Hello everyone! I had this chapter ready nice and quickly because I'd been holding off on Chapter 51 for woohooman14's birthday this past Friday! So it's here quick, and I hope you enjoy this as we move onward from our massive death event in Chapter 50 and towards the end of Whispers!
VVVVV
Konstantin Raam pulled the trigger and put the bullet in the prisoner's head. The man slumped against the wall, his chains rattling as his body settled against the damp mossy stones of the dungeon cell.
The knight's name had been Irwin, that much he knew; Sir Irwin, rather. No last name given, or required for that matter. The sole remaining leader of the Birchwood, Irwin had been in charge of the defenders when they were caught by surprise and fell before the onslaught of the invading force that had seized the castle and reduced much of it to ruins. Two weeks of imprisonment and torture had left the knight withered and weak, so much that he could no longer speak. All useful information had already been squeezed out of him: topographical information and geographical records and the whereabouts of other major leaders of the region, all of it interrogated out of him. So he was no longer of use, and thus Raam had him executed, and had pulled the trigger himself.
The blood smelled strangely metallic, sharply contrasting with the wet, moist stink of mold and grime down in the dungeon mixing with the sulphurous fumes from the lone lit torch in the hallway. Raam holstered his pistol and left the key in the cell door's lock, deciding it would not be worth the bother to lock it up again. Nobody could rescue him now; if they wanted to retrieve the body, let them. It was of no worth any longer.
Upon reaching the courtyard again he was splattered by rain, or rather some form of liquid mixed with ash. The water was a filthy gray color that tasted like rust, hardly suitable for drinking. Thankfully the springs were unpolluted and his convoy was refilling their canteens with fresh water from the Birchwood's well, which had been deemed safe upon brief inspection of its contents. No plague or disease, at least not here; Raam couldn't afford a misfortune like that striking his troops, not even the Harvesters.
Once he had hopped into his LAV he opened up the small electronic panel that he used for all communications efforts. Although he had an official communications team, this was for his personal use, for the storage of data and documents privy only to his command team.
"How are the Aesars coming along?" the commander of the vehicle asked. He was one of the three lieutenants of the party, two of whom were currently inside of the tank. The other was distributing party orders to the sergeants and staff men outside, before they departed the Birchwood and left behind the consultants, engineers, MPs and medical staff to establish the forward outpost.
"We're receiving eight. It's their test run," Raam answered gruffly.
"Only eight?" the lieutenant asked. The driver was otherwise silent, focusing on the engine temperature.
"How many do you think we'd need? It's very nearly overkill," said Raam.
"The boss wants us to use them to lock down Delphos so we can search for Project Ares ourselves. Air superiority my ass, if you ask me we didn't need them, but he insisted," Raam continued when nobody else spoke. He flipped the communications panel shut and stretched his legs out as far as possible, jamming them up against the metal bulkheads of the tank.
"How will we fuel them?" the driver asked, out of sheer curiosity.
"The Cheatham will do that. She's back from her deployment to the Cays and that'll be our mobile CP, as far as I know," Raam answered.
"It's all too much work," the first lieutenant complained. "Why not just set these savages lose on the entire riverland? It keeps us out of danger and clear the river without needing us to push north!"
"They're only to be used as auxiliaries, not a main force. And we have our orders, lieutenant. As for me, I'm all for some wetworks, what about you? Are you pussying out?" Raam taunted him, knowing that would be the key to turning him around. The lieutenant scoffed in disgust but turned around in silence, beaten into submission. He would probably resume the argument later, but that wasn't something to worry about.
"Get the rest of the column ready," Raam ordered as the driver revved up the engine. "We're moving north posthaste, to Delphos." It might take them two or three months to clear the path there, but he'd be damned if they didn't reach that ruin alive. It was only a matter of time.
VVVVV
Ash covered the fields where seas of wheat and millet once waved in a warm breeze; bereft of sunlight and water, the great oaks and stout birch trees had lost their leaves and fallen into a premature hibernation, now sickly poles of hard wood whose boughs were covered in the gritty gray dust. The road was a muddy mess, trampled into slog by thousands of pairs of feet making their way south carrying their pithy stock upon their backs. It was a river of refugees, running parallel to the great river of water that had acquired a gray tinge to it as of late, even though the water was still relatively safe for drinking besides the common waterborne diseases that were no novel hazard. And past it all walked James Kleiner, little different from the thousands of other bedraggled, exhausted travelers enduring the long march south, fleeing the devastation of natural disaster and the chaos of war.
Some of these people were from Crestan, this he knew; their clothes were cleaner, their shoes less ragged, their bodies somewhat less dirty and their hair at least combed, if not particularly clean. They had not been on the road for too long; some of the other refugees, the ones with matted, filthy hair and bare, calloused feet who wore rags and shitstained robes had been traveling for weeks, maybe months. Some had been back and forth between cities multiple times, pounding the Delphian Road in their search for some accommodation. Very few places were open to refugees, and many of those were already crammed full of vagrants, stuffed to the brim with bleary-eyed, mud covered unfortunates. And to think, many of these had been happy, healthy civilians and workers before...such was the way of war.
Some of them were Kleisardathans, too, Kleiner noticed as he approached a small hamlet by the road. They had long stripped away their armor and thrown down their weapons, but their olive skin and shaggy, dark hair marked them as southern men. Very few of the refugees seemed to mind; many of them went about their business, trudging the long muddy road in silence, and only a few shot the foreigners dirty looks or avoided them entirely. There was no violence, not here. These people were trying to escape from violence, not create more.
The hamlet was nothing more than a collection of maybe twenty thatched huts, some smaller hovs, a timber-and-stone main hall and a large inn that was packed full to bursting, with many customers simply choosing to drink outside. Dozens of tents had also sprung up around the village, a veritable town of tiny, cramped-looking pup tents crammed together like tinned anchovies out in the ashen fields were crops had once been grown. A small canal had been dug from the river to the tent area, but the water flowing through it was brackish and smelled of sewage and filth, as Kleiner took a whiff of it as he passed over the improvised pontoon that bridged the primitive ditch.
Kleiner flowed with the crowd into the inn, which had become some sort of unholy combination of a zoo and a brothel, packed to the brim with travelers and refugees of all backgrounds. A few soldiers were keeping watch, but none of them looked to be particularly interested in anyone's business but their own, and they kept to their drinks. Men drank and laughed and diced and gambled, shouting at each other in hoarse, loud voices and swearing constantly. Every seat was full, with vacancies popping up every several seconds only to be quickly filled by one of the dozens of standees holding their drinks in tight fists, waiting for a spot to sit. It didn't matter whether the table was occupied by comrades or by strangers; they sat and joined the conversation or game, eager for some mote of human company to wash away the fatigue and wear of travel and constant warfare.
Shuffling his way through the crowd, still retaining his veil of anonymity, Kleiner moved into the tavern, pushing past two old men to enter the stuffy common room and make his way up to the bar. There was a line waiting to obtain drinks, but it was moving quickly and soon Kleiner was able to receive a mug of light brown ale, soupy and thin but alcohol nevertheless. He was glad for some kind of drink; alcohol, unlike water, would not carry the diseases that would be certainly running rampant within the town's well. Nobody with any wit or money would be drinking water, not now.
Kleiner stood for a while in a corner, lodged between two booths, thankfully retaining his anonymity. One of the booths was rather quiet and the other was stuffed with eight men dicing, loudly cursing and slandering their opponents and boasting about their winnings to anyone who would listen. One of them would be dead by nightfall, Kleiner was sure; maybe even more, if they were rowdy enough. The serving girls were taking quite a bit of flak from drunkards who pulled at their apron strings or attempted to grope them, and Kleiner pitied those who were forced to carry trays with a dozen or so mugs to the larger tables. As the crowd within the tavern began to thicken even more, Kleiner was pressed up against the wall of his tight, humid corner, and when a spot cleared at the quieter table he was quick to seize it and slip on in. His entry did not go unnoticed, however, and he caught the attention of one of the men.
"Glad to get a seat, stranger?" one of the men inquired.
"Of...course," Kleiner answered, keeping his head down. All the other men could see, hopefully, was the stubble on his chin. None of his face would remain visible so long as the hood was up.
"You're pretty lucky. Got some quick reflexes, if you ask me," another chimed in.
"You're one to talk, Shen! Remember you told me how you used to pitch back in Fukuoka?" the first said.
"Always poorly. Bottom of our league," the second laughed, downing the rest of his ale. "I used to play baseball," he explained as he turned to Kleiner. "I come from Fukuoka, obviously! Always minor leagues, and I was never any good, but that's a story for another day. Where the hell do you come from, anyway?" He was asking too many questions, even if he had asked only one. Kleiner answered cautiously.
"That's...a long story too," he said, taking a sip from his ale. He knew that would be a mistake; one of them recognized something about him.
"Aye, gents, we got us some nobility sitting at our table," the first man said, a glimmer of realization shining on his face.
"Well, heads up then boys!" Shen chimed in, and Kleiner looked up to face the four weathered, worn middle-aged men who had the look of beaten soldiers about them. One of them still wore his chainmail; it hadn't been cleaned in weeks by the look of it, but it was armor all the same.
"Who...are you talking about?" Kleiner asked, trying his best to assume an accent. It didn't work at all; he could hardly disguise his voice.
"Well, Lord Kleiner himself," Shen said, the spark of recognition shining in his eye. "I know your voice, my lord. I'm at least glad to see you're alive and well."
"Eh, I'll second that! Took me a bit to recognize you but I know your voice, sir!" a third man said, smiling and showing a gap where his two front teeth should be. "A man like you should've been leading the men at Crestan. How come you're still living?"
Kleiner was very much confused and suddenly felt threatened, compromised. He set his mug down and cleared his throat, trying to buy himself some time. He could tell the truth, describe his flight of cowardice, the abandonment of his own men...or he could try to stretch that truth a little. Yes, he fled…but…
"...after a fight with traitorous enemies I was forced to flee. I barely escaped from the city after Rolf's death," Kleiner explained, trying to assume a casual air. "I'm not one to talk about it."
"I was in Crestan," said the first man, the one in the chainmail. "The name's Mikal, Mike for short I guess. I was serving under Alaf Rolf until that night. I managed to escape, me and about ten others. We split up, all of us except me and old Badger here," he smiled grimly, pointing to his gap-toothed companion. "It was a hell of a journey out of there, and a hell of a coincidence finding you."
"We aren't the only ones who managed to escape," Badger said, his voice assuming a slight lisp due to his injured mouth. "There be dozens, hundreds of men who fled or, if they were more cowardly, deserted. But they're out here, going south or north or west, east if they're mad."
"They lost both leaders, or so they think. And now one's turned up alive," Mike said. "I'm barely able to contain my urge to announce it to the entire tavern," said he with a grin.
"I'd prefer to retain my anonymity…"
"Why, scared someone's gonna try to put an arrow in ye?" Badger asked, taunting him. "I'm sure there are more than a few men who want to, but they're welcome to try us first!"
"We're still loyal to the state and to you, my lord," Shen said, more serious than the others. "Kastner did not die in vain, and I'm not about to let him."
"Same," Badger added. "Maybe a lot of our lieges have died or changed their side, but I'm sure as hell not fighting for no traitors or cowards. Long live the state!" And suddenly they all raised their mugs and toasted each other, drawing the attention of the nearby dicers. Kleiner kept his head down, but it was no use hiding his identity anymore. They knew him now.
"I have no army or force. I'm a refugee now," Kleiner admitted. "I fled the fight."
"You gave them a hell of a run for their money, I'll bet!" Mike hooted. "Old Badger here was at the fields when Kastner fell, weren't you?"
"I was," Badger admitted. "Din't want to talk about that, but hell...I was there, yeah. I fought there, came back alive, seen you on the field, my lord. Kastner might have fallen but you were a noble fighter, that you were, even if you were forced to pull back."
Now that was false. Kleiner began sweating underneath the travel garments he wore as he realized that he was in the midst of veterans, and that they had been deceived just like so many others. The truth could not out, not now.
"I remember that," he ended up saying, keeping his facial expression neutral.
"You're one of the few brave fighters we've got left, my lord," Shen said. "So many good men have died, just when the need for a good man is dire."
"We're soldiers without a leader. Can't be much of a fighter if you don't have someone to fight for," Mike added, biting into a heel of bread that he had on his plate.
"What are you asking?" Kleiner inquired, now more nervous than before.
"I, for one, know what kind of leader you are," Badger interjected. No you don't, Kleiner wanted to say. You're misguided. The truth will out one day, and then you will be disappointed and enraged. He had abandoned Elias Kastner that day, that was the truth. Very few knew, and those who did were either dead or far removed. That had been the master plan, a weak and poorly conceived grasp at power that never came to fruition, but eluded him and drove him into a deeper morass than he could ever imagine. And now he was here, drinking at a bar full of refugees, cowards and lowlifes, and about to be recruited as their leader.
"Aye, we've heard stories! Badger won't shut his mouth about you sometimes," Mike added. "You're one of the last of the old guard, Lord Kleiner. Brennan, Ellsworth and Kurnias are all dead now, and Dartwell's gone missing."
Kleiner had lost Brennan months ago and feared him dead. Maybe the man named Mike was wrong, but he had a hunch that the man was true. Stout old Kurnias and dutiful Ellsworth, too…
"We need leaders. You know who the enemy is," Badger said. "You do, don't you?"
"The walking dead," Kleiner murmured, unable to tear his eyes away from an indistinct spot on the table that had no importance whatsoever, but drew his glance anyway. Anything to avoid their eyes.
"That's one way to put it," Shen muttered. "I never saw them personally, but men in Lord Rolf's army spread the tale wide and far. And we saw the bodies, not just the skeletons but other creatures. Monstrosities."
"We need a leader, my lord. The lords of this realm are gone, dead or vanished or farther west," Badger said. "And frankly, your cover of anonymity does nobody any good. Not even you."
"It's you we need," Shen reiterated. "Someone to lead. Someone to confront the enemy, and stave them off. Else...well, you know what will happen."
A moment of silence fell around the table. Kleiner finally looked them in the eyes; Mike's dark brown, Badger's light brown, Shen's dark jade, and the other man's unique eye and skin color marking him as Kleisardathan. Not a single one of them had any clue that once, many months ago in the springtime, Kleiner had betrayed the words he had spoken and had made for power. A cowardly move, one that ultimately brought him nowhere but to the bottom of this morass. There was no lower spot he could occupy now. He could only go up from here; and damnit, even if they were misleading themselves, he would start his ascent again. Time to rise.
"If you have no other leaders...well, it looks like you men could use one," Kleiner finally acquiesced. Maybe it was a mistake, or maybe it was the best decision he had made since retreating back to Crestan months ago. He was in no shape to act the nobleman, but who else would? One of these bedraggled lowlifes, glorified barbarians trying to play soldier, if only to desperately reclaim everything they had lost?
"It's all or nothing, Lord Kleiner. We need you," Shen said.
"Then I will lead," Kleiner declared. "There is no point in running."
"Nor is there any shame," Badger tried to assuage him. "We've all run from something. I'd say you were...changing locations, rather than running!" He laughed at his own jape, and Kleiner forced himself to smile. No, he had been running alright...and that wasn't the first time. If they had known...if only they had known. But that would have to wait for later. He had to take charge now.
They left the tavern in rather high spirits, pushing past people as a group, upon stepping out into the street, the silent Kleisardathan tapped Kleiner on the shoulder, bidding him to turn around.
"I did not flee alone," the foreigner spoke in a smooth, baritone voice as the other men jostled with entrants to the bar. "I have others. At least a dozen, men without a leader, just like Shen and the rest. They want some direction. They want something to fight for. Will you take them?" the Kleisardathan asked.
Kleiner wondered what kind of potential quagmire he was stepping into. He couldn't trouble himself to reject the soldier's appeal, and begrudgingly nodded his head. It bothered him but there was no turning back now, damnit…
The Kleisardathan disappeared and Kleiner wondered if he was ever going to return, or if he had just taken that opportunity to flee. The group waited alongside the street for twenty minutes, wondering if he would ever come back. But despite his doubts, the man did...with thirty other soldiers behind him, and not just Kleisardathans either: Crestan pikemen, some of Kleiner's own soldiers, men of Rolf and Tanner and Brennan and even a knight bearing the sigil of Lord Kastner.
"Lord Kleiner," one of the smiled. He was worn looking, dirty and ragged, but the moment his eyes met Kleiner's a surge of energy ran through him. "You were given up for dead."
"Crestan held no more promise for me, or for any of us. We must continue the fight, though, and that is why I am here," Kleiner announced to them, gritting his teeth and he pushed onward. "I have returned to lead again."
There was no cheering, no applause or general mutter of agreement, but he could tell by facial expressions and postures that every man suddenly felt that their will had returned to them, that their sense of duty was back. Most of them were unarmed, but they looked ready to pick up weapons. They had no banner, but that did not mean that they could not march as a unit.
"These men are ready," the Kleisardathan reported before Kleiner could continue. "We are all ready. Where do we march?" He had the commanding tone of an officer, despite his earlier silence.
Kleiner had not thought about that, but instantly he was struck. He knew the only way that they could go.
"We march south. To Milltown," he declared, as laconic as he could be. There was no other destination now. North, east, west were all blocked off in some way. They had to go south, and south they went, down the refugee-strewn road.
VVVVV
Matt felt the stinging slap of the blade before he felt his partner's leg sweep him off of his feet. They happened simultaneously, but the flat of the blade was more immediate, and it stung before Matt realized that he was falling. Then he hit the ground, and there was pain everywhere.
"Watch your stance," Erich told him, offering a hand to help him up. "Your legs need conditioning."
"I'm sorry," Matt grumbled, catching his breath as he rose.
"Don't be sorry. Practice. You know how to handle the sword but you need to be fluid, and you can't forget about the other parts of your body. Never let anything settle," Erich instructed. It was straightforward, but still difficult. Matt was not a fighter, at least not yet.
They had departed from Thellden in the dead of night, not stopping until they reached a small village hidden in a copse of trees about ten miles from the city. The village mayor had sworn allegiance to Thellden, and the guards were on his payroll, but the quartermaster had taken pity on the exhausted and weary travelers and gave them horses without alerting his superiors, providing them with food and supplies for the journey as well. That act of charity had not gone unnoticed, but Erich and Walid had no money between them; thus they had to accept the gifts without offering proper repatriation.
They struck out that night and the next day set up a small camp by a stream that had mostly run dry, able to secure brush for a campfire and water for cooking and drinking. They were still far from their destination, though. Erich had taken to training Matt in swordfighting, having some experience himself after training in the Ditch for three years. Matt had learned some techniques from Darius, and had nailed basic stances, but he was by no means a well-trained fighter, and his amateurity showed when Erich came to work with him.
"It's difficult to move my legs when focusing so much on my arms," Matt said before they sparred again.
"That's all in the training. I don't claim to be a master, I find it tough too. You've got to be aware of your surroundings and your body when fighting," Erich said, raising his blade.
"Just through training?"
"Practice, practice, practice," Erich reminded him, and lunged at Matt for a strike which the latter barely parried.
Another forty five minutes left Matt bruised and battered, his muscles aching and crying for rest and his head spinning from dodging blow after blow. Erich was a good swordsman, but he was not a master or a professional; Matt landed several brute force blows, knocking his opponent back. The officer later told him that power strikes were easy to block and were preferably used only as a desperate measure, but complimented Matt on his strength and force anyway. They then headed back to the two small tents set down on the streambank.
"What's the date?" Erich asked Walid when the two fighters returned to the camp. Sora was sitting in her tent, attending to her hair briefly.
"August 23rd," Walid answered, ever laconic. "Nearly autumn."
"Not yet, not yet. I'm not ready for winter," Erich grumbled, throwing some brush onto the fire. Sora stumbled out of the tent, still messing with her wet hair, and sat down to Matt, right next to the campfire. It was early evening but already getting dark, indicative of the days starting to grow shorter.
"Cheese?" Sora asked as she sat down next to him, toting a basket of crusty bread, Brie cheese and some salted pork. They didn't have a gourmet selection of food for meals, but they had enough to last them at least a week and a half, assuming they were unable to resupply elsewhere. The closer they got to New Connaught and the volcano, the harder it would be to find supplies, though.
"If we had a bow and some traps we might be able to hunt," Erich said, taking a hunk of cheese and some bread from the basket.
"We've got plenty of food," said Matt.
"For a week or so. We need to make sure we ration it off, anyway," Walid said, taking his own share. "I want to be careful, in case of accident."
"He's got a point," Erich agreed. "If an accident happens we may find ourselves desperately short on supplies."
"Tread with caution. The farther east we go, the more dangerous our journey will become. We may find ourselves beset by enemies," Walid said.
"Ever the grim realist," Erich snorted, stretching his legs out.
"I'm going to go fill up on more water," Walid said, ignoring the jibe. He rose from the campfire, with a slab of cheese in one hand and a bucket in the other, and headed down to the brook.
"He's right, though. It's going to get dangerous," Erich agreed.
"As if it isn't already?" asked Sora.
"Thellden's forgotten about us now. None of them know about the pendant, at least I hope they don't," Erich said. "Our concern now is the undead."
"They've hunted it before. One of my guardians betrayed me trying to get to the pendant," Matt said, remembering Rykar. What made Erich and Walid so different? Everyone trusted Rykar, but he still turned his cloak and very nearly took the pendant. Erich and Walid could easily be two-faced.
"Is it just going to be us?" Sora asked, propping her head up on her knees. She had not eaten much for dinner, and that concerned Matt.
"We don't plan to pick anyone else up, if that's what you meant," Erich said, sitting up. "Darius explicitly ordered us to travel light, and that we'd be on our own. Quite a surprise, if you ask me."
"You don't think the Thells will pursue us?" Matt asked, genuinely curious.
"Hardly. They don't even give a shit about any of us, we're not important. It's that damned pendant to be worried about," Erich said, rubbing his eyes.
The shattered artifact was kept in a small bag that was always under someone's watchful eye. It was stowed away in Matt's tent, but all four of them were sharing the burden of carrying it, par Darius' orders.
"So if we're free of pursuers, how do we plan to get to Crestan?" Matt asked.
"I don't particularly have a plan," Erich admitted. That was concerning.
"You never thought of this before?" Sora asked, sounding equally nervous.
"That might've been a good idea," Matt added. "How do we get there?"
"I have no idea, to be frank," Erich admitted. "By the road?"
"If you don't know, then how are we going to get there?" Sora challenged. She was already frightened and concerned for their safety, having been pushed from the relative safety of their Thellden estate out into the wilderness. The lack of a plan would certainly worsen those fears.
"Darius directed me to go to Crestan. I presume that we can take the main road that runs between Dunnefold and Crestan once we reach it, Walid thought about that as well," Erich explained.
"The road is going to be choked with refugees the closer we get to the city," Matt said, knowing this. "How do we deal with that?"
"That makes our job much easier. We try as hard as we can to blend in. There will be soldiers there too, not many but enough to prevent us from standing out," Erich explained. "It's getting to that road that might be the issue."
"Bandits?" Sora inquired, guessing.
"And worse," Erich said. "Marauders, criminals, Harvesters, wild dogs. Anything you can think of, really. Stanislaus Antar might even be an issue, it depends."
"Depends on what?" she asked. That he did not have an answer to. He yawned and stretched his legs out, his feet dangerously close to the flames, but he did not reply. Sora did not press the matter, either. It was obvious she did not want to think about it too much.
When Walid returned with the water he used some of it to put out the campfire, declaring that it would do them no good except bring unwanted attention, and then put the rest of it aside for use later. All retired to their tents, Walid and Erich sharing one and Matt and Sora sharing the other. It was not perhaps the best arrangement, but the officers did not care.
Sora was still somewhat averse to physical contact, so Matt slept apart from her, under the same covers but separated by about six inches from her body. It was a separation he could barely endure, especially when the nights grew chilly, which was becoming far more common now that August was coming to a close. The urge to reach over and draw her closer was extant, but he ignored it. At least she was turned over to face him.
"I have no idea what we're doing," Sora admitted as soon as she figured that the officers were asleep. She kept her voice low even though it was probably masked by the wind picking up outside. "I'm frightened, Matt. I don't know them, and I don't trust them, we're traveling somewhere strange, I have no idea how we'll get there, if we ever do, and what do we do then?" She was struggling to retain her constitution as she spoke. Matt shared those fears, but he couldn't bring himself to admit that, for fear of disappointing her or appearing weak.
"I trust Erich and Walid-"
"Well I don't," she said, sounding frustrated and upset. "We just met them...three days ago! How do you expect me to trust them?"
"Darius trusts them," Matt whispered.
"They're strange men. Why couldn't he take us there, if it's so important? What if they get lost, or one of them gets killed? Or both of them get killed? What do we do then?" She was getting lost within her own argument, misled by fear. When the mind is under the influence of terror, it cannot reach logical conclusions that exist within the same realm as those fears. They overtake any sort of path of reason, strangling those chains of logic and breaking them into pieces. Matt knew how that felt; he remembered the trip to Iceport, how the pendant wielded its influence over him and how Rykar turned his cloak in the blink of an eye. That could all very well be repeated.
"I'm going to take this trip one day at a time," Matt told her, trying to assuage said fears.
"Easier said than done," she interrupted.
"It's easy if you do it with me. Don't focus on what's going to happen two days from now, a week from now, or even a month from now. A day at a time, deal with what confronts you one day and don't fear what's going to happen the next," Matt said.
"I don't know…" she said, letting her sentence hang. He reached his arms out to give her an encouraging hug and tap on the shoulder.
"It'll be okay, sweetheart. You're with m-"
"Don't touch me!" she hissed, almost loud enough to wake the officers. She bolted upright but then fell back down onto the blanket they were resting on instantly, turned away from him. "Let's just...sleep. I'll feel better in the morning, I just need to...forget about all of this."
Matt was hurt by her frosty demeanor, but somewhere deep inside his mind where his own fears resided he understood how she felt. He gently said goodnight but did not reach out to touch her again; hopefully tomorrow she would take his words to heart. Hopefully. He wasn't so sure if he himself could do it.
VVVVV
The assembly was divided in half between black and white. Perhaps that was a bit too general for some people, but that was the way Simeon Thell saw it. No matter what kind of palette you assigned to the two sides, though, the divide between the men loyal to Simeon and the men loyal to Shandra was clear. They sat on their separate sides and watched as Simeon, standing before the dais, confronted his mother.
"A direct refusal to follow orders, coupled with refusal to accept transmission of said orders to willing secondary officers as well as denial of loyalty and oath to the high office of his late Lord Arstas Thell, succeeded now by the absent Lord Keldon Thell," her aide spoke, unrolling the document as he went. It was not particularly long, but the legal jargon was still dull, and Simeon stood wordless and motionless as he read.
"Do you deny your crimes?" the aide asked when he finished. Simeon shook his head, a wordless response. His mother, sitting at the center of the dais, was hardly thrilled to be within fifty feet of him, much less right in front of him.
"You defied orders coming directly from your father, and now from extension by your brother, with whose voice I speak," Shandra announced, as cold as frost. "This is near treason."
"Is it treason, though?" Simeon questioned.
"Very nearly so. You refused multiple orders, not just one. The entire plan could have fallen to pieces, and your father could have died in vain!" Shandra scolded him.
"You're one to speak of treason," Simeon shrugged. Shandra rose at this challenge, visibly unnerved by his defiance.
"How dare-"
"Give a man your promise, and stab him in the back later. Runs in the family, I suppose," Simeon continued, unfazed.
"You stand accused of treason, and you have the gall to accuse me of something!?"
"I guess I do, now that I've done so. And I will continue to do so. What will you do? Have the guards arrest me?" Simeon asked. Everyone knew what he referred to. None of his men spoke or rose, but almost all of them were now glaring at Shandra, stern and disapproving. Not a single one of them would follow any order that she gave, for their allegiance was to Simeon. He had earned it; she had not.
"You wield your power like a brute wields a club. You stand no chance against a skilled master wielding a sword," Shandra declared.
"That master is not as skilled as you would think," Simeon said.
"The army of Thellden outnumbers your guard force three to one. Do you really think-"
"That my lascivious, stubborn, thick headed brother can effectively use them to bring his sibling to your feet? I hardly think so," Simeon interjected, cutting Shandra off. The latter was turning as pale as curdled milk, her hands balling into fists.
"Becoming impatient?" Simeon taunted.
"You owe your allegiance to your father and to his successor!" Shandra snapped, still standing.
"My father, whom you murdered?"
"I will not stand such a filthy accusation!" Shandra cried as soon as the words left his mouth, and several of her aides rose as well, either in shock or anger.
"Baseless accusation!" one of them shouted.
"That is treason in itself, such foul words!" another yelled, pointing down at Simeon. Several of the officers on the other side of the assembly tenuously rose, but when at least twice as many of Simeon's men stood, the officers loyal to Shandra sat back down, attempting to avoid confrontation. After the first men had risen, one of the older members of Shandra's council, an aged knight who rarely spoke, finally stood up and cleared his throat, loud enough that he captured the attention of the assembly.
"You accuse your lady mother of murdering your own lord father, her husband, and accuse her only hours after his blood has run cold. These are dangerous words, Lord Thell," the knight spoke, stoic as stone. "Do you truly mean this?"
"I mean to expose her for what she is. I refuse to believe that my father happened to take an accidental crossbow bolt to the back, if he orchestrated all of this," Simeon spoke to the entire crowd. "She lies."
"He lies!" Shandra screamed. "He seeks to throw me down and take power for himself!"
"That is baseless as well," the old knight spoke, retaining the attention of all but Shandra. "It is difficult to say who is right and who is wrong. There is hardly any evidence."
"If you look closely, good sir, you will find the evidence. And with the right amount of money, you can dredge up witnesses as well," Simeon said.
"You are suggesting bribery, my lord. That is almost as shameful of a display," the knight told him. "This is getting us nowhere," he said as he turned to Shandra.
"Justice will find its path to the guilty in due time, Simeon," Shandra warned him, turning to face him. "And when that time comes, you will regret your defiant attitude."
"Justice is only in the eye of the beholder. You would do well to remember that, mother," Simeon warned. He had no more words for her, even though she was turning paler with every moment. He turned around and walked out, unhindered by her aide calling for him to halt. With their leader exiting, the other officers loyal to Simeon departed as well, with nobody to hinder them. Even the guards at the door to the keep made way, unable to bring themselves to exercise enough authority to block Simeon. They weren't on his payroll, but they respected him enough to let him pass.
"This is a massive transgression of justice-"
"I will hear no more of it until tomorrow. We will bring him to his knees one way or another," Shandra interrupted her aide.
"He is your son, my lady-"
"No son of mine defies me," she interrupted the aged knight as well, the last voice of reason in the room. "If he wishes to follow this path, he is not my blood." She turned to her judiciar, the man who took records and acted as official scribe for the assembly. "Prepare the Court of People and write a judicial document for my son. In the name of the leader of this city, I am officially relieving him of his command."
VVVVV
