The Descent: Chapter 8

Arrawnt watched patiently from the front door of the mansion as a parade of carriages rumbled up to the gate. Henchmen scurried about under Fidelity's orders, guarding against possible assailants; behind Arrawnt and Campbell assembled the rest of the family, whispering quietly among themselves as they watched the controlled chaos. It was a big day indeed: the Don was coming home.

As the new head of the family watched healers unload his father from the center carriage, he reflected on how miraculous it was that Domaric was still alive. The days after Braff's slaying had been utter mayhem. Don Basanda had openly sworn to avenge her son, and the three other families had sympathized with her. The people of Vagabond were also furious when they learned their captain of guards had been cold-bloodedly murdered. It was one family against everyone else, with few rules and little restraint. Arrawnt was surprised not a single family member has been killed yet.

The man everyone wanted their hands on was, of course, Medion. Basanda had demanded his head, and told Arrawnt she'd consider peace only when the murderer of her favorite son was dead. Arrawnt had told her to go to hell. Braff started the whole mess and deserved to die. Everyone in the family was proud of Medion, even if they didn't appreciate the violence. They were determined to see him elude retribution from their enemies. Arrawnt and Grantuck had shipped him off to a safe haven in secret; no one else was supposed to know where he was. Arrawnt wondered how his little brother was coping with having a bigger price on his head than anyone else at the moment. He wondered when they'll be able to welcome Medion back home.

But for all the casualties, Medion's gambit seemed to have paid off. The Dons were as ruthless as Braff, but they had respect for their old rival. Not a single assassination attempt was made on the ailing Domaric. Most of the deaths on both sides were limited to henchmen and the occasional business associate. The people of Vagabond, whose anger was initially every bit as terrible as Basanda's, gradually became pacified as Grantuck had the stories about Garzel's corruption released into the papers. The popular sentiment in Vagabond now was that Garzel got what he deserved for betraying the public's trust and working for a gangster. Basanda's fury could not vanish as easily, but as time went by the other Dons began to withdraw their support and minding their own businesses. It seemed that Domaric's family had indeed rode out the storm. Soon, Arrawnt knew, it would simply be Basanda versus them. And given Braff's popularity with his own relatives, Basanda could not hope to prevail alone. She'd have to concede and sue for peace.

Arrawnt and the others moved aside as Uryudo and a Kyantaur healer carried Domaric into the house. Grantuck directed them to the Don's bedroom on second floor. Grim and silent, the procession made its way up the stairs. That Domaric was stable enough to be moved home didn't mean he was out of danger; the aged body still needed plenty of rest to recover from the horrible injuries.

After the Vagabond healers have been paid, thanked, and shown the way out, the family gathered around their patriarch. Domaric was tired but fully conscious. Arrawnt watched as the kids read get-well cards to their grandpa, then shooed the women and children downstairs to prepare lunch for the family. There was still business to discuss for those who ran the gangster empire.

"Things have been bad since Garzel and Braff's killing," began Grantuck. He played the role of the war counselor flawlessly, to both Domaric and Arrawnt. It was his way to put business before everything else. "Governors and mayors in every city and town were being pressured to crack down on our operations. We can't do business—and neither can the other families—while things are like this."

Arrawnt attempted to justify their decision to waste Braff. "They hit us, so we had to hit them back."

Domaric nodded weakly at his eldest son, then motioned for Grantuck to continue. The dragonnewt said, "Thankfully, our contacts with the newspaper companies were very cooperative. They released just about every bit of dirt on Garzel. The Vagabond folks are feeling forgiving now, and so are those big officials. The pressure is letting up, pops. Things will be back to normal, soon."

Mageron piped up. "I'm leaving Storich and going back to Saraband, pops. I'm thinking of giving up the performing career and learning to run a hotel, or a casino. There's a lotta money in that, and I'll be able to contribute to the family business more."

Domaric acknowledged that with a faint smile, and for a moment seemed to be drifting off. Arrawnt was about to lead his brothers and Campbell and Fidelity out when his father's voice asked worriedly, "Where's Medion?"

An uncomfortable silence ensued. Arrawnt looked about, and saw no one eager to break the news. He sighed, realizing his responsibility, and told his father, "It was Medion...who killed Braff and Garzel."

Domaric's eyelids fluttered angrily. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then shook his head, as if in despair. A strange sorrow and understanding seemed to pass over his face. Arrawnt took the chance to escape, and the others followed him.

Arrawnt stopped Grantuck before the advisor entered the dining room. "We can make this end quicker, you know. Just find out where that whore Basanda is hiding, and waste her too."

Grantuck stared at him. Disbelief and impatience seeped into his voice. "Arrawnt, things are just starting to loosen up. You kill Basanda now everyone will be after us again! Just, just let Father recover, so he can make the deal with the other Dons. It'll be better this way."

Arrawnt disagreed. "Pops can't do nothing till he gets better! And during that time Basanda'll still be messing with us! I say we take care of this now. I don't believe she had nothing to do with Braff's decision to take out Pops. You know, the same trick with Braff might work on her. Some of her own people would love to see her gone."

"We kill her too, the other families will realize what we're up to! No one's gonna cooperate with us again; in fact they'll be more eager than ever to eliminate us. Arrawnt, you're giving us a very nasty reputation, which isn't helping, you know that?"

"Isn't helping what?" Arrawnt demanded.

"The business! We're running out of money fast, you know. This war of yours is costing us too much. We can't go on like this!"

"Well don't worry about it, the other families aren't doing business either! We have always been more powerful—that's how we survived the days since Braff was wasted. We can hold out."

Grantuck rolled his eyes. "Our power and resources came from Father's years of maintaining peace between the families and doing good business. We've wasted enough of it already. Any more we'll be broke. Even if we take out Basanda, she'll drag us down with her!"

Arrawnt had depleted his small reserve of patience. "Look, stop telling me it can't be done, just do it! Goddamn it, if I had a real war counselor, a human, we wouldn't be in this mess! Father had Rogan—who did I get?"

His adopted brother glowered and said nothing. Arrawnt realized he'd stepped over a line and tried to reconcile. "Look...I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. Um, mom's made lunch. Let's go eat, eh?"

Grantuck walked past him. "Alright."

Melinda, Isabella, and Arrawnt's wife Sandra had prepared a wonderful feast. The family sat around the table, enjoying the first family meal in a long, long time. Without the presence of guards in the room, the atmosphere was relaxed, even cheerful.

Isabella and Sandra chattered about recipes while Melinda fed little Arrawnt Jr. Arrawnt mentioned to Grantuck, "You know it's ironic that the Vandals are actually having a pretty good time with the big officials now that everyone's attention's on us..."

Crewart sneered. "Those damn brutes. They don't seem too broken up over their buddy Braff's death."

Arrawnt was about to agree when Isabella looked up resentfully. "Pops never discussed business at the table."

Crewart glared at his wife. "Hey, shut up, don't you interrupt Arrawnt when he's talking."

Arrawnt glowered at his brother-in-law. His voice was filled with menace. "Don't you ever tell my sister to shut up."

Isabella looked worriedly at her big brother. "It's no big deal..."

Melinda shook her head at Arrawnt. "Don't interfere, dear."

He nodded sullenly and went back to his food. The tension slowly melted away, and everyone began gossiping again.

Then Crewart said, "Hey Arrawnt—I could be helping out a lot more with the family business, you know. Maybe we oughta talk about that..."

Arrawnt didn't even look at him. "We don't discuss business at the table."

Medion may have been hundreds of miles away from all the chaos, but his mind was in such turmoil it was as if he never left Destonia. Sitting alone in his room, high up between the branches of the ancient, massive trees of Stamp village, he brooded over the past and mused worriedly about the future.

Just outside his door sat his two bodyguards, Garosh and Bernard. Not far from his humble abode lived Mr. Hans. Medion knew his father has helped Mr. Hans before, and realized the wood elf was paying his debt by taking in Medion. He wondered whether Hans now rued begging aid of the Don, as he's more or less invited the troubles of the outside world into the secluded haven. Hans should have known Domaric never granted a favor without an eye to future benefits. For normal, peaceful people, doing business with Domaric was a desperate act indeed, and one they'd very likely regret someday.

Medion wondered how his father was, and wanted more than anything else to see him.

When his thoughts weren't of retribution and killings, he recalled the distant past, with its long-gone innocence, joy, and love. In the stuffy little room those memories were like perfume and candles, wine and music. Sometimes he'd see himself as a boy again, running without a care all over the estate, playing with his father's 'employees.' At other times he'd think of Synbios, and the smile that came with sweeter memories would turn sad. He still remembered very clearly her face, her voice, her touch. He remembered that night in the dark hotel room, when she'd asked him to run away with her. To his ears, his refusal now rang like an ironic reminder of his choice and actions.

He began to write letters to her, then, even though he knew they'd never be sent. In his letters he tried, again and again, to explain why he did what he's done. He tried to justify how he'd thrown away their future, to make her realize he hadn't lied, at least not intentionally, when he told her he'd never become like his family. He loved his family; he loved her—and he was forced to make a choice. That was all.

After a month of this Medion got tired of being stuck in the room, as if it was not a nest but a birdcage. The young man realized there was no telling how long he'll have to live in Stamp. It could be twelve months or twelve years. After all, he'd ruffled the feathers of Don Basanda, who was not a docile mother hen but a cruel bird of prey. Chances were, he'd never be able to show his face in the old town again. And perhaps that was for the best. If he could never fully reclaim the happy past, it would be better if he started anew, here in Stamp. The village was a secluded paradise he'll enjoy, despite his years in the cities. He might actually learn to love the place like home, and never have to go back.

So he proposed touring Stamp a bit. The bodyguards leapt eagerly up. An entire month on their bottoms made them welcome any hint of action, however remote and unlikely. They cheerfully slung their bows and arrows over their shoulders, like a couple of hunters out for game, and trailed their master outside.

It was in this way that Medion met Hedoba.

At first, Mr. Hans fretted over Medion leaving the safety of his treehouse. He reminded him whenever they met that Medion's life was his responsibility. It was apparent that Hans thought Domaric would have the entire Stamp crashing down around him if anything ever happened to Medion. But as Medion promised to remain within the village and never go anywhere without his guards, Mr. Hans relented, and even took pleasure in discussing with Medion the sights of his beloved home.

Bernard didn't talk much, but Garosh pestered Medion constantly to speak about Destonia. When it came to big cities, the blue-haired archer had only been to Saraband, where he learned to envy the rich lifestyle of the cityfolks. He hoped Medion would be pleased with his service and take him to Destonia when he went back. Medion didn't have the heart to tell him he didn't know himself when he'd be able to return home.

One day, even Garosh's ceaseless chatter was paused when they climbed onto a platform set high up in the trees. There, singing and dancing above a sea of clouds like angels, were a dozen wood elf girls. Silent, spellbound, the three men watched them.

One of the girls broke away from the group to watch a soaring skylark. She recoiled in surprise when she ran into the three men, hidden behind vines. Her eyes met Medion's for an instant. She murmured something, blushed, then ran back to her friends.

Numbly Medion turned and descended from the platform, his bodyguards following quietly. Bernard commented, "It seems as if you were hit by a thunderbolt."

Mr. Hans was waiting with lunch when they arrived at his place. The elderly wood elf smiled warmly. "So boys, where have you been this morning?"

"We saw some real beauties," Garosh piped up. He slapped Medion's shoulder. "I think this guy here fell in love."

Hans laughed. "Be careful son, the girls here are more dangerous than swords and knives."

Everyone chuckled, and Medion had to agree. "She would have tempted the Vandal King himself."

Their host leaned back. "The girls here are virtuous, though. So what did this girl look like?"

Garosh considered. "She was in this green and white dress, rather revealing if you ask me..."

"She has long, brown hair, flowing like willows in the wind," added Bernard with a poetic touch. "And such eyes! Such a mouth!"

Medion noticed their host had become pale at the description. Before he could interrupt his men, Hans stood abruptly and disappeared into the back room, yelling orders. Curious, Garosh followed and peeped through the curtain. He returned agitated. "Oh damn, I get it, it's his daughter! Let's go Medion, or he's gonna kick us out himself."

Medion felt no nervousness, and not because Hans still owed Domaric a debt. He ordered calmly, "Garosh, go ask him to come and talk with me."

Garosh shook his head, and Bernard shrugged. "You don't understand—that girl is his daughter!"

"I realize that. Ask him, Garosh."

The henchman shook his head at his boss's nonchalance and stepped warily into the back. A moment later he returned, trailed by Hans and two of the wood elf's hired hands. They looked apprehensively at the men their boss wanted them to throw out, and hesitated.

Medion ignored them and addressed Hans directly. "I apologize if I offended you, sir; I meant no disrespect, to you or your daughter."

Hans nodded irritably. His hired hands looked relieved. Medion continued, "Now you know very well who I am, and who my father is. We wouldn't want to disturb your way of life. But I can offer your daughter much—if you'll allow me. I ask to meet her, with your permission, under the supervision of your family."

The elderly wood elf looked both glad and worried. Dealing with Domaric has made him presume Medion wouldn't act half so decently. He pondered for a long moment, then apparently decided there was less harm in honoring his guest's wish. Medion saw his nervous eyes and knew Hans was remembering, once again, just what Medion's family was capable of. He said, "Come around in a couple of days. We'll have a little party. If my daughter agrees to your courtship, we can start from there."

Medion stood, bowed, and prepared to leave. At the door he turned and asked one last question: "Pardon me, but what is your daughter's name?"

"Hedoba."