Chapter 15:

That Which Festers

His eyelids fluttered open. Where…? His back arched instinctively, and a growl slipped loose from his throat at the protest in the left side of his chest. Despite his muddled head though, Gerhalt remembered. At least a little and that was enough to help him know he'd rather not remember.

He breathed in and out carefully, trying to test how bad the wound in his side was. A whimper escaped his mouth. Gods, it hurt. There was a terrible sense of weight and immobility over half of his chest. It hurt to move. It hurt to think. It hurt.

But Gerhalt was more afraid of slipping back into insensibility than he was of the pain. His thoughts were scattered, his memories fuzzy, but he knew he'd spent most of his time recently either unconscious or in a fevered daze. He couldn't be unaware again, or he might never have the freedom to ponder his… circumstances.

He took a deep breath, choking down the cry of pain at the constriction of his chest, and then dug his hands into either edge of the bedside, trying to prop himself up, the better to remain alert. The effort was surprisingly easy for five seconds or so, and then a burning feeling of unholy agony swept through his side, his chest, and his ribs. Gerhalt roared, and his vision leaked away from him in streaks of darkness.

His eyes narrowed. There was an assortment of craggy looking men moving in various ways up and down the trail. And at the top was some kind of built… observation post. Unconsciously gnawing at the calluses around the tips of his fingers, Jellik glared narrowly at Forsyth's back.

They'd been traveling hard for two days straight into the western mountains, and now had apparently reached their destination. But the northerner had spoken no word of there being more men awaiting them, and Jellik hated surprises.

One of the bigger men, all solid muscle Jellik noted with a quickly appraising eye, roared and vaulted forward off of a tree stump. "Forsyth!"

Huge, imposing, he caught Forsyth in what could only have been a crushing embrace. Jellik's lips twitched as he studied the man a little more closely. A big bearded lout of a fellow, with a mass of scars on his hands and wrists… Probably more capable than he acted, but less than he looked.

Forsyth nimbly spun around, slapping the man's shoulder. "This is Urzo. He's going to be our overseer."

Clovis stood nearby, looking dour, chewing at some leaf or other. He merely nodded. Jellik said sharply, "You said nothing about any overseer."

Forsyth arched a brow, smirking at him. The scar on his cheek flowed into an absurdly fitting dimple. "I told you no more than you needed to know, Jellik. As you yourself keep teaching us, caution is everything."

For a moment Jellik considered a direct response to that, then thought better of it. "Why are we here?" He made a vague gesture to encompass all of the bustling activity. There had to be at least twenty workers there, and if they were all this Urzo's men, and Urzo had a history with Forsyth… He was pleased to note the way his dagger glinted in the sun. "How does this accomplish our goal?"

"We're building here," Forsyth answered, curtly. "There are rivers that course through the heart of these old mountains. We're damming one of the bigger ones. Or, at least Urzo's men are. There will be other, minor tasks for some of the rest of us."

Jellik spun around neatly on his heels, feigning nonchalance. Damming a river? What nonsense is this, now?

"Where are you going?" Forsyth, as always sounded rather smug. "You can play with your new toy, later." The northerner's eyes flickered lazily over to where the inert bundle of the unconscious mage lay. "As it happens, there is a specific task for which even your talents are needed, Jellik."

He turned back, a muscle in his cheek twitching. "Captain knows best," he muttered.

"Yes, he does. We're strongly camped here, but supplies are a bit of a problem. We'll want them from Yeel. That'll be your jurisdiction."

"What?" The implications were staggering. "You want me to steal from the Y-"

"As you know," Forsyth put in blandly, "Yeel will be the chief beneficiary of our work here. We've been over that. No, you won't need to steal anything. Or at least, probably not. But," and here he waved a languid hand, "who else amongst us would the Yeeli feel sanguine about selling to? Or even setting up a relay system for the benefit of?"

Jellik considered for a moment, needing to believe those obvious lies and loathing Forsyth all the more for that necessity. Oh, if only the man wasn't so powerful as to be a god slayer, what then? The incision of all of Forsyth's thinly veiled barbs was not fatal yet, however. "That mage was spying on us," he returned to his earlier desire to interrogate the prisoner.

"Ah yes." Forsyth had the gall to look abashed, stroking the scar on his cheek. "And yet it seems to me that intelligence gathering is not one of your specialties, Jellik, considerable though those are. Still, we can go over all of that tonight. I assume you'll want to inspect the area?" He grinned. "Urzo's boys are very good though. It's quite secure."

Gears whirled, circumstances sliding into place. So many possibilities, so many variables. The facts, however, were the same that they'd been since Forsyth had killed the Captain. "Yeel," Jellik said, flatly, his eyes not quite there. If he went to Yeel, what then? After all these years, it would give him an opportunity to look into one or two matters that had not quite been concluded. Abruptly, Jellik smiled, his good humor was (or as much of it as he could have, given the uncertainty of new men being all around him) restored. "Why not?" Forsyth's mouth twitched a lift at the corner. It occurred to Jellik that Forsyth feared him. That thought brought a glow into his eyes.

"Well," Urzo bellowed, reminding everybody that he was there, "You've got details, but I've got details! And a feast. Let's talk about my details, eh?" One meaty hand enveloped Forsyth's shoulder, but the man shifted his weight with a cat-like grace, being not at all off-balance from the touch. Jellik could only marvel once again at the smoothness of Forsyth's training, wherever he had gotten it.

"Ah yes," Forsyth said, his expression lightening. "We are rather tired, old friend. You've got stores laid by?" The two of them stepped off, continuing in much the same vein.

Jellik stood there, watching them go. He gnawed at his lower lip, resisting the urge to just kill Forsyth and have it over with. There were still other pleasures in this life, and at least this way, whatever insane scheme the northerner possessed, Granseal would be destroyed.

He turned and found Clovis loitering uncertainly by his shoulder. "Why do you ride with us, traitor?" He started off, a ways back down the mountain trail, infuriated at the need to be reduced to this. For a god slayer though… And besides, Jellik thought, how could mere sunlight be so beautiful? Sloping through the mountains like this, piercing tree, flower, and water alike. He felt the uncharacteristic tug of sentiment on his heart as he thought of the Yeeli, living by these mountains for centuries. It's been so long. He blinked back a sudden burning in his eyes. "I've quite forgotten," he said, knowing by the footfalls that Clovis still followed.

"You'll get no pleasure baiting me." The sound of expectoration. Finished, doubtless with those disgusting leaves that he was so fond of chewing. "By my lights we both betrayed Granseal."

Jellik turned, pebbles scrambling away from the abrupt motion in his ankle, his knife in his hand. Clovis's sword was trained on his chest, the older man's eyes wary. "You want to finish this here? Forsyth won't mind. Urzo's boys obviously aren't starving so he doesn't actually need you."

Clovis spoke, Jellik surmised, more to assure himself than to he did to Jellik. Such were the foibles of men. No, of more concern by far was the fact that he hadn't heard the sound of Clovis's sword being drawn. He took half a step back, slipping his knife back into his belt. "That ready for me?"

Clovis did not sheath his blade, but he did lower the point. "I fought with a man like you once. Pays to be careful."

Jellik's mouth quirked. For a traitor, it certainly would. Still, Clovis was delightful fun. It had been far too long since Jellik had had anyone so near to his own level to compete with. Such were the hardships of being an assassin. He turned, peering up the slope. "Come," he murmured striking off of the trail. "If I remember aright, there's a path out behind Yeel this way. I want to see if it's still there."

He strode off, not waiting for a reply and a few moments later the telltale sound of crunching leaves in rhythm sounded behind him.

His forehead was slick with sweat… the wages of his agony. Cursed arrogance. His life, his life had been so far gone for so far long. Astral of Granseal was old, so old and frail and to what great causes had his life gone? To what mighty purposes?

He had always been an unkind man, he saw, with an eagle's eye. Too eager for power, arguing at every turn and always in the service of a vain and apathetic king. He had been… His back arched in electrified alarm. Again… again these are not my thoughts! But how?

"The resilience of you creatures has never ceased to fascinate me," his tormentor resumed, his voice holding the air of confession. "You're too distracted to believe me wizard, but for your frail body to so resist these efforts to own your mind is incredible. It's your magical training, I suppose. You're certainly the most accomplished of your kind that I can presently recall. Have you ever wondered about the sources of magic, wizard?"

Pain slackened off for a moment and the exhaustion crushed what little resistance he could gather. "Don't understand," he rasped, knowing in that peculiar way that a man who can only choose his versions of torment can know that the complaint was hollow.

Pure roiling agony swept through his mind. Sir Astral had come to recognize this as the uncoiled fist of the devil's power. A direct blow. His captor seemed to reserve that punishment only for what insolence angered him. "Knowledge, wizard, knowledge for knowledge, that was the agreement! Surrender your knowledge and I will allow you glimpses of eternity!"

Astral writhed knowing that he had only seconds before the next blow. The devil loved tormenting him with false hopes. The blow never came. His eyes flickered open and in the shadow of the wall, he saw the ratman. "My lord," the shaman began, "can be stern, I realize. It grieves me personally that all your talent should be wasted on this futility."

Astral endeavored to breathe and sucked in a startled gasp at the continued absence of agony. "I do not… remember," he murmured.

The ratman smiled, waving a free paw. "Shaita," he introduced himself. "You know, this isn't the first time I've witnessed this either." For a moment a shadow hung across the ratman's mouth. Astral stared at it. His mouth seemed too wide. "I discovered my lord some time ago. If you offer your power to him, he will-"

"He wants the unification!" Astral groaned, his eyes opening again in the horror of realization. "Lies!"

"Wizard!" Always the same, always bombastic and jubilant… always there. "So you do know of those ancient wars. You'll have to forgive me this invasion, but for this subject… I need your face."

Faster than the human eye could follow something dark and powerful snaked forward, molding itself across Astral's cheekbones. He screamed.

Sweat rolled down Clatt's face. It was this which first stirred him from the stupors of insensibility. His head was rather sore as well, though thankfully he didn't recognize any other symptoms of a hangover. It took him a few moments to connect his disjointed thoughts with his last clear memories.

The knife at his throat. Safe then, to assume that he'd been captured. Tears sprang to his eyes. It wasn't bloody fair. Why was he always waylaid by these small and unimportant concerns? A great man such as himself should not have to deal with it.

He blinked several times owlishly, though he made no effort to move. The longer that his captors thought he was still out, the more chances he could learn something that would get him out of this predicament and quickly.

Instead, Clatt did what he had always done best: kept his head down long enough to get the lay of the land. It had served him well, even when High Commander Lynx had made doing so virtually impossible. He had always had his observational prowess to rely on.

He could hear the harsh sounds of grunting and movement, laughter and axes. But not of battle. He was at the site of some activity, that much was certain, but little more was certain than that. And overall, he had to acknowledge that that made his position much worse than it might have been otherwise. Indeed, had something been going on that would allow Clatt to escape then that was one thing, but if this was merely some tight operation then he was in a bad way.

The mage exhaled. If only he could think! Clearly his options were limited. Reaching on his power might get him out of this pit, but it wouldn't likely get him away alive. Too many axes too close for comfort and he was in real danger of dying, oh… Calm!

He looked at his hands and found that they were shaking. Could he call on his god's powers, pray to his mysterious new lord? Would it be safe to do so? Clatt thought not. Whoever his patron was, that power had wanted him to serve. Not to require rescue. The one other possibility, then, was Lemon. But where could the cursed swordsman have gotten himself off to? He could scry Lemon, he supposed. That would probably be easy enough to conceal, but it would be better to wait until the night.

Indeed, all of Clatt's best options resolved around waiting for the moment. And little though he liked more dangerous waiting, survival was Clatt's finest area of expertise.

Lord Paul Chelsted's body felt fluttery. Strangely dislocated from the present. It was as though he could feel the shimmering waves of greatness enclosing him. He drew in a long breath appreciating the sensation in his head, so light, and yet so clear… He uttered a mild curse. His mind was wandering again.

He leant forward, straightening his back, seeking for a more comfortable position. The satin coverlets creased and then remolded themselves to him. The enormous pillows barely moved. He lifted one finger. "Again."

Tiberius's mouth was tight with bad humor. "My lord-"

"Again. We must arrive at the truth of this matter."

"Lord Saentz rode out to ambush Lord Bowie's forces. Nothing has been announced, but Lord Odney has returned, alone. We must assume that Lord Saentz and all his power have been annihilated."

Tiberius was one of those rare men for whom resentments decided. In most cases that Lord Paul Chelsted could presently recall men defined themselves by their fears, by their weaknesses. Men, in essence, had a desire to forget the particulars and focus on the broad strokes of their lives. This recognition was one of many that spoke to Lord Paul's own brilliance for he saw beyond that. But Tiberius, he reluctantly had to concede, was a greater man than he had initially given him credit for. Tiberius forgot nothing. "Lord Saentz is dead or near enough that he can make no practical difference."

Lord Paul's first several nights had been an agony. It was the wine back in Nikki's room that had done it, slicing open the palm of his hand on that unclean ceramic. Healing magic was not nearly as efficacious at curing disease as it was in preventing it. Once those poisons spread through the body… Lord Paul Chelsted had wept. He had flailed, clenched at his coverlets, resisted, begged, threatened, re-visited more old memories than he cared to mention and through it all, he had wept in gratitude.

The illness was a rebirth, he now realized. The first thought, the first coherent thought that had come to him was the realization that this world must not end. He had recalled his mission and it puzzled him now with the bemusement of one who has moved past a madness to recall how sidetracked he had been earlier. The gods had sent him a comet and he had done no more than to… rail against their circumstances. It had been a mistake, Lord Paul could now acknowledge with a clearer head, to think that the power was meant to come to him before Lord Kronos. Kronos… Kronos was a man who created a much more congenial atmosphere for true stability to be restored. Stability, after all, was only valued in its absence. "And Odney has practically walled himself into his quarters you say?"

"My lord," Tiberius snapped, no longer bothering to even pretend patience, "that hardly matters now. We've war with Granseal all over again, whether we'd will it or no. This is a time to strike!"

"Nobody could possibly accuse you of being devious, General." Lord Paul admired the way the sunlight streaming through the window framed Tiberius, played across his face. Yes, he was coming to appreciate the virtues, few though they were, of this violent man more all the time. And subtler too than one might expect. "Go to Kronos, Tiberius. Beg him for useful employment. We are at war as you so justly point out and Lord Kronos is the regent until a new king can be selected."

Tiberius's eyes narrowed. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"You want useful employment don't you?" Lord Paul waved a hand not waiting for Tiberius to answer. "Of course you do, you always have. And in such unimaginative arts, you are to be relied upon above all others."

An explosive burst of breath. "You have not inspired confidence, you realize. I warned you not to trust Lord Zocc. I warned you not to-"

"Speaking of Zocc, for the nonce, what is he up to?"

Tiberius scowled. "You'd get a better answer from that man's spies than from me. He doesn't talk to me. Why would he?"

Ricketts came bustling forward out of the background, his eyes slow and dull with stupidity. Nonetheless, Lord Paul felt that fresh surge of gratitude all the same. Ricketts had always been there, every time that he'd needed him. Even now. He idly thought of Nikki again, the light slapping sound of loins straining against each other. All that time taking custom, laughing at Lord Paul Chelsted… the hot urgency of their passion together… oh the insult of being thwarted by a mere cunt! It very nearly aroused him, even with Tiberius's eyes bulging with bad temper.

"My lord," Ricketts mumbled. Lord Paul frowned. It was the most irritating of bad habits, for a man to try to pretend that he was not speaking to you when he was. And it had become increasingly common in Ricketts as Lord Paul was forced through this convalescence. He knows only the man that I was. Brilliant, perhaps, but even then not nearly as magnificent as I have become. Oh, Ricketts doubtless judged him for the affair with Nikki. His head nearly swam at the thought of simply riding in, claiming her… But Nikki's insolence could be dealt with later. There were always other women. Gingerly, Ricketts held forth one of his steaming mixtures. "It's time that you drank this again."

Lord Paul's nose wrinkled. Tiberius rose, tall, broad-shouldered, yet still hunched over. "It is time perhaps that I left you to rest, my lord."

"Nonsense," Lord Paul cried, forcing half of the scalding medicine through his teeth. "Tiberius, we have much and more to discuss." A sudden wave of weakness hit him. "Yet perhaps… I tell you, Tiberius. You must go to Kronos. You must ask him to honor you. If nothing else, it will give us a better notion of his intentions. And Ricketts…" Really, the rigors of rebirth were too much to put up with. He was as weak as any newborn child. "Ask after Odney."

"My lord." Ricketts's eyebrows, they had always looked so wooden, lifted. "Is not Lord Odney now our enemy?"

"I have no use for enemies!" He waved an airy hand, gulping down the rest of the bitter liquid in front of him. "Now leave me. I still must gather strength." Tiberius offered a perfunctory nod and strode from the room. The disrespect was of minimal concern. All Lord Paul needed there was to demonstrate how victory was still to be obtained. And for that… "Leave me," he repeated, more sharply.

Ricketts backed slowly from the room, an expression curiously mixed between tenderness and awe on his face. Does he see truly? Has he finally seen? Lord Paul put the matter of self-congratulations to the side, sorting through the information that he had. The high lords were not truly committed, fickle creatures that they were. That was the lesson he ought to have taken from Lord Jarvos, that day before the sickness swept through him. No matter. He had realized it now and that truth still served.

Lord Kronos was very nearly in his reach… if he could sort through the implications properly. The final push would have to come from Lord Zocc, however. That was clear enough. But how to get Lord Zocc to give him what he needed and to keep his respect at the same time? Damned Granserian customs! They made it impossible for a strong man to move.

Lord Paul stared up at the ceiling, considering. The Green Baron had deceived him once. He sat up again. That initial deception might be just what he needed. Yes. If Tiberius is here or in the field… and Lord Kronos can be goaded. The only question for this plan was one of price. He lay back against the pillows, his thoughts on Lord Zocc and Nikki in equal measure. And what price is a truly great man unwilling to pay for a world that must not end? With Grans itself imperiled, what price indeed?

Wincing at every little moment that he made, Gerhalt clung furiously to the staff. The old man must have left it by the bedside. It humiliated him that he needed to use it, but he still didn't know what actions would strain his wounds too badly.

Still, despite gritting his teeth in pain and humiliation, despite the disturbing memories and half-revelations he was still trying not to consider, this was the first time in days that Gerhalt had felt even remotely fully aware of his surroundings. So for once, the anger and panic weren't too much to deal with.

He limped forward, trying to put as little weight on his right side in general as he could. After a few minutes (more than Gerhalt would ever have cared to admit to anyone who asked) he made it over to the door and out into the next room. His eye roved, cold and appraising. The old man had apparently helped him, but that meant less than nothing. Gerhalt had been stabbed in the back by one of his own men, drugged and half insensate ever since then. Things were not, he knew, always what they seemed.

It was a small cottage, snugly made, though not overly tidy. Mugs, bowls, cups and trays were strewn loosely around various wooden carved chairs and the enormous rough wood table in the center of the room. His host was a carpenter, perhaps. There were a few scrolls lying around and a fairly empty, dusty shelf, though one level of it did have a stack of scrolls. Aside from that, the only item of any abundance was candles.

Gerhalt limped a few steps further forward, to look out of the small window on the north side of the cottage. Afternoon sunlight streamed through the window, making him blink. It had been so long… He started to turn around, and stopped feeling a painful soreness in his throat. It took him a moment to realize that he was thirsty again. He glanced regretfully around the room, half-reaching for one of the cups before he thought better of it. He could not trust the situation, not yet.

Instead, he forced himself painfully over to the door. He'd need to see what things were like outside sooner or later and if he was attacked, he could always kill the old man fairly quickly so long as he didn't try to spring. A beastman's claws were deadly things, even if Gerhalt was half-incapacitated.

Gingerly he hobbled towards the door, and there Gerhalt stood a while. His legs were beginning to feel shaky beneath his own weight; there was a fluttery sensation in his breast. Am I dying? He did not have the strength to pursue this activity, and yet how to ascertain his circumstances else? His claws rested on the latch a moment longer before he grunted in disappointment. He'd have to try again after at least a brief rest. His shoulders shifted back, and the door suddenly creaked forward.

He tried to spin about for readiness and nearly fell to the ground at the sudden screaming protest in his back.

Framed by the slanting sunlight of a dying afternoon, the old man that Gerhalt had only scarcely recalled stood in the doorway. Bald, he was, and long bearded, but wearing the flowery apron of a cook. Gloves were on his hands, and one fist clenched a bunch of flowers.

"Gardening," Gerhalt rasped, not knowing why he stated the obvious, not knowing why the sight of such universal labor brought him fresh desire to weep.

"Wulfling!" The note of surprise was so far buried under good cheer, that had Gerhalt not been listening for it, he doubted he'd have noticed. "A bit more yourself, hmm?" With that the old man stepped forward—Gerhalt's claws tensed in fear—and past him towards the table at the hut's center. Gerhalt stared longingly at the door, a moment. His host had not closed it. But what the meaning of all of this? Some new torment since… the battle… Pain blazed in his side again at the thought. Gerhalt had avoided thinking about his long period of shaky uncertainties. But sooner or later he'd have to think it over, really realize what had happened. There was still so much he didn't know. Only vague impressions. Dare he chance the door? With his wounds, he would be too slow to outrun even the old human, and yet… Dare he not take the opportunity?

"If you plan on staying a while longer," the nasal tones rang out behind him, almost making Gerhalt jump, "then there's dinner in it."

His mouth moved, hesitating over the dozens of questions he could ask. "Dinner," he repeated, his stomach making the decision for him.

The man smiled. "You're from the wars, I see. Bad wounds."

Gerhalt collapsed into a chair, his inner voice screaming at him to run or to attack. But trust had already been given. Trust that had served him poorly once before… "Don't ask me about that." His voice sounded strange in his ears and he realized that he couldn't remember the last time he'd heard himself simply say something.

"I'm Yulfei," the gardener said, holding out his calloused palm.

Gerhalt stared at it, the muscle, the scars… "You've seen fighting too."

"Ah. Yes." The old man turned his back on Gerhalt busying himself at the counter. Soon the smell of fresh bread and raw meat filled the air. Yulfei turned back to him. "I got tired of the killing, though. This might take a while. Can you dress the meat for me?"