conflict. The women in the common room frowned the girl's way as if she were the blight that caused this conflict, while the men all watched the drunk's sword hand.

  “Anyone looking to cause trouble in my inn can bloody get out now!” called a third person from around the corner. This one seemed a middle aged fellow who was balding at the sides. He wore an apron and was armed with a broom. He slammed down a full flask tipped with foam. “Your drink, sir. And then kindly leave. I've no rooms to spare this night. And you, Ophelia,” he said bitterly, “I've given you the bottle you came for. So what are you still doing here?”

  The bright haired girl got back on her feet. “Yes, er, I was just leaving.” She hurried away, clutching a wrapped bundle against her chest. The door jingled when opened again.

  The drunk turned on the innkeeper. “That's no way to treat a girl, a child no less.”

  “Your drink,” the innkeeper reiterated. “And then kindly leave. I've no spare rooms this night.”

  “No spare rooms? Your stables are empty. I'll wager you've only empty rooms.”

  “Well none of them are for you!”

  The drunk clenched his teeth. But he didn't argue further. If he wasn't wanted, then that was the end of that. No use in demeaning himself further by pleading for a room. It would just be another cold night out with Avlora again. And then off to Flames knew where, killing any bandits on the road all the while. He swept up his coins and pocketed them. “Keep your drink,” he mumbled, closing his cloak around him before heading for the door. Something glimmered on the floor before the exit. The drunk bent to pick it up, finding it a pendant of a trillium flower. I did call the girl a bitch. He shook his head and left, chasing after Ophelia in the dark.

  She was making for the Trillian temple about a hundred yards from the inn. The drunk stopped just outside of it. The doors were open but he hesitated. Never had he set foot in a Trillian temple. The Trillian faith was something born from the Thousand Sun City. And the Xenarian civil war had been of their doing too. A war that had taken everything from him. And so he stood outside, hidden behind a beam of wood, waiting for Ophelia to come out again so that he may return her possession. He thought he heard the sound of a slap followed by a whimper.

  “It took you that long to go fetch the bottle? I thought I told you to be there and back! I'm expecting Lord Caranel any minute now.”

  “I'm sorry sir. The innkeeper, he— I mean it's just—”

  Another slapping sound came. “No excuses! And sir? Did I hear you right? It's his holiness, Priest Megrez! How many times must I tell you!?”

  “I-I'm sorry your holiness,” Ophelia stammered. Her voice was cracking and the drunk knew she was at the edge of tears. She was strong enough to have not been crying a pond in the inn already. He took a breath and decided to go in just when a young man with pitch black hair marched up the stone steps leading to the temple. He wore a black coat that seemed worn and patched, but had a lean build and carried a weapon at his side. He missed the drunk in the dark, and headed into the temple.

  “Ah, Lord Caranel, welcome,” Megrez said. “I'm glad you could make it.”

  Lord Caranel. So this is Agrienne's whelp.

  “I was told that this was urgent and couldn't wait till morning. And that this was a matter concerning First Chancellor Odain. I wouldn't be travelling half a mile at this time of night otherwise. So please do be quick, Megrez.”

  Odain as First Chancellor? Flames! When did that happen?

  The priest coughed, no doubt ruffled by a lack of honorifics used by the young Caranel.

  “Of course. Of course. I would only call you for urgencies, my lord. Which brings me to the matter. The ten holy soldiers that escorted you and I to this town. I have not seen them guarding your manse for the past few days. I would know what has happened to them.”

  “They've left,” the Caranel lad said. “I imagine returned to Odain.”

  “Under whose orders?”

  “Why, yours I thought.”

  “I gave no such orders!”

  “Hmm. Well that's quite the conundrum then. So ten armed men just disappeared over night, you say?”

  The drunk scratched his head. He didn't recall seeing any armed holy militia on the road. A chill breeze bit at his earlobes, and he suddenly remembered leaving his helm back at the inn.

  “Those were loyal men! They wouldn't disappear without reason or before consulting me,” Megrez said, his voice growing harsh and shrill just as the winds passing through the empty street.

  “Well, whatever's happened, it can wait for the morrow. Perhaps a letter to the First Chancellor will clear things up.”

  “Ah, yes. I'll send the Chancellor a letter first thing in the morning.”

  “Right,” said the Caranel boy. “And don't forget to ask about the courtesans he promised me. You can use as much of my funds to bring and keep them at my manor.”

  “Of course, of course,” said Megrez. “Ah, and before I forget, here's the Red Vine vintage that you paid me for. Aged for many decades, this. I'll bet they didn't have the likes of this down in Kovar.”

  The drunk grit his teeth. Kovar. So this new Caranel boy was some pirate scum that Odain picked up to be a puppet. And he seemed to have no intent of being a well-mannered ruler. Better to nip this bud before it grew to a tyrannical villain much like his supposed father.

  The youth left the temple completely oblivious to the presence of Jengard Rask. He skipped down the stairs, holding the neck of the expensive bottle in his hand. Just as his back was turned, Rask leapt from out of the shadows with a mighty roar, drawing his sword. Before he'd even brought it up to swing, Lord Caranel was already spinning, leg outstretched and heel arcing toward his attacker. It connected and Rask fell, white exploding in his vision and sword leaving his hands.

  The youth bent down to examine his fallen prey. He tugged at the pin binding Rask's cloak together. “Silver Eagle. If this is House Serene's idea at an assassination attempt, I dare say a rabid dog might've fared better.”

  Rask seethed. “Lord Serene would never stoop low enough to utilize assassins.”

  Lord Caranel kicked him in the ribs. “I wasn't asking.” He turned toward the temple. “Viper. Go kill the priest for me. Discreetly, if you wouldn't mind.”