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From the Bowels of Ghouls

Darkness has swallowed me whole, encompassing me like a tight and narrow throat pulling me ever down. I don’t know how long I am consumed by this darkness before it begins to splinter—first in bright, crackling streaks like lighting across the sky, only they are the warm color of fire. Despite all that initial warmth, behind it there howls an ice far colder than any storm of Njordr.

I peel open my eyes against the cold. They feel frozen shut, my eyelashes clumped with ice. I blink against the hard brightness of sunlight on snow—though there is no sun here.

Something doesn’t feel right. I crane my neck to look down at myself—hearing my bones crackle and feeling the muscle stiff like jerky straining with the movement. I recoil, by there’s only so much one can recoil from themselves.

There is something writhing under my torn shirt. It finds its way to the blood-soaked tear and slips out. Fingers. A hand. An arm.

“Djävlar—“ I try to pull away from my own body, pull out of my own skin. I cannot.

Then I notice…a mutilated, twisted leg protruding from the side of my knee. More body parts, grotesque and blended into mine. I touch my face and to my horror, I feel teeth. Teeth breaking through my skin from the inside out—and moving. Just the faintest pulse, as though they’re chewing the air.

Bile stings the back of my throat and tears burn at my eyes. I’m about to go to my knees, wondering if this is some nightmare, wondering when I’ll wake.

Then I see her.

She stands before me in the howling snow and wind, her hair whipped up into icicles like broken and deformed antlers, her eyes two gaping black maws, her skin thin blue ice clinging to sharp, crystalline bone. She looks like a statue carved from the frozen wastes, tall and horrible, her ribcage wide and her waste sucked in to a narrow core around her spine, her hips jutting like ax blades. Her mouth a row of jagged, long teeth like needles pulled into a horrifying grin.

Then, all at once, she’s nothing at all—a flickering gray shadow sinking into horrible black then blasting my eyes with sharp, piercing white, her form changing in flickering flashes. At one moment an emaciated wolf, at another a bear with a hide torn by decay, at another a woman with her breasts out and frozen and cracking like ice, and in between a sucking void my eyes can’t bare to pin down.

She is horrific.

She is beautiful.

Sveas.

A chill runs through me as I realize then—I’m dead. I can’t be seeing her, not really, not if I’m alive.

I did it.

I finally died.

My heart sinks. I had meant to dance in the clouds, with Balthazar. He’d asked me to dance and I’d been coy and mocking. He’d bested me in battle, and he’d given me a bracelet, and he’d kissed me and held my hand and—

He’d been my friend. He’d told me he loved me, and I’d choked on the word because…well…what did it mean?

If I’m dead I don’t get to know.

I close my eyes and shake my head. Oh well. I was never meant for a life like that anyway. I was meant for Sveas. I was always meant only for Sveas.

My eyes search to pin her down. I reach to pull my mace from my belt and ready my shield, doing my best to ignore the writhing of the arm against my stomach, the aimless chewing of the teeth on my face. My body crackles like ice as I bend to brace myself for battle.

This was always where my life was leading. This was always where I was meant to be. I tell myself that it was the only place I had ever wanted to be, and I make myself believe it.

“Disgusting filth,” a hissing voice comes to me on the wind, coming from no particular point but beating at me from every angle. “Abomination. You do not belong here.”

My stomach clenches. “Yes I do,” I grit out. “I am Freydis the Undying, Daughter of Njordr and daughter of the Thrymfrost. I am the daughter of Nidhoggsdotter and the spirit of the Wolf, and I come at long last to defeat you, Sveas!”

Her laughter is glaciers breaking and avalanches burying cities.

“You are nothing. You are un-whole, bits and pieces of peasants left behind and forgotten. You are a cast out little whelp that should have been left to freeze in the snow upon birth. You are shit in the bowels of ghouls and I recognize you not as a daughter of Njordr but as just another southern mongrel.”

Her words are a thousand blades lodging in my chest. I gasp as though I’ve been struck, and the air in my throat freezes.

All I can see is her outstretched hand, her fingers long like twisted branches.

“No,” I say through ice and gasping. “No! I was branded in the Rimelands! I grew up in snow and ice, I came of age in blood—”

“You dirty the door of my hall.”

“No, no! Fight me Sveas!” The screams come again, and tears freeze on my cheeks. “I am meant to fight you! It’s all I’ve ever been meant for!” Ice clogs my throat, my voice straining against the sobs that swell, burning and cold in my chest.

“You were never worthy of the last rites.”

“Sveas! You can’t—”

“Be gone from my sight, you wretched dog.”

“NO!”

The blackness bites down on me, closing everything else out. The last thing I hear is my own pitiful screaming.

How? How can she still not want me?

The void that swallows me also swallows my screams, sucks the breath from my lungs until I feel my body collapsing in on itself. The tearing in my heart drowns the horrible burning in my flesh. I don’t care for the splintering agony in my bones, for my soul is being torn asunder.

How can she not want me?

The arm that writhes against my skin, the teeth that pulse on my face, the leg that dangles at my knee…

What have I become? In the bowels of ghouls, rendered shit.

Where he left me.

He who claimed to love me.

Whatever that may mean.

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Death of the Undying

The air stinks of rotting flesh. The back of my throat tastes like bile. I cover my nose and my mouth as I move down the passageway, past the first ghoul that crawled out from a crevasse in the wall and attacked. The presence of ghouls explains the foul stench, at least. With the odor so powerful, there were surely more to come.

Balthazar and Sir Connor follow close on my heels. They mutter between themselves about what they see. Balthazar quickly searches the body of the ghoul but finds nothing, and Sir Connor notes that, so far, there doesn’t appear to be much of anything in the ruin. It’s just a stinking, winding cavern leading ever deeper into the dark.

As I round the corner, I hear the sounds of teeth gnawing flesh and bone. I know those sounds. They echo in my ears, a memory.

In the dim cavern that opens up before me, I see a ghoul crouched over an old body. Breaking bones with its broken teeth. Sucking at the marrow. Rending the flesh.

“More,” I say to Balthazar and Sir Connor, and beat my shield to draw the thing’s attention.

Its eyes reflect the dim light as it lifts its twitching head and sets its sight on me. It drops the limb it had been holding, stumbling to its feet and coming at me, giving wet hisses and snarls. It’s easy enough to drop—as is the one that lunges at me from behind, its gnashing teeth clipping uncomfortably close to my arm before I’m able to beat it down.

When I turn, I see something else crawling out of the dark. Something monstrous but skeletal, and bearing a weapon. “Fuck,” I mutter, keeping my eyes on the monster as it stalks toward me. I hear Balthazar shout as more ghouls come up behind him and Sir Connor. The sounds of fighting erupt behind me as I brace myself to fight the thing ahead of me.

The weapon it carries is long and heavy—a thick, curving metal spike on a pole that it thrusts at me. I stumble backward as I manage to block the first blow with my shield, but the second blow comes before I’ve recovered my footing and my shield is held just a bit too high.

The spike slams into my stomach. I feel it punch through my furs and leathers into the skin underneath. My body doubles over the weapon as sharp white pain splinters through my abdomen. My guts are forced to make room for cold metal.

But I’ve known worse pains before. I’ve been stabbed deeper, and with colder blades.

Shaking off the pain as the monster wrenches the weapon back, I pull my shield tight against myself and plant my feet, looking up at the monster. It’s about to strike again, as more ghouls flood out of the darkness beyond, then—

“Freydis!” Balthazar shouts behind me, and I hear ghouls dropping. The monster turns its attention toward Balthazar. Finally, his inordinate loudness is useful.

I’m able to fight back two more ghouls, killing them with relative ease, and when I turn toward Balthazar and Sir Connor, I find only the monster. Blocking the entry. Turning toward me.

Bracing myself, I crouch behind my shield. I deflect the first hit as the monster comes toward me, then it aims lower and splits open my shin, splintering the bone. For a moment I’m down on my knee, blocking a blow aimed for my skull, then—as I am dragging myself back up, trying to angle myself toward the entry and away from the monster, another blow catches me on the shoulder.

Pain rains through me from every angle, and I can feel the heat of my blood pouring from my stomach, soaking my pants. The cloth of my shirt clings to me, sticky with blood, and now my pantleg does the same, plastered against my skin around open flesh and bone. Blood is now running in open rivers down my back and front from the fresh wound opened on my shoulder.

Parrying another blow, I make another effort to rise. If I can only manage to get to my godsdamned feet—the monster has moved away from the entry. I might be able to drag myself out of here and back into the light of day.

The weapon, slicked now with my blood, gleams in the dim cavern as it swings toward me once more. Fuck.

With my shoulder in ruins, I struggle to lift the shield. I manage to get it partway up, but too late. The hook catches me in my back and I am dragged to the floor.

As I am slammed into the cold earth, I hear Balthazar’s voice again, and Sir Connor close behind him. Their shouts echo through the cavern, a great and horrible commotion, and the monster looks to them again. It wrenches its hook free of me and goes to them.

If only I could just…get to my hands and knees, it wouldn’t be so difficult to drag myself out of here—

Pain, a searing flash through my calf, ignites within me. I hate to hear the sound of my screams, almost as much as I hate knowing without looking that a ghoul has set on me, and is tearing the living flesh from my bones.

Reaching for my mace—when did I drop it?—I feel another ghoul fall onto me. It seizes my arm and wrenches it back, just about tears it from my body, and it bites into me. I close my eyes against the pain, try to grit my teeth and swallow the screams, but they come boiling madly out.

Somewhere in the distance, through all my screaming and the gurgling snarls of ghouls, I hear Balthazar. “Freydis! No!” I manage to wrench my head up, to see him coming toward me, his mad blue eyes wild with fear and dismay. And there is Sir Connor behind him, spotting the monster looming toward them and vanishing right there into the dark.

That spell of Balthazar’s, his hiding spell—the one he’d put on Sir Connor before we came here. The one I’d sneered at. “A child hiding under a blanket,” I’d said when first he’d showed it to me and, sulking, he’d returned to visibility.

“Balthazar!” I shout, stretching out my other arm, reaching for him with a hand weighted down by a shield and near useless from the ruin of my shoulder. I imagine he’ll grab me, yank me carelessly from the mouths of the ghouls and fly us out of here.

I remember being thrown into the sky—one of his madman’s spells. Next time, I’ll go willingly to dance with him in the clouds.

He’s reaching for me, the jewels on his fingers glittering in the dark. I can almost touch him.

Then he remembers the monster, looks up at it as it moves towards him, and as he lurches back from me and vanishes.

“Tell me,” I once said, sneering, “are you a weak man, Balthazar?”

Some uncertainty wells up inside of me as I am left alone to the devouring mouths. The pain rushes through me renewed, and I am screaming again. I hate these screams—I would give myself up to these tearing mouths and wait it out. They cannot kill me. But these fucking screams…

Blackness eats away at the edges of my vision, and I grow dizzy. My consciousness is fading—it’s okay, I’ve been unconscious before, alone in the forest, in a snow drift, at the bottom of a glacial canyon—when I hear a crash. The ghouls wrench free of me and scatter. They run after whatever sound that was, from wherever it had come, and for a moment leave me in blessed fucking peace.

Slowly, the feeling of the cold earth beneath me comes back. I grit my teeth, blink my eyes to clear my vision, and begin pushing myself to my feet again. I stumble up, pain rocketing up my leg, and I growl low in my throat as I lift my shield and my mace and—

How is the monster back? The cursed skeleton storming toward me and lifting its weapon and—

Back to the earth I crumble, and am barely able to make out the monster aiming its finger at me. The ghouls come in seconds, and I close my eyes and give myself up to the pain.

There is more screaming than just mine. There is a crash of stones, a collapse, and some part of me wonders if the whole cavern is coming down around us, but the ghouls don’t stop eating. Balthazar’s voice returns like thunder through the cavern, chanting some ancient language that I don’t understand, but no spell seems to come.

The ghouls keep eating.

Somewhere in the distance Sir Connor’s voice reaches me: “We have to go, Balthazar! She is dead! This is her arm! She’s dead, we have to leave!” And as I scream, I laugh. I cannot die. I am the Undying.

The ghouls keep eating.

More shouting, more fighting, the sounds of bodies being thrown to the floor and the eruption of magic down the halls. A riot of violence and booming voices intermingled with eerie silences…

…and the ghouls just keep eating, leaving less and less of me to drag out of here, and the less there is of me, the further into the darkness I seem to go.

It’s okay though.

I’ve been in the darkness before.

I’ll be okay.

I always am.

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To Leandro Nicostratus- Costa Luceste

Leo!

I can’t tell you how many times I have set quill to paper to write you in this last year, but for once, words have failed me. These last two years have been more eventful than I ever anticipated setting foot on the rocky shores of Njordr. Visvind was a delight and, after what happened to Lile, a welcome respite from Dunland. Thanks to Ironbelly, I found some help in Mrs Gatewatch, who helped me get settled in. But you know how it is, I can’t stay in one place for very long. I was traveling with some of the goods we were transporting, on a Njord ship called Vindvald, when we were attacked by raiders from the Rimelands who drew alongside. Those of us that survived the initial attack were bundled up and tugged along after them. I learned later that our attackers were members of the Dogheart clan, though they had an emissary from the Hollow Song clan. Cannibals! They said that they would trade us as food stock, though I couldn’t really tell if they were telling the truth. Eventually Alrek, who was one of the guards originally protecting the caravan, helped me to run away. His knowledge of the forest and tundra was invaluable in the last year as we have traveled settlement to settlement trying to get back to Visvind. I have learned so much and I’m sure you’ll be happy to know that my education was Not useless. My year of botany saved our lives several times, though did nothing to stave off the cold or the wolves.

Obviously, I wasn’t going to stay in Njordr after such an experience. My string of bad luck has followed me all the way back to Costa Nera all those years ago. Do you remember that? We’d just come ashore from Le Sorelle when we were accosted by those ruffians? A long way from the Master Mercer you are now. But anyway, I decided to head to Stragosa. I have heard interesting rumors that I’d like to confirm. Besides, I hear Corvo di Talmerin, the one I met in Port Melandir, has also headed that way. Have you heard from Padraig Drust? He’s the only refugee I haven’t heard from recently. Last I heard he was working as an Arkwright in Carminia. Could you look into that?

When I arrived in Stragosa, I was met with more supernatural than I’d ever experienced before. A ghost on the road, a ghoul that attacked us from the woods, and a bear spirit that ended up killing at least four people before vanishing. It was incredible. Not the mention the fact that I got to see the Miracle in person! Father Renatus was the name of the man I think. There were a few others though. I’d be interesting in hearing what they all experienced. Anyway, I thought I owed you at least a story because it took needing something for me to write you. A Friend of the Orange Baron asked me to look into a gentleman by the name of Marius, a masseuse and engineer that just moved into Silbran. Marius is from Le Sorelle as well, though I don’t remember if he told me where in specific. I would appreciate any aid that you could give me.

Leo, I’ve missed you. Perhaps one of these days you can come visit.
Your friend,
William II

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Bjorn: The Fall

He didn’t know why he had left, one morning he woke up and felt a powerful pull on his bones calling him home. quickly he had taking all of his worldly goods and threw them in a bag on his back after a few short goodbyes was away. He had walked to Portofino and bartered a passage till the end of the river, from there he had hugged the coast north till the mountains had rose before him. Then he climbed the rugged mountains using at first deer trails and streams to guide him up the dangerous ridges, higher and higher and more north he climb till at times he was clinging on the sides mountains with his fingertips all the while the feeling in his bones pulling him harder and harder north.

After 3 weeks of grueling place he crossed the border of Njordr, but the pull was just as strong. Bjorn had hit a plateau and was thankful for the short break of flatness. Bjorn was collecting food and other supplies for his continued journey, when he realized that he wasn’t alone anymore. A large pack of dire wolves had found their next meal when they first caught the Ironbreakers scent, and was quickly closing the distance, so he did what any sane man of the north would do, He ran.

Crashing through the undergrowth and the fallen pine needles he could see the flanking members of the pack on his left and right as the main body of the beast closed in on his flank. he could hear their many feet gliding along the forest floor and their hot breath on the high mountain air pressing into his back and for a split second he almost could swear that he heard laughter coming from the pack. He could tell that a clearing was up ahead and was hoping that in an open space he could at least have a small chance of scaring off the pack after killing a few of it members, but to his shock an horror he realized that the pack had been guiding him to their killing ground this entire time, a cliff were a ravine dropped into a valley after hundreds of feet of steep cliff.

Getting to the edge and looking over he turned around and with a grimace, drew his axe. “time to make myself a fine wolf blanket for the winter” he said to himself, seeing the dozens of hungry eyes in the woods drawing need and knowing their was no where else to go he prepared for this fight and the last fight at the gates. He raised his shield and yelled as the wolves charged the very first one leaped at his throat but Bjorn raised his shield just in time to see the large wolf lowering its held to crash its full weight into the blow shoving him past the edge and in the frantic move he grasped the edge of the cliff and with all this might and tried to pull himself up. He had managed to get his head back over the edge when he thought he saw something moving in the woods a large as the great ship that had taken him down the river, then the earth he so desperately clinging to gave way and gravity took over.

With shock and horror knowing it was all over he felt the first blow from the fall then an endless procession of twisting and falling landing on rocks and being caught for a moment by trees but carried by his weight and speed, spinning and spinning, the glint of a stream at the bottom the ravine catching his eye for a moment before being replaced by a pine in his line of site that he cracked his head on. the world when white and still he fell. The color and sound returned to him as the spinning started to slow down then he hit with full force the bottom of the valley with a crash of metal and meat.

Bjorn didn’t move and wondered how many things he had just broken and how and more importantly why he was still alive. then for the first time in weeks he felt like he had done the thing that was required of him his bones no longer felt the pulling, that brought a smile to his face. Then he smelled the smell of fire and cooking food, his hunger rose up in him and reminded him that falling down and almost dying was very hungry work, he looked over and saw a women not ten feet away from him walking over to him and another man tied up with chains and rope by a fire and a cooking meal. The women dressed in rotting furs and covered in tattoos walked up to him with a smile and said the last friendly words he would hear in a very very long time. “Ironbreaker, right on time, they said you would be coming” she then drew a wicked looking knife. For the next few hours nothing but screams came from the valley.

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Farewells and Sewers

Her ventures in the woods had been fruitless, so now she found herself here.

In the sewers.

The Undying, the Dragon’s Daughter, the child of the Rimelands. Here. In the sewers.

Freydis was slicked in filth, and digging out more with every passing minute. Sneering through the mud and the refuse as she carved out the tunnel that would ensure that the city’s noted sewage problem would finally be tended to. No more disease ridden sewer rats—in theory. No more plague monsters—in theory.

She wasn’t sure she really trusted any of these southerners or their schemes. Especially when their schemes had her waste deep in sloppy shit mud.

It was too easy for her mind to wander. She didn’t want to think about her current situation, and though she didn’t want to think about the rest of it either…

First Jehanne left. Freydis had been surprised to find that that hurt. It hurt had angered her fiercely. “What do you mean you’re leaving?” she’d said, voice hard as she drew her knife, like maybe she could keep Jehanne there by force, or like killing her might be preferable to letting her go. “You can’t go. You’re teaching me to read.”

“Oh, you silly,” Jehanne had said—in that strange way she had of saying things, with a little bounce on the balls of her feet and a little roll of her mismatched eyes. She’d even reached out and put her hand on Freydis’s hand, re-sheathing the knife with no resistance. “You’ve learned a lot so far. You’re doing great! But there are others that can teach you. No one as good as me, but…” Jehanne looked at Freydis’s bracelet, reaching out to flick the red feather. “For all his faults Balthazar knows a lot. I’m sure he would be willing to teach you.”

For a moment Freydis flushed and thought of reaching for her knife again. Then she deflated and looked at the ground. “I thought you were my friend,” she said, resenting the quaver in her voice.

“Freydis, I am your friend!” Jehanne smiled brightly and cocked her head to the side. Her smile changed for a moment, becoming somewhat flat, dimming a little. “You do know that just because someone leaves, that doesn’t mean they’re not your friend, right?”

“I’m not stupid,” Freydis said, but she looked away and hoped Jehanne didn’t see the doubt in her face.

Jehanne shook her head and her smile shifted back to its usual manic brightness. “I’m just going to work on some things with Bakara. I’ll be back.”

“You could stay with me. And the Blackjacks. We’ll protect you.”

“No silly, I want to go with me husband. Besides, I don’t need protecting.” First she smiled so that her nose scrunched up as she patted the gun in her basket, then she leaned forward conspiratorially. “We’re going to do experiments and blow things up.” Clapping her hands, she gave a little hop.

Freydis tried to smile for her, but couldn’t quite muster it.

She’d mostly cleared this segment of earth, and had to admit she felt good about the work she’d done. She doubted anyone else could have done better. She’d cleared the area efficiently and effectively, and was almost done. The area could use a little widening though, she thought, so she began cutting again into the sides of the tunnel.

Now she wondered if Bjorn would be here working at her side, if he hadn’t left, too. One of the only Njords in town she’d really been able to speak to since arriving here—who had greeted her with a good fight, and warmly. She’d thought they would each other’s backs in this strange place, the only true Njords in Stragosa, at all times.

It was hard to hear the nasty things some of these southerners said about Bjorn—or that he overheard, clenching his jaw and furrowing his brow but saying nothing. Smiling as fiercely and insistently instead. She had supposed that, eventually, she and Bjorn would teach some of these soft southern fools a few things about due respect.

But he seemed to value something about these people—or to regard them cautiously. They had almost had him burned once, she had heard, though she’d never spoken to him of it and he had never mentioned it.

And now he was gone, too.

“Do not look so sad, Freydis.” He had set a hand on her shoulder. “I’m only going for a stretch of the legs. I’ll be back.”

She didn’t ask when. She knew he wouldn’t have an answer. He may not even come back—wherever his journey took him, it would be away from Stragosa but it would not be safe from monsters. It may lead him back to his people and a call of war, or some battle elsewhere. Besides, it was a stupid and childish question to ask.

“Even though you’re going,” she said instead, and did her best to say it rather than ask it, “we will still be friends.”

“Of course! How could we not be?” He put his arm around her and pulled her roughly against him, giving her arm a squeeze and a shake. “Look my friend. You will keep an eye on Walt and Borso for me, yes? They are in need of someone to watch their backs.”

Freydis hesitated. There might be a time she couldn’t keep that promise. But she would try, and she would assure him, to make him happy. That’s what friends did, right? Make each other happy? “I will.”

“Good, friend,” Bjorn said, shaking her again, almost hard enough to rattle her bones. “Come! Let’s go to the tavern. One more drink before I go!” He bent down to poke her in the chest, grinning madly. “And we shall sing some of the old songs and watch the southerners quake in terror!”

There wasn’t a proper goodbye for either of her friends. They said they were leaving, and then they were gone, and that was it.

Like she had slipped away and vanished from the cold lands of her home.

Freydis shook the thought away. She felt like a pathetic, foolish child. When had she become so childish?

The soft earth gave way suddenly beneath her hands, then the wall itself collapsed into thick clots of mud. Dozens—no, hundreds—of skulls toppled out of the earth. They crashed over and around her, their hard domes battering her as she stumbled back and succumbed to the outlandish wave of them.

Thrashing back against the skulls, she cracked and broke them open, crushing them in return and fighting her way out. When the project supervisors came by to check on her after hearing the screams, they found her standing in the mound of skulls, pounding them into powder with her mace and screaming curses.

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A Nonna’s Love

“Hekté, come here.”

“But Nonna, the tomatoes-”

“Can wait. Come, sit,” Nonna gestured to the stool beside her with a floured hand.

Abandoning the knife and basket of tomaotes, I sat next to Nonna and watched her knead pasta for a few silent minutes. Her skillful hands worked the dough from a shaggy mess into a smooth ball, ready for rolling and cutting. She paused before she grabbed her rolling pin and turned to me again.

“Boy, you’re a lot like pasta right now.”

“I- What?” I asked.

“You are a crumbly pile of potential, waiting for life to knead you and press you into shape. You could be hundreds of different things in the end, but for now you’re just the beginning.”

I fidgeted with a scrap of dough infront of me.

“So, you don’t think I should go to Stragosa?”

Nonna laughed, “No, no! Between you and me, I think you need it. But don’t tell your Matri, she’ll start crying again. Always a sensitive thing, she was…”

I stood up and wandered over to the fireplace where a pot of cold water sat. Nonna began rolling out the pasta while I stoked the fire and placed the pot over it. I moved back to the cutting board and contined to cut tomatoes for dinner. The summer heat forbade stewing pasta sauce, but that never stopped Nonna from eating tomatoes every day anyway. Diced tomatoes and anchovies with pasta was a good dish.

Nonna looked my way again, “I think I can get your Matri to postpone the marriage proposal for a bit. Should give you time to grow up a little,” She chuckled, “Benalus knows, you need it!”

“Eh? Nonna!”

Nonna cackled at my objection and deftly cut and formed the farfalle. I laughed a bit myself and helped her bring the little pastas over to the boiling pot, where we dumped them in.

“Ti voglio bene, Nonna.”

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The Highwayman and the Quill

The Black Pistol Inn.

The bells struck twelve as former Highwayman Bastione Montcorbier agonizes over a small drop of blue ink. To compound the problem he realizes his wrist has smeared it over the last stanza. He spears the quill back into the pot in frustration.

“Lev! Bring me a rag, please.”

In moments the boy arrived with a handful of them. “This be enough Maestro?”

Bastione regards his assistant with a smile. “Quite enough monsieur.”

Had Bastione been half as decent as the boy before him he would’ve never struggled those years in Cappacione. If he’d had a patient and tolerant teacher what could he have accomplished? He was exhausted and a tremendous yawn escaped his lips. Bastione wiped the ink from his wrist, through away the ruined manuscript and started fresh.

“Since you’re here, Lev. Would you mind going to the bar for me? I’m falling asleep without something to chew.”

“Course. Want a cake?”

“Do you?”

“I wouldn’t mind…”

“Two cakes then.”

“Yes, Maestro!”

Lev sped from the room and seemed to float on air. Bastione, for his part turned his attention back to his work. Taking up a rule he traced several staves, and clefs onto the parchment on his desk. He rinsed his quill and, dipped it in red ink and with painfully slow movements began a new illuminated manuscript. If his father could see him now. A far cry from the life the two led well into Bastione’s thirtieth year.

“Discovery…” It was a subject that intrigued the Cappacione Bard, in another life he would’ve liked to have been one of those people who dig up old castles, and find pottery. But for now, the man is content with his work. He fought back another yawn and slapped his face. “A single stanza before bed…”

His first letter T was absolutely beautiful. Well balanced, steady, bright. If he kept it up the whole manuscript would be stunning. The quill snapped in his fingers.

“Merde.”

He tossed away his second quill of the late evening. Luckily the break wasn’t a catastrophe. The page remained unmarred.

He pulled another feather from his desk, drew a small pocket knife and began to shape it. His fingers were built for playing strings, the delicate task of calligraphy was still foreign to them.

It was then that Lev burst through the door causing Bastione’s knife to hack the feather in half.

“Tue moi maintenant!” Bastione tossed the halves on the ground.

“I brought the cakes. You look like you could use two.”

“Ah, no. Just one. Wont you tell me a story while we eat?”

“Me, Maestro? Tell you a story?”

Bastione took his cake and began eating. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Lev took a seat on the floor, Bastione joined him.

“I can make something up,” Lev offered.

“All the best one’s do.”

“In the land of Cappacione there lived a man who by his birthright roamed the less traveled roads, robbing those he came across. It was said the man was a gentleman in all but title and that he had always made an effort to demand his tax without bloodshed. It happened one day that a poor wanderer crossed the gentleman’s path.

“Stand and deliver!” the highwayman commanded. He drew a pistol and leveled it plain at the beggar.

“Please sir, I haven’t two copper to rub together and I’m awfully tired. Surely you can let me pass?”

The gentleman approached the old man, with his pistol still aimed. “If you have no coin to pay my tax, how do you expect to cross my path? Turn around and come back with coin.”

The old man looked surprised at the demand. “Sir, I have heard you are a gentleman of the road, that you are fair, and shed no blood in your acquisitions. The man I see before me seems a brigand. Are you not the man I have heard of?”

The highwayman lowered his pistol and smiled. “Look sir. If I let you pass untaxed, words gets around that anyone dressed in rags can travel my roads without compensating me. You see the position that puts me in.”

“It’s your reputation that concerns you? You must be feared, as the cutthroat that sails the seas from Hestralia?”

“You’re catching on, sir.”

“Well I have no coin but if you must charge me, will you take this?” The beggar pointed at his temple and tapped.”

“I’m not following, sir.”

“I am poor in coin but rich in wisdom. If you must charge me for my passage I will pay with that.”

“What wisdom do you offer? I know how to live off the land, hunt, shoot, rob and speak with annunciation. I know how to ride horses, and I know the location of every cave within twenty miles. I ask again, what wisdom can you offer?”

“I know the secret of immortality.”

The highwayman laughed. “And you can teach me that secret?”

“I can. It is more valuable than any coin, don’t you agree?”

“Well of course. Well, let’s have it then.”

The old man reached for the feather in his cap, plucked it held it to the sun. “It’s a fine feather, isn’t it?”

“It is very fine, yes. And?”

“Do you see the lichen, growing on that tree there?”

“Will you start making sense, sir? No, I didn’t notice the lichen.”

The old man walked to the tree, gathered a handful of the vegetation and peeled bark from its trunk. He placed the lichen inside and then, began to micturate into it.

“What are you doing, sir? I don’t approve.”

“Let it ferment. I’ve given you the secret to immortality. An ink and quill.”

“But I don’t know how to write.”

“Then accompany me to the next village and I will teach you the alphabet.”

“You’re comfortable traveling with a highwayman, sir?”

“I can think of no better protection than a man who can hunt, ride a horse, fire a pistol and knows every cave within twenty miles. Shall we?”

Lev nodded as if to bow and noticed that Bastione’s head drooped at his chest. The Maestro had fallen fast asleep…

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My Life Truly Begins

I could hear them gossiping. Oh Benalus, the gossiping.

Matri and Nonna were chatting up a storm over tea and pastries in the kitchen like they do every Sunday morning. I was trying to slip past unnoticed to go run amok for the day. Obviously I don’t spend enough time with Papà, as Matri heard me trying to creep to the door.

“Teté, come here!”

“Matri, please call me Hekté…” I begged.

“Oh Hekté, give your Matri a break!” Nonna chimed.

“I just came of age! Can’t you let that silly nickname go?”

“I know you’re an adult now,” Matri chided, “Let me hold onto the nickname.”

“Fine,” I conceded, “But do you HAVE to be talking about… y’know…”

“Marriage?” Matri asked.

“Si! Yes! Why?!..” I cried, exasperated.

“Well,” Matri explained, “We may not be a super wealthy family, but we can afford to arrange you to marry into a richer family. You have the brains to work in the ports! Think of where that will get you! Plus, Nonna will kill me if I don’t get you a nice girl.”

Nonna chuckled and sipped her tea.

Matri continued, “The nice Capacian girl in the port is still single, and I was considering sending a proposal soon. There’s also the Bookkeeper’s daughter – you remember her, right? I’ve also been looking at some of the available gentry, but I don’t think I could buy off anyone’s fathers yet…”

Matri kept rambling on about prospective partners to Nonna. I had my hand on the door handle when Nonna caught my eye. She smiled, and then winked. I smiled back, a little uncertain and fled the house before Matri started asking questions I couldn’t – or shouldn’t – answer.

I took a quick pace to Aquila’s rookery, in need of some work to keep my mind busy. The cobblestone sidewalks were full of people bustling to and fro on their morning errands, and the canals were alive with gondolas of goods. I turned toward the capital buildings, where the rookery resided and where the wealthy and the gentry chose to live.

The Mistress waited within the rookery, flowing robes showcasing her insane wealth. A number of well-kept ravens stood tall and haughty around her as she looked through a ledger.

“Buongiorno, Mistress,” I greeted. She looked up, long dark hair spilling over her shoulders.

“Buongiorno Hekté. What brings you here on your day off? Is your family gossiping again?”

“Si. You know I’d rather take the Sunday shifts. It gives me an excuse to leave the house.”

The Mistress laughed, “Hekté! I’ve told you that we don’t send anything out on Sundays! I’m sorry, there’s not anything I can do right now.”

“Well, it’s getting out of hand!” I exclaimed, “I’m not interested in girls or marriage! I just need to get out of that!”

The Mistress glanced at her ledger, then back to me. She smiled shrewdly, “Of course, you could always tell them that. Or maybe not. I remember being your age and wanting to be my own person.”

I shuffled my feet, “If I may ask, what are you getting at?”

“Hekté, I think I have an assignment for you.”

The Mistress picked up an envelope, and passed it to me. It was fresh and smelled of ink still, so I knew it had just been written. She placed her hand on mine, and said:

“That letter needs to get to Stragosa”.

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New direction

She was concentrating on the small mote of dust that floated in the sunbeam filtering through the clouds. Her gaze unfocused as it swirled in the gentle eddy of the air. Yet another bead of sweat trickled down her spine as she tried to meditate on her bond with Benalus.
It was barely blossom time and already she was roasting in the starched white robe and trews she sat in. Giving up on the dust mote she closed her eyes and released all her breathe very, very slowly through her nose, she leaned back against the still cool stone wall easing the pain in her back and legs. Drawing her breath in again she tried to imagine herself instead drawing in the light of Benalus, feeling the glow of that connection she strove for. Exhale, inhale, calm, exhale, calm, inhale. Finally she began to feel her body drift away, pain ebb and tranquility suffuse her being. She floated, as the dust mote had, no direction, at the whim of fate. She felt the tiny spark of joy as the connection was made, rather like tingle before a lightning storm. She let the feeling of joy spread through her, lightening her being. She guided the spark toward her long time goal, lead the way to path she had struggled so hard to create. There was a second of confusion from the spark as considered the path. It stopped as if contemplating the direction. Then with an almost painful tug shifted away from the path. The spark, no longer content to be lead, now dragged her consciousness towards a new goal. She saw a brightness before her and then a shape defined itself. A very humble priest, leaning on a staff, barefooted with a sad expression. He spoke very softly, “Little sister, would you join us? By giving away all that was yours to give you have created…an opportunity, would you tread our path?” She considered carefully for a moment, “You offer me a great honour, I would be pleased to add my footsteps to yours and as long as my duties as a Charismata permits.” The priest smiled held out a hand and grew brighter and brighter, the spark swirled around her until the light became blinding and she closed her eyes shut and flung her arm in front of her face falling backwards.

She awoke slumped against the wall. Back and legs sore from being stuck in such an awkward position. She righted herself and got clumsily to her feet. The grass felt cool between her toes, she looked around for her shoes, she was positive that she had worn them and just as sure she hadn’t removed them before beginning her meditation. Checking carefully she realized they were gone and that her face stung. Raising a hand to her cheek she felt the heat and knew she was sunburned. She sighed, really, as she thought to herself, one sign was enough Melandihim, did you really have to take my shoes?

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A Brief History

It’s Spring, and Allegra is 5. She chases Luciano around their father’s vineyard, pretending at the serious work of trimming and twining the vines in preparation for the growing season. Fausto, only a year younger, is much too much of a baby to do such important work. When Allegra is made to sit too long in one place, she shreds things – wide brown grass and veiny green grape leaves if she can get them, unattended burlap sacks and bright ragged skirt hems if she can’t. Her life is a peaceful cycle of chores and learning practicalities, and there are always other children around for her to play with.

It’s Summer, and Allegra is 9. Every morning when she wakes up, more of the sour green rocks hanging in clumps from the vines have transformed into precious grapes. Luciano is learning how to tell when a crop is ready by taste and feel. Fausto joins her at their mother’s feet whenever possible, but more and more often lately Nerina is nowhere to be found. Allegra has noticed that the people in the village whisper behind their hands when they think she won’t notice, but it doesn’t concern her. She makes up songs about them as she does her chores, imaging she sings to a bustling tavern instead of a dusty storage barn.

It’s Fall, and Allegra thinks she might be 12. She is fast, and small, and clever. She imagines what her brothers must be like now. She understands Aquila better – where it’s safe to sleep, who it’s safe to talk to, who will take your money and give you protection and who will just take your money. The basements and alleys are full of rats, but no one bothers her as she works. And so she works, and scratches by, and dreams of barrels of wine and hot fires.

It’s Winter, and Allegra is 15, though she couldn’t have told you that herself. She no longer sits by the canals, or banters with the whores in the taverns, or scuffles with the other urchins. She keeps her head down. Sometimes while she works she reaches for something too quickly, not thinking, and the raw flesh where her fingers used to be scrapes unbearably against the bandages.

It’s Spring, and Allegra is 18… or near enough. The kitchens in the palace are already too hot, and each night she curls up on the floor wet with sweat and smelling of acrid soap and cooking food. Even still, it is safe, consistent work. She has no time for anything that isn’t food- chopping, cooking, cleaning, running things from place to place. But the palace, for all its size, keeps as much in as it keeps out. So she watches, and listens. She learns.

It’s Summer, and Allegra is 20 – or as the young Princess puts it – “as ancient as the sea.” She wears fancy dresses and tries to keep the middle Dilacorvo child from doing anything too terribly wild. She knows which guards will take a bribe, and how much, and what their limits are. She knows the vices of those who cling to the royal family like leeches, and she knows the virtues of the beggars that crowd the alleys at night looking for noble charity. She does not dream.

It’s Fall, and Allegra is 32. The harvest is an apprehensive time with the grapes still fighting to make sense of the Stragosan soil and strange weather, but they have not failed her yet. Every market brings a new horror, and she leans on her people. Quietly relies on them. She wonders sometimes- often- if her little princess will succeed, and tries to make sure that there will be something in Gotha worth returning to. But winters are not kind in Stragosa as they are in Hestralia, and she can feel the cold creeping back into her bones…