Book 3: Chapters 26-30 (Edited) (Patreon)

Chapter 26 - No harm, no foul

The greatest of rivers is formed from the smallest of streams.

- A Quassian aphorism.

After washing off what felt like months of dirt and grime, I was finally able to enjoy simply soaking in the cool water of the bath. The water enveloped me, a balm for my weary soul, as I surrendered to the simple pleasure of idleness. It almost felt like I had achieved a zen-like state of emptiness.

But there was still light left in the day and time was, after all, money. The gold coin I had given Naira would only pay for less than a week. Perhaps I should have been less chivalrous?

Dragging myself out of the bath, I dried myself with a towel and made my way back to my room. God in heaven, it felt good to be clean again. The fairy tales never spoke of the hero’s fight to maintain a certain standard of basic hygiene.

I slipped into the loose, flowing garments favored by the locals in this sweltering climate and attached my sword to my waist. Yet, the sword felt awkward and unbalanced without my armor, leading me to opt for a more manageable knife instead. Now, fully prepared and significantly fresher than a few hours earlier, I set out to see what the rest of my entourage was up to.

“Elwin, Kidu, you alright in there?” I inquired, knocking twice on the heavy wooden door.

“Come in, Gil,” Elwin’s voice responded from within.

The pair had yet to change and bathe, and my nose was made immediately and painfully aware of it. I could not hold it against them, as I, no doubt, was in a similar condition only a while ago.

“You look better. It is good that we have reached our destination. But what is that we must do now?” rumbled Kidu, his giant frame making the small stool that he sat on look almost comedic. Not that anyone would dare laugh at him, of course.

The man had stolen what I was about to say right out of my mouth. “Indeed, we should try to get a lay of the land?” I suggested.

“Just what I was thinking, Gil, there mate,” added Elwin to the mix as he adjusted a buckle at his waist.

“Well, then, let us see what we can see.”

“Beg, your pardon, but the kind of scouting I was thinking of doing is the type that you ain’t best equipped to do. I best do this part by myself, if you don’t mind me saying. Maybe find some people who know some people who know some people. Also, been cooped up with you lunks for months, and a man needs some time for himself, if you be catching my meaning. Big guy, why don’t you go with Gil here, get a little taste of the city life?”

“Later. I must see to the little one,” he rumbled in his gravelly voice.

“Can’t we just take her with us?” I suggested.

“She has grown, how do you warm land people say it, become the slack? She is distracted… she needs focus. She must train. I will see to it,” he responded simply, rolling his shoulders.

“Well, there’s your answer then. Why don’t you ask the redhead?” the Rogue put forth with a wink.

“Yes, there is that. I suppose I will do just that,” I accepted, a little annoyed at being rebuffed.

I left the pair, taking Elwin's suggestion to heart. After all, there were arguably worse ways to spend a late afternoon than with a beautiful woman.

Nearing her door, which was left slightly open due to the finicky latches typical of this place, I could hear the monotonous hum of prayers. Phrases imploring the Goddess for mercy and salvation were being repeated, first by Cordelia’s fervent voice and then echoed by Larynda’s reluctant tone. I wondered if the half-elven child, still so young, should be so exposed to religion. There was a part of me that felt a twinge of sympathy for her.

Deciding it best not to intrude, I left the women to their prayers. Having second thoughts about inviting Cordelia, as having a religious zealous goddess-botherer accompany me about the town might not be the wisest choice, I opted to leave well enough alone.

So, it seemed I was to be on my own for the afternoon.

Realizing I had forgotten my bag, I returned to my room to fetch it, taking care to include my Health and Mana potions. Anticipating frequent use of the spell Identify in this unfamiliar city, and possibly danger, I wanted to be thoroughly prepared.

This train of thought unexpectedly brought Zariyah to mind. Perhaps it was time for her to fulfill her role and show me around. Surely, she must have finished catching up with her mother by now? But then again, women did have a habit of going on when left to their own devices.

Making my way back to the ground floor, I noticed that Begonia’s Shade was gradually filling up. Observing the diverse attire of the patrons, I could discern that the clientele of the inn came from a wide range of professions and social standings. There were what looked like working-class field hands, likely wasting away their modest earnings, minor merchants draped in luxurious silks, and a group of stern-looking men in serious-looking arms and armor. The presence of these armed men made me feel particularly vulnerable without my harness. Naked almost.

I found myself at the bar and took a seat. I asked the bartender where the mother-daughter pair were.

"The mistress and Zari still be in the back room. They're likely to need more time together," he explained. "I've been instructed to offer you anything you'd like. So, what can I get for you, samasa?" he asked, leaning across the bar with his hands spread.

Up close, his distinct features and scars were even more apparent. The pronounced brow ridge gave him an almost ogre-like appearance, and his wide nose, evidently broken multiple times, contributed to his somewhat intimidating demeanor.

Driven by curiosity, I decided to cast an Identify spell on the man.

Laman Al-Qurashi - Soldier (Human lvl.11)

Health: 203/203

Stamina: 38/43

Mana: 7/7

Despite his formidable appearance, I was surprised to find that the bartender was of a relatively low level. He posed no real threat, and I felt almost foolish for my initial apprehension. In gaming terms, he would be the equivalent of a trash mob and easily handled even without my magic.

“I’ll have juice please, something sweet, or wine, twice watered, if you don’t have any juice.” I answered, feeling more confident.

“Sure you don’t want anything stronger? The mistress said to open up the good stuff if you…” he gave me a conspiratorial wink, “I mean the really good stuff. Better than even the stuff we give to some of the hoity-toity types we get every now and again. Got us some Aranthian spirits. If there has ever been a time to open it, can’t think of a better time than now,” he explained with a shrug of his shoulders.

“Laman Al-Qurashi, right?” I replied, enjoying the puzzled look that crossed the battle map of scars that served as his face. “It is still a bit early in the day for me to drink, but please pour yourself something nice,” I offered diplomatically. “You have a look about you, a military man I take it?”

His face broke into a wide smile as he guffawed, "Well, I don't mind if I do." He turned and reached for a dark bottle on a shelf behind him. "It's almost a sin to just leave this beauty sitting up there," he commented. Then, as he poured the drink, he began to share his story. "And yes, I've served before. Got drafted into the levies, and ended up staying longer than I'd planned. Eventually, I realized that risking my life for the glory of the Empire wasn't for me. So, I joined the Mercenary’s Guild, rose to the rank of Claw Leader. The stories I could tell you! Some of my old mates drop by every now and then, and we exchange stories from the old days…"

A new, cultured voice interrupted our conversation.“I heard that someone is offering free drinks, Aranthian spirits no less. It would be wonderful to have a taste of home,” said the alluring feminine voice to my right. “Oh, what do we have here? I can usually tell where someone is from, but you are a mystery…”

Curiously, I turned my head to see who had joined us. I

It was a woman, dressed in a style that was clearly not local. She wore black knee-high leather boots and off-white trousers, paired with a fluffy, frilled short-sleeve blouse that revealed her sun-kissed, tanned skin. Her hair, a fashionable medium length and dark oaken brown, framed her face perfectly. A silver circlet with a green gem at its center adorned her brow, giving her a regal air that contrasted with her bright, sunny smile. My gaze involuntarily drifted down to the silver badge hanging from a copper chain around her neck – an Adventurer’s badge.

“Kaila,” muttered Laman under his breath in an almost exasperated warning.

“Why thank you, Laman, for introducing me,” she drawled, her voice a spun melody, offering me a little wave as she pulled out a stool and sat down one space away from me.

The troubled barkeep shot me a questioning look as if seeking permission. I simply shrugged my shoulders before answering his silent inquiry, “Why not? Pour her a glass. Today is cause for celebration, right?”

I noticed a leather belt cinched at her waist, and hanging from it was what appeared to be a simple wand or scepter, adorned with yet another green gem at its tip. This gem provided me with some hints about her chosen profession. Intrigued by the slightly aggressive and imperious demeanor of the woman, I decided to cast another Identify spell.

Kaila de Arancrai - Enchantress (Human lvl.19)

Health: 175/175

Stamina: 25/26

Mana: 14/16

The woman had a few levels on me, but her attributes were sorely lacking. Unless she had some formidable spells in her arsenal that were of the dangerous sort, I could probably snap her delicate neck like a twig. With a class labeled ‘Enchantress’, I doubted that would be likely.

"Miss Arancrai, I presume?" I offered casually, only to be met with a dainty snort of amusement. Unlike Laman, she seemed hardly surprised by my little trick.

She played with a strand of her hair, not meeting my gaze. "It seems my reputation has finally caught up with me, which is only fair considering the effort I've put in," she said with a hint of pride. Drawing a small breath, she continued, "Yes, I am Arancrai. Kaila Arancrai... And you are, of course...?" Her question hung in the air, a mix of curiosity and challenge.

With practiced finesse, Laman poured the fragrant spirit into three small cups, earning a nod of appreciation from Kaila.

"I am Gilgamesh of Uruk," I replied, a touch flatly, still uncertain about how to deal with this intriguing woman.

"I can't say I've heard of it. Sounds a bit rustic," she responded, raising an eyebrow. "But let's not waste time on formalities. Cheers!" She took a small sip.

“Cheers!” echoed Laman, following suit, and I could only join him. I felt that it would be rude to point out that this was not exactly what I had ordered.

The drink went down, relatively smoothly but still had quite a kick to it. Fruity notes emerged as I savored a second sip. Though I was far from a connoisseur of spirits, the quality was unmistakable, even to my untrained palette. After months of occasionally resorting to swigs of arag, this was a positively delightful change. Still, I couldn't help but wish for some simple juice.

Reminding myself to live more in the moment, I decided against being one of those who whine about every little thing. As I swirled the dark liquid in my cup, preparing to finish it off, I suddenly felt a hand grasp my shoulder.

"Whatcha doing talking to my woman, like, like that? Making eyes at her," an irate, slurred voice cut through the air.

"Sevas..." Kaila and Laman spoke simultaneously, a mix of recognition and apprehension in their tones.

"It's Sir Sevas... I was knighted by the King himself, remember that. I've fought in the Pale Wars. I am a knight," he declared, his words interspersed with sporadic belches.

Sevas, despite his inebriated state, commanded attention. His snow-white hair crowned a ruggedly handsome face, the kind belonging to a man in his youth, barely out of his early twenties. His gray eyes were the color of a misty morning, though dimmed by the excess of drink, burned with the restless energy of youthful indignation. A solitary scar that sliced diagonally across his face, marred, yet at the same time somehow enhanced his appearance, lending him a fierce aspect.

I disliked him from the first, on an almost primal level.

His attire, though stained at the front, was of fine craftsmanship. Like Kaila, he bore a silver badge, not on a chain as hers was, but fastened to the baldric that supported a long, thin sword. A sword that made me acutely aware of my own vulnerability, armed only as I was with just a mere knife.

“That would have made you about ten at the time if you had fought in the wars, boy. We’ve all heard it before,” commented Laman with a huff, rolling his eyes.

“An’ I fought, I tell you. Waz jus’ a boy in the train… I was there when they came. Took up a weapon and fought ‘em back with the men of the line. You don’t be trying to distract me now so you can go back to… I said look at me damn you!” he cried in my general direction, his gaze unfocused as he staggered about, spilling his cup and its contents onto the floor.

Sevas was a perfect example of why I was averse to strong drink, really anything, that robbed you of good sense. If this was the quality of silver-ranked adventurers then it looked like it would be easy for me to get a few promotions under my belt.

“And for the last time, Sevas, I am not your woman,” hissed Kaila, standing up from her stool and sounding like an exasperated teacher. “Gil, from wherever you are, I am so sorry about this. He’s in our party and is always like this when he gets a little deep in his cups,” she apologized backhandedly, looking more flustered and embarrassed than actually apologetic.

Some of the clientele of the establishment had stopped in their conversation and started to look in our direction. Barely settled into my new accommodation and trouble was already finding me.

“...But I left my home and family… for you. ‘Gether we would go onna life of excitement and adventure, new lands, and new sights, or thaz what you said” he whined like a beaten dog, his body starting to tremble with repressed emotion.

Already my hackles had begun to rise as I prepared for a possible fight. Unfortunately, I had gone so native that a barbaric part of me actually welcomed the prospect. I am not a man for starting fights, but I intended to finish this one. Permanently, if need be. The man was basically offering himself to help me reach the next level and it would be rude of me to deny him. Smiling to myself, I realized I was equipped with more than just a knife, I had my magic and a good excuse for casual murder.

“Alright, that’s enough,” said a new man in an exasperated tone long worn with repetition, standing up from his table. He was wearing civilian clothes, dull and drab, and unlike Sevas, was unarmed. He was decidedly average-looking and nondescript, both in appearance and stature. The sort that one’s eyes would overlook on any given day. However, he had a way about him that spoke that he was not a stranger to violence. A fencer’s grace if I was to put a word to it. Outnumbered, I began to have second thoughts about resorting to violence to resolve this situation.

“Sorry, Laman, for the trouble, we’ll take him out of here now, see that he gets back to his room…” the man apologized, giving us an embarrassed smile as he tried to drag Sevas away.

“But… you! You just had to ruin it! You had to ruin everything!” complained Sevas as he struggled against them.

Kaila took one last pull of her drink, draining what was left in her cup before she told the man with a sigh, “Basilio, see to him. ”Sorry about Sevas, he is usually a reliable sort. A good boy and his heart is in the right place,” she offered contritely to me.

“Not a boy!” screamed the young man childishly as he burst free from Basilio, drawing the fine blade at his hip with surprising swiftness.

As the blade descended with the swiftness of a lightning bolt cleaving the sky, time itself appeared to slow. Instinctively, my shield arm rose of its own accord, interposing itself between me and the sharpened steel. I braced for the blade's bite, anticipating a grievous cut, deep to the bone. Yet, to my surprise, his sword clanged off, as if it had encountered something other than just flesh. Was this the work of my Mimic? Convenient, to say the least.

Unbalanced by the sudden movement, I fell off my stool with an unmanly squawk of surprise, hitting my head against the floor. Humiliated, I reached for the knife at my waist as I struggled to get up. Hot anger fuelled by a sudden burst of adrenaline. The bastard had struck at me, and I would have satisfaction.

As I began to rise, still disoriented, I looked for Sevas, but felt a sharp pressure at my throat. It was the same blade that had struck me, but now wielded by Kailas’ crony, Basilio. I felt trepidation and fear sink their claws into me as I eyed the blade and stilled. His sword was steady, as were his eyes, which were a harder gray than even the steel of the blade he held, and set with professional calm that promised an ending for me.

“Sorry about our friend, but I don’t think you will be drawing your steel,” he stated matter-of-factly, in a calm, superior voice that only caused me to seethe on the inside. You did not apologize with a threat.

Laman's growl cut through the tense atmosphere from behind the bar. "Basilio, there's no need to be brandishing a blade at our guests. You know the rules." The common room plunged into an unsettling silence, broken only by the sound of a few patrons who, sensing the brewing storm, quickly left their payments on the tables and hurriedly made their exits.

Having found myself in similar, if not deadlier, predicaments before, I chose to set aside my concerns. Fear had not yet left me, but it was not the sort that renders one into a state of nonaction, but rather the type that sharpens the mind and grants a desperate yet clear focus.

I cast an Identify on Basilio even as I planned my next move.

Basilio Sanseverino - Warrior (Human lvl.17)

Health: 259/259

Stamina: 34/39

Mana: 9/9

He had a common as muck, basic class. I would have laughed at the raw impertinence of his threat if there wasn’t a sharp blade at my throat. But such was life.

Slowly, I got to my feet, reluctantly moving my hand from the dagger at my waist. Basilio totally ignored Laman, and the thin blade followed my rise as I stood up.

The group of adventurers had begun to make their exit, with Kaila shooting me a wry grin and a quick wave before she left. She was helped by a new companion, a portly man of middling height, to keep a struggling childish Sevas in tow.

I remained perfectly still, counting the moments as Basilio backed away with a slow and confident stride, the tip of his sword still pointed at me. In the halls of my mind, I prepared myself, opening up to the sibilant voices that hungered, the voices that fed, and the power they represented.

His eyes remained fixed on me as he crossed the threshold of the inn and stepped outside onto the street. It was the moment I had been waiting for, the moment when he was no longer protected by the guest right of this society's culture. They had not left gifts as they should for their host as amends for breaking the peace of their roof. Thus, they had forfeited their protection, and Naira’s responsibility for them. The moment they left the establishment, doubly so. I had them by the very crude laws that bound them. Not to mention they had been rude. Very rude, the lot of them.

Not wanting to cause trouble for Laman or the inn's mistress, Naira, I had decided to rein in my more violent urges until this moment to adopt the local cultural norms. Realizing that I had grown as a person, I gave myself a pat on the back.

The moment was upon me, and so, with savage glee, I unleashed Rust. My will sped the spell along as I directed the voracious energies at the detestable blade. From the outside came a surprised shout of pain that turned into an agonized shriek. Returning my stool to its upright position, I sat down again and took another sip of my drink. I savored the moment as yet another scream rang out from outside, adding depth to the taste of my drink. It was followed up by the shout of “Basilio” and I imagined the sudden heat released, fusing flesh to metal, as iron was superheated to an incandescent level.

Life was sweet, and I could feel the silent gaze of the remaining guests upon me. Inside, I was grinning, but I made sure not to let that sweet feeling show on my face. Some things are best savored in secret. Sweet justice had been served, and I found it much to my taste.

You have gained 1 Charisma.

The added point to one of my more stubborn attributes only added to my smug satisfaction of a deed well done.

“Laman, pour us another,” I asked cooly, noticing his quizzical expression. He poured me another glass, his silence an unspoken question that I had no intention of answering.

Chapter 27 - Illusions

Be as water in nature, benefiting all things without taking or competing with them.

- A Quassian aphorism.

At times, people can be sources of immense annoyance. I was relishing my drink, almost as much as the delicious moment of spite, when Sevas burst back into the inn. Kaila followed in moments later, her face a mix of exasperation and anger. Was there no respite in this world for me?

A wild-eyed Sevas fixed his gaze on me. “You will pay for harming my man Basilio! I demand satisfaction!” clamored the young man in a clear voice, drawing a knife from his waist and waving it at me.

Round two it was, then.

Laman grumbled from behind the bar, "If you lot continue this way, I'll have to call the guard." He appeared on the verge of spitting on the floor but, recalling his surroundings, halted midway, swallowed, and adjusted the front of his clothing instead.

I took a moment to evaluate Sevas, weighing my options. There was a new violent fire in his eyes, and his voice was now devoid of its slurred dance. His face held a sneer, the kind belonging to someone who had found a lesser to unleash their frustrations upon. This air of superiority, however, was slightly marred as he daintily swiped at a faint green smear at the corner of his mouth with his sleeve. Remarkably, the man appeared to have shaken off the influence of his early drinking.

Even as my eyes took him in, my magic gave me a clearer gauge of the threat before me. Identify, as always, was a wonderful utility spell.

Sevas Soranzo - Spellsword (Human lvl.16)

Health: 223/232

Stamina: 27/42

Mana: 8/9

Sevas, for the most part, had comparable parameters to Basilio. However, it was his class, or calling, as this world called it, that set him slightly apart from the rest. It almost brought a smile to my face with its novelty.

I looked around the room, as the guests who had yet to make their escape made themselves smaller, hunching in on themselves, assiduously looking away from me. There would be no help from that quarter, not that I had been expecting any.

“What is going on here, Laman? I pay you and your guild a small fortune to keep the peace…” came the voice of the owner of the inn.

“Aye, mistress Naira, but these lot be with the Adventurer’s. Silver ranked too, an’ the Mirage of the Sand’s party no less. They looked to me like they were set on leaving all peaceful like, too,” explained the veteran and former soldier. He sounded to me like a schoolchild caught doing something bad. With a resigned air, he drew the mean mace at his waist, more for show than anything else. Naira, it seemed, had very good reason to be annoyed.

“Apologies, but Sevas here was a bit drunk and started something with one of your guests, Gilmamess here,” offered Kaila with a thin-lipped smile, pointing at Sevas in explanation.

Then suddenly, Sevas began waving his knife about as he launched a series of sudden stabs at the… air. It was most odd. His face was a mask of bleak concentration as he fought invisible opponents, ducking and weaving through non-existent blows with a dancer’s grace. Suddenly a look of feral delight overcame him and actinic energies started to run across the blade of his weapon. With a bright grin, he impressively swung ineffectually at nothing, leaving the air tinged with the smell of ozone.

“Just letting Sev blow off some steam, saves him from bearing a grudge. I tell you, he does not enjoy losing one whit. It has been a problem in the past, but I guess that is just a part of him. Right now, Sev here is having an epic struggle with you, one in which he will eventually win,” explained Kaila in a long-suffering voice as she gave me a tight smile. I felt as if someone had thrown a gauze on my perception and my eyes drifted away from her to focus instead on Sevas.

The Spellsword's martial demonstration, though somewhat comical, served as a stark reminder of the threat he posed. I had to stop from getting ahead of myself. His energy-infused strike had been of particular note. The energies unleashed had certainly looked dangerous and destructive. Yet, even more insidious was the Enchantress' subtle display of power. From both her words and class, I imagined that she was somehow manipulating the Spellsword. It was undeniably impressive, if not downright horrifying and evil.

“I would appreciate it if you would do your witchery outside, it is disturbing our guests,” the proprietress interjected archly.

“You need’nt worry about a thing, I placed a Sleep spell on him too,” she continued, in a tired voice that came from explaining the same fact for the umpteenth time, “It should take effect once he has worn himself out a just a bit more.”

Kaila seemed to be in front of me, yet for some reason, the display of her Status was floating a half-step to my right. Another note of worry that for the moment I did not fully understand.

“Now, I’ll be taking these if you don’t mind. Your treatment of Basilio, though not entirely unwarranted, was well a bit much,” she declared saucily, waving… my potions in front of me! Damn the pilfering wench!

Possessed by anger, I instinctively moved forward but halted mid-step. Something in my subconscious, an instinct or some sort of mystical sense, warned me of the folly of this simple action. Heeding this subtle warning, I instead snapped out my arm towards where I sensed the Enchantress' presence.

My hand grasped at what my eyes told me was only air, yet the soft yielding warmth that my hand felt told me that this was a lie. I started to squeeze with feral delight, my fingers sinking deeper into pliant flesh.

Suddenly, as if a veil had been lifted, the illusion shattered and my eyes saw Kaila where she truly was, choking as my hand squeezed about her neck.

“Your little spells will not work on me,” I announced with grim satisfaction. “Now give me back what is mine,” I demanded, lifting her up from off the floor as I continued to choke the life out of her. The heat had left me, instead I felt powerful and liberated.

Feebly she reached out, offering me back the two vials that she had stolen from me. With my free hand, I placed them back into my bag and was about to let the woman go when I felt the unmistakable pressure of yet another blade at my throat.

“Now, you got your little potions back. Now, let Kaila go,” rasped a voice from behind me.

“Will you all please, stop this nonsense!” shouted Naira, her command doing nothing but adding to the confusion of an already very messy situation.

In the media of my old world, the act of choking a life out was often portrayed as a swift, almost effortless deed. The reality was far more brutal. Kaila features were a twisted tapestry of pathetic struggle as she fought back with everything she had, ineffectually kicking at me and clawing at the hand that gripped her throat. She really should have put a few more points into Strength.

I did not release Kaila, and in response the blade dug against my skin, meeting subtle resistance until I could finally feel it drawing blood. Then, I felt it. An almost too subtle displacement of air. Kaila’s eyes widened further, almost like teacups, as I felt the kiss of the blade leave, and heard the knife clanging to the floor.

“Can’t leave you for a moment, can I? This how you deal with all of your disagreements?” came a familiar voice from behind.

I chuckled for a moment at the absurdity of the situation. The tables had indeed been turned. The body of my latest assailant lay on the ground behind me.

“My thanks Elwin, good to know that you are at my back, as always. I can, however, assure you that I am very much the aggrieved party here,” I replied with a little mirth, a small grin stealing its way across my face. The man who had taken me unaware had been sneaky, but the Rogue had been sneakier still.

“Ah, of course. Only that in my experience it’s usually about two men fighting over a woman when they have been drinking a bit too much. First time I seen it where one of the men ended up choking out the girl. This how you impress the girls from wherever it is you are from? A courting ritual? Nothing to get the old juices going like a quick bit of strangulation?” he commented sarcastically, kicking at what I presumed to be the unconscious form of the man who had had a knife to my throat.

I glanced from the still struggling woman in my grip, to Sevas, the remaining threat. The Spellsword seemed to be tiring, his movements growing slower as he wound down, his exertions taking their toll. Almost a mirror to Kaila’s own struggles.

“I am thinking about a more permanent solution for this lot,” I put forth bluntly.

“I would rather you did not, samasa,” stated Naira politely, if not a little too sharply. “Having deaths under one’s roof can be bad for my reputation and business. We have quite a few from the Adventurer’s Guild that come here, and I would look at it as a personal favor to me if you would show mercy,” she requested, bowing formally at the hip, her palms pressed to the back of her head.

“Yeah, killing women. It leaves a bad taste in the mouth,” advised Elwin, muttering something else as he stood next to Kaila. “Would be a waste…”

“Please Master Gilgamesh,” pleaded Naira again. Almost as if in response to this, Laman sidled up from behind the bar to stand with his employer. Or rather, stood behind. A coward through and through, I thought to myself.

For all that she had done, I did not feel like killing Kaila. It didn’t feel right. So just like that, I relaxed my grip and let her go.

She fell unceremoniously to the floor, gasping for air with the desperation of a fish out of water. It was a pitiful sight.

“But is it not written in the surahs? There can be no mercy without justice,” came Cordelia’s lilting voice, cold as the first winds of winter. Great, I thought to myself, another complication. People with their damn timing, I needed her a few minutes ago, not now adding her own little piece.

Cordelia had Larynda in tow, both of them wearing local ‘civilian’ clothing. Yet, despite this, the warrior woman seemed to exude a sense of danger, her words and manner strengthened by the power of her faith. Larynda, on the other hand, seemed to draw into herself, looking furtive and small.

“I believe compensation is due, as is custom in this city, to the aggrieved. Without which we would be forced to take this matter to the courts. Brazen theft, in broad daylight no less, with a whole inn full of witnesses. I believe the ultimate price, should we take these to the courts, would be a hand… and as a servant of the Goddess herself, my testimony would be given great weight,” the red-haired woman stated matter-of-factly, her posture ramrod straight and unyielding.

“And assault and attempted murder,” I added coldly in a flat voice.

“Fine… fine… just leave us alone,” whined the woman on the floor between breaths. It wasn’t quite the voice of someone who had completely lost.

I noticed that the screams from outside had subsided, instead turning into pathetic sobs. As if these were the sounds that heralded the final stages of total surrender, Kaila dejectedly reached for her waist, and threw a jangling coin purse at Naira’s feet.

“For your troubles… Mistress… Naira… the take from our last job. Aranthian coin, gold, and not your worthless paper money…” wheezed Kaila, still not fully recovered.

“The mark of Al-Lazar, in certain places, is trusted more than gold, foreigner. And I care not for the money. Just get out of my inn, now! And rest assured I will be making a formal complaint to the Guild.”

With Elwin giving it a few encouraging kicks, the body at my feet began to stir. Kaila half-crawled to him, bringing a vial to his lips. After a minute he got to his feet, a little wide-eyed, but nonetheless mobile. A quick look around confirmed for him how the encounter had gone. Kaila gently whispered a few words in Sevas’ ear, stilling his flailing motions. She shot me a look, a glance, that was surprisingly without venom or hurt. In silence, Kaila and her unnamed companion dragged a now unresisting Sevas from the inn.

“Free drinks for everyone!” shouted Naira to the silent crowd, a weak whoop of joy following the declaration, only to be swallowed by the silence.

Now there was the matter of my compensation. Surely, I was due something for my troubles?

Chapter 28 - In the Shadow of the Peacock Throne

One can not engage in debate without first understanding your opponent's exact position.

- A Quassian Aphorism.

The woman who looked back at her through the glass was not the same girl who had left for the Grieving Lands months ago. It felt like centuries to her. They said that time did not touch the First Children, but they, of course, were lying. It was in her eyes, she noted, a shadow within that held the signs of the passage of the years. The truth of time's toll was etched deep within her gaze, a haunted hollow that no sunny day or joyful song could truly fill. Nor could wine for that matter, she mused with a bitter twist of her lips as she put down a goblet encrusted with fine opal.

She toyed with a blonde curl, twirling it absently around her finger, as her handmaidens fussed over her. It was a nervous habit from her childhood that she could never quite grow out of. Her thoughts were snared by what was to come. She had been summoned to stand before the throne, and a summon in the wake of failure could mean only one thing. Punishment.

Lady Arimea of the ancient house of Lostariot was worried. Very worried, indeed.

Arimea entertained the idea of fleeing to the far and deep woods, to truly live with the trees, as her more rustic cousins had a penchant for doing. After all, she could hear the song of Mana. How different could it be from hearing the voice of Wood, the tune of sap and sunlight? Not too different, if her reading of the old texts was correct. But there was a shadow, a long and terrible shadow, that cast itself on such a choice. For if she chose such a path, the Immortals of the Eternal Court, the king’s personal guard and faithful hounds, would pursue her. And should they ever catch her, her end would be a grim one, indeed.

No, fleeing was not an option. As with many of life's quandaries, the solution lay not in running away. Her pride and dignity would not allow her to.

She stood up and spread her arms to allow her ladies to apply the last adjustments to her formal dress. When she saw that they were finished, she shooed them off. The next part was something she wanted to do for herself.

The young elven woman, youthful at least by the standards of her race, took up a finely made sword sheathed in Sea Serpent leather scabbard. She drew it, taking a moment to appreciate the wavey forms that ran along the curved blade. A single-edged blade that ended in a deadly, razor-sharp tip.

Among the lesser races of the world, the art of sword adornment varied greatly. A gold-adorned hilt, a finely decorated scabbard, or the splendor of a jeweled pommel were, more often than not, the most common embellishments. Conversely, the elven artisans devoted their mastery to the blade's inherent beauty. Although held perfectly still in her hand, the blade looked as if it was the perfect metaphor for flow, the temper lines mirroring the waves of a cutting sea.

Arimea never had an affinity for the sword, and the weapon was merely part of her social costume. For most of her life, its solid weight at her hip was nothing more than a reassurance. What use had she of learning how to fight with long bits of sharp metal?

However, she had been taught a lesson in the foreign lands.

“Perhaps I should do the weapon the honor of learning its use someday?” she whispered to herself, hoisting the baldric over her shoulder. In honor of the craftsman’s efforts, if nothing else.

Also, if truth be told, she enjoyed the idle titters it caused at court, the martial statement it made at her hip was a contrast to her otherwise very feminine and proper appearance.

Arimea made the last adjustments, tightening a few straps and buckles in the way that Lorsan had taught her years ago.

She had witnessed swordmasters in combat, their movements more akin to a dance than a true battle. The bearers of the Mantis Mark, the mark of one who had truly mastered his weapon, were rare, and to observe two such masters of their craft in a duel was a rarer event still. She had seen Lorsan test a challenger for the Mark once, clashing blades with one of the new generation to see if he was worthy. Even to her, the her who had once looked down at such martial displays, it had been a thing of grace and beauty.

Arima had come back from the Grieving Lands wreathed in shame and failure, for she had been unable to fulfill her holy mission to end the life of an accursed half-blood child. The child’s very existence was an insult to her people, and the prophecies of old and elven society demanded her death. Still, it was a simple quest. How difficult could it be to take the life of a child?

The unexpected had happened. The abomination had had a guardian, a protector of sublime skill and ancient power. Even though she was a mongrel, the Hero had taken the half-blood under his protection.

She had been made to realize that the test for the Mantis Mark had been nothing more than the playfighting of children aping adults. The old Alchemist Hamsa had taught her such. Of the entourage that had journeyed with her to the Grieving Lands, only Lorsan remained. Humility, ever a bitter draught, had become all the more unpalatable when poured by the hands of one's foes.

Even in this age, the humans, the pitiable day spawn, as they were called by the true elves, still had the foolish habit of spending what little time they were allotted on frustrating her people.

Still, in the end, it was she who had slain the champion of the day spawn, the ancient enemy of her kind. To her knowledge, only he, the sum of all men, had overcome death’s shadow. For him, and him alone, that dark spectre was nothing more than interlude. He was an existence that would come back again and again, like some persistent, loathsome mold. A soul that refused to pass across the Shallow River and into the Long Dream.

It was a feat that none of the First Children had been able to replicate.

To all intents and purposes, it had been the crowning triumph of her life, marred only by her failure to kill the half-blood. She had called to the spirits and they had answered her. She had formed the spirit of winter into a spear of ice, smashing through his frail heart and ending the day spawn’s life. Almost as if answering a terrible blasphemy, the Alchemist's shop erupted in a massive explosion that blasted her off her feet.

But for all of her efforts, if the legends were true, were for naught. The human Hero would return.

She touched the burn marks along her bare left arm, her marble skin blemished in several places with ugly scars that no amount of Elven sorcery could heal. Damn the humans and their pointless defiance. Could they not see that the First Children worked to stop another Cataclysm?

Ever since that fateful day, and for mysterious reasons unknown, she felt that her connection to the elemental spirits of the land had grown stronger. She could summon the spirits faster and guide and direct them with even greater precision. Through this communion, she felt that she had come closer to finding the true meaning behind the song of the spirits, the song of Mana, or simply ‘magic’ as the lesser races called it. It gave some credence to the old theory that the gods rewarded great deeds.

But these were old complaints and best left for another time. She could delay the direct summons no longer and she needed to focus on the now.

She departed her chambers, making her way through the summer palace, the train of her formal dress unfurling a crimson wake behind her. Sunlight filtered through high-arched windows, acting almost like beacons that guided her steps. No one would meet her gaze, not Lady nor Lord, nor master or servant. All eyes were downcast in her presence. They all had, of course, had heard of her. The chittering whispers exchanged behind delicate fans that followed her passage were proof of that.

Finally, she reached the oaken doors that led to the Court of the Ancestor Trees. Trees, as she had been told when she was young, by one of her tutors, were the only things that elves had any real affinity for. For only the stoic giants of the forest could hope to last as long as the First Children.

But why not then the long-lived Dragons, why do the elves feel no affinity for the scaled tyrants of the skies? Why was their mark not on any elven design or heraldry?

Her inquiry had earned her a casual slap for her impiety. The elves had no affinity with the dragons, and that was that. Further pursuit of the subject was met with cold stony silence at best and violent deflection at worst.

She had felt that the answer had been a poor one, and the delivery poorer still, in its lack of respect for her station. Years later she had set matters right.

Arimea smiled at the memory, savoring it like fine wine. Her vengeance had been a subtle one. A few well-placed rumors here, and a few pieces of ‘evidence’ placed there, resulted in her former teacher being accused and then judged guilty of trading in Witchwood with the humans. A most cardinal sin and crime. She had enjoyed watching him break under exquisite torture.

As to breaking, it seemed the insolent guards lining the door to the Court were in dire need of it. They regarded her with disdain, their eyes passing over her as though she were naught but a fleck of dust, utterly unworthy of even a modicum of respect befitting her station. A woman of high birth such as herself should have been met with bows and deferential gestures, yet they stood unmoved, defying the very order and decorum upon which elven society thrived. It was yet another insult she was forced to bear.

Just as she thought of launching a scathing verbal attack, the guards, clad in intricately crafted armor of spelled bronze, finally parted the heavy oaken doors. Ignoring them completely, she stepped forward into the king’s court.

It almost seemed as though she had stepped into a great glade of an ancient forest. The elven court spread out before her, a space that dwarfed even the grandest of human cathedrals. At the far edges of the glade, giants stood sentinel, their bark and trunks conjoining to form the boundaries of the elven court. They were of the Witchwood, ancient magical trees, that seemed to almost bleed Mana, infusing the air with their pure energies. Above her, great leafy boughs arched and formed a canopy. Adorned with a mosaic of vivid fabrics, they cast dappled shadows upon the assembly below. Long banners hung from the lower branches, each representing one of the noble families. The very roots of the Witchwood twisted into seats for the court's esteemed members, while between them, a lush carpet of emerald grass sprawled.

A mixture of naturally and patiently guided growth, the heart of her people’s realm, never failed to impress her.

Then a great hush fell upon the court as the assembly noticed her presence, snuffing out any lingering murmurs of gossip. She was like a gust of wind, extinguishing a feeble candle's flame.

A man was waiting for her. A man who once had been straight, tall, and unblemished. Now he was scarred and hunched. Lorsan, the once-swordmaster of the court and former tutor of the king’s children himself, hobbled towards her on a cane, ostensibly to give her support. He, who had once been a living legend, had been reduced to this.

“Lady Arimea,” he offered in greeting, giving her a small deferential nod of his head. A weak escort, but an escort nonetheless. She would take any support she could get in this den of vipers.

“Lorsan,” she returned curtly, for her attention was arrested by the sight before her. It was as spectacular now as it was when she first had the honor to be presented here.

Moving deeper into the court, Arimea could hear the Witchwood’s song. It was a steady symphony born from the trees, more felt than truly heard, as the trees gathered the melody of sunlight, turning it into life and energy. But how exactly the trees drew sustenance from the light was a process that, to this day, confounded the wisest of Elven sages.

A shaft of sunlight shone on a raised dais, focusing Arimea’s attention to a grand structure that overlooked all before it. The eternal seat of power of the elves, the Peacock Throne.

It looked to be carved from the Witchwood, but no metal blades had been allowed to touch the sacred wood. Instead, it had been coaxed into being, shaped by the ancient songs of elven craftsmen who once wielded the arcane words of creation. Formed into the shape of a peacock's splendid fan, its myriad eyes seemed ever vigilant, eternally on the watch for the faintest whisper of treachery.

And upon that throne sat their king, a being that commanded no small modicum of respect. All feared the king and his vitriol. He was quick to anger and slow to forget, for the years upon the throne had lent him great power. Through his long reign, his list of achievements almost rivaled the list of his former, now broken, enemies.

He was a being filled with an almost raw masculine energy, yet surprisingly slight and supple of form. His hair and eyes were the iron gray of storm clouds, a sign of his great and venerable age. A proud and unlined face, taught with a tapestry of long-buried emotions and memories, looked coldly down at all before him. Watching for signs only he knew to look for.

Like all the elves, Arimea feared their king.

A herald announced her presence, listing off the meaningless titles that she had acquired over the years, ripping her away from her observations. The elf’s monotone voice somehow seemed to make all of her achievements seem so small and mundane.

With Lorsan at her side, she made her way to pay her obeisance before the Peacock throne. With each step, the air grew heavier with an ominous, almost palpable pressure. It felt like a funeral procession, or the final steps to the headsman’s gallows. Finally, she reached the foot of the throne and, together with Lorsan, planted her head on the floor.

“Lady Arimea, Lorsan, you may rise,” boomed the voice from the throne. If she was not mistaken, there was a hint of something odd in his tone.

Slowly, she looked up to gaze upon her king. Yes, it was not just imagination, his voice tinged with something other than expected anger. There was a note of… amusement and his ancient ageless face had hints of a boyish smile. It was disturbing.

“You have failed us,” came the immediate judgment from the ancient elf. There was sound as the whole court drew an intake of breath. She would have laughed had the matter not been so serious.

“Yes, my king,” she answered honestly, doing her best to keep her voice steady. Excuses and other social machinations would not work before him. The eyes of the throne knew all.

“Yet, in a completely different matter, you have succeeded beyond expectations. To slay the Hwanda Heveni, the sum of all men, is no small achievement. Humans and their ridiculous titles. The wiles of fate and destiny are as capricious as they are cruel, are they not Lorsan? To think that the greatest sword master of our generation crossed blades with the Dragon Slayer, and prevailed no less.”

The king turned the full force of his gaze upon Arimea.

“Surely, you would think that Lorsan would look a bit happier, despite being somewhat diminished,” the leader of the elven nation commented wryly in a clear voice that both expected and demanded agreement.

Nervously Arimea looked to Lorsan, meeting his eyes and giving him a small nod.

“It is as you say, my king,” the elven swordmaster responded neutrally in Arimea’s stead, his eyes firmly fixed on the living carpet of green before the throne.

“So, it would seem that I must both reward and punish you? And Lorsan too, by association. That is what they would have done in times of old, no?” the ancient king stated, the mirth coloring his voice plainer for her ears to see.

Still, the feeling of dread did not leave her. The pressure both within and without grew. This was a crossroads, an intersection of a planned fate. She could feel it in the song of Mana.

“My king? What is it that you wish of us?” croaked Arimea, failing finally to keep an even keel.

“Still, not even a hint of an apology? You will not beg forgiveness from us? You are proud Arimea, like your mother, and her mother’s mother. Too proud by far. Shame Lorsan could not impart upon you a fraction of his humility,” the ancient one rejoined without answering her question.

“We have begun the rite of the Summoning. We will call forth our own Hero from the Distant World. We will have an Elven Champion of our own. Like in the times of yore,” announced the King with great aplomb.

Like a wave rippling across a tranquil lake, a great gasp took the assembly. A gasp that soon turned into panicked natterings. As the gathered nobles reached a crescendo of worry, the king raised a single hand and the court fell once again into silence.

“Our seers will call forth one that they have seen in their visions. He will come from the Kingdom of the Lonely Star and his soul shines as one of the mightiest of warriors and generals of his world,” the old one announced to the gathered elves.

“And I have chosen the pair of you to be his guide. You will show him our ways. You will instruct him to fight, using only our ways. You will be the bond that glues him to the First Children. Especially you, Arimea. Flawed as your beauty might be, you will serve him in both body and soul. Your remaining charm will have to serve to bind him to us,” the ancient King stated with an almost lecherous smile.

“But I am promised to another! I will be no…” Arimea protested. She looked around for her promised one. She caught his eyes for a moment, but in that moment he looked down, guiltily. Of course, with her reputation in tatters, she was damaged goods now.

The king looked down at her as if she was just a cross child. “You will serve your people and you will thank us for the honor of it,” he declared simply, silencing her.

"But your Majesty," Lorsan asked, clearly puzzled, "teaching someone our ways takes centuries. Just as trees cannot be forced to grow, can a worthy warrior truly be made in such a short time?”

A laugh resounded from up on the throne. “Lorsan, I have been told that a Champion, when summoned to our world, will learn very quickly. It is simply about preparing the correct… conditions for growth.” The King’s words were like a river, washing away all chance and challenge of a response.

“By your will,” they both acquiesced with nothing to add, pressing their heads to soft green. Any further comment in such a public arena would only serve as a direct insult to the throne’s authority. Stoic as she had thought she had become, Arimea could not help but to allow a single hidden tear to track its way down her face. Soon it was lost into countless green blades beneath her.

“And when he is ready, we will sail once more across the seas with our armies. We will call our satrapies to war and claim what belongs to us,” stated the King, as cheers took the court like a rapturous fire.

Chapter 29 - Liberation

Like the regular armies of the land, there are ranks within the Mercenary’s Guild. Unlike the Adventurer’s Guild, which bases its ranks on metals, the Mercenary’s Guild adopts a more novel approach.

The guild is organized into so-called great companies, each a formidable force split into two Wings, each Wing comprising of five hundred warriors. These Wings are further divided into Claws, with each Claw numbering a hundred souls, and these, in turn, are divided into Scales, the smallest unit, consisting of ten fighters. Wing Leaders, Claw Leaders, and Scale Leaders serve as commissioned officers, and their ranks are reflected in the authority and respect they command within the guild outside of a campaign.

The nomenclature chosen by the guild is steeped in ancient legend and warrior mystique. A full assembly of a great company is also known as a 'Dragon'. It is said that in the ages before the Cataclysm, it took a full thousand men to slay one of the dreaded tyrants of the sky.

- In Search of the Dragons, by Captain Fiorella Haldane.

I needed to get out of the inn for a while, sooner rather than later if at all possible. There were a few chores on my list that needed doing and it would be good to explore the city.

I ordered some juice and left the last dregs of my drink at the bar. Sitting at a table in the corner, I idly waited for half a turn of the clock. Zariyah’s mother, after settling a few ruffled feathers of her clients, joined me. I then spent a few minutes of my life explaining, in almost excruciating detail, what had just happened in her establishment. Elwin decided to join us, giving small nods at the right moments to affirm my narrative while quietly downing a warm ale. He soon wandered off in search of the bathroom, but Cordelia stayed seated by my side, her hands resting demurely in her lap.

Naira had been sympathetic. By all witnesses accounts I had been the victim. However, she still looked obviously worried, her hands shifting uncomfortably every now and again.

“Perhaps it would have been better if you had killed the lot of them. Simpler, at least,” she concluded shockingly.

“I beg your pardon?” I spluttered in my mug, almost comically choking.

“I see your people have not completely forgotten their murderous ways,” commented Cordelia snidely, looking fixedly at the older woman.

“The Mirage is a known troublemaking foreigner,” she explained, ignoring Cordelia’s barb. “Foreigners have a way of causing trouble, and the gods know they have a habit of dying. They bring their feuds with them to Al-Lazar, bundling them in their hearts and planting them fresh on new soil, wherever they go,” she paused for a moment, as if sifting through a past memory. I could see Cordelia almost bristling at this.

“But now, there are three of them, silver-ranked of the Guild, no less, who will feel themselves aggrieved by you. Fear will soon turn to thoughts of what could have been. It will fester away and turn to thoughts of petty vengeance. Such is the way of foolish men’s pride,” she warned as she adjusted a loose strand of dark hair.

“They did not seem so formidable to me, and their leader, if my recollection serves me well, was a woman. And if that is the quality of the Silver rank in this city, then my Copper, and the Copper of my friends, will be shield enough,” I boasted, placing my own badge on the table.

“Samasa, forgive me, but you must let me point out that this is Al-Lazar. One does not rise to the Silver without making friends and allies along the way. The Mirage is a troublemaker, but she is tolerated for a reason. Powerful as you might personally be, copper still makes for a poor shield. Please, you must try and understand your predicament,” she stated, her tone skirting the edges of patronizing.

“It is perhaps you who does not quite understand the true power that I hold. Rest assured, and fear not overly for me,” I returned confidently, stretching out a kink in my shoulder.

“It is not you that I worry most for, but those that are near you. When the summoned storm comes, the tall tree may stand strong, but those around are never unscathed,” she rejoined with a little heat entering her voice.

Irritated, I looked around, wanting an escape now from this interaction. Daylight was wasting away and I had other things that demanded my attention. “I will not quibble words with you. Let me remind you, this was not a fight of my choosing. I am the victim here. Please, I urge that you speak your meaning plain,” I stated, letting my emotions bleed into my voice.

The Aranthian woman looked at Naira with eyes filled with the embers of a long-held resentment. “Yes, you lot have always had the penchant for twisting things to suit your ends. I sense you attempting to lead Gilgamesh down a thorny path,” muttered Cordelia with no small amount of contempt.

“Have I affronted you in some way? You are a guest here. Does your Goddess not teach you to love and offer at least a minimum of respect to your neighbors? Or have the scriptures been yet again changed?” responded Naira archly.

“Yes, please, Cordelia. A modicum of decorum and manners would be appreciated. Remember we are guests and foreigners in this land,” I added, with a tired sigh.

The woman warrior looked like she had something to add, but decided against it. Crossing her arms, she decided to instead glare at the older woman. What was the source of her anger? Was it simply unfounded racism, or was it something more? Some of her comments… had been troubling. However, I decided that it had no real bearing in the current moment.

“Thank you, Cordelia,” I said politely, earning a small nod from the warrior woman.

“Since you are a guest under my roof, I seek to warn you. Do not underestimate these people. Please take this without insult, for I know that you are still oh so very young, but you should not use arrogance in confidence’s stead. As for my worries, I have many but I worry most for Zari.”

“I see now the gist of your words. Forgive me for being dull. You worry that she would suffer from some sort of reprisal, for being associated with me,” I conceded, rubbing my chin and noting the lack of stubble. My avatar had not changed one whit since being summoned to this land.

“Yes, and if you would allow me, I would like to buy her contract from you. The inn has done well, and I have put aside some money. The amount may be insulting, but… she is my daughter. I may also have a solution for your current predicament.”

“A most wonderful solution,” muttered Cordelia. Sulking as she was, I realized then that it did little to detract from her cold, marble, almost divine beauty. Attractive people were thus blessed.

I glanced up away from the conversation to see the object of our current discussion making her way towards me, eyes filled with silent reproach. As worrisome as an approaching storm. In the manner of men all over the world, stupidly and inappropriately timed as it was, I found myself comparing the three women before me.

A stark contrast to Cordelia’s bleak marble perfection, Zariyah had a dark beauty. And, if I was completely honest, it was the sort of beauty that felt much more attainable. Naira was an attractive woman in her own right, but Zariyah, bluntly speaking, was a younger, more attractive version of her mother. For some reason or other, I noticed that she had taken off the kohl and whatever cosmetics she used to enhance her natural beauty. It suited her. Without her painted face, she looked younger still, and I judged her to be younger than even myself.

I could feel my heart quickening, my eyes lingering upon the mute woman. For a moment I entertained thoughts as to the possible sounds she would make in the bedroom. Giving in to the throes of passion, would her affliction force her to remain silent?

As she drew closer, I felt an urge to score a few points and impress.

“Then you have misjudged me, and poorly at that. I have always intended to release your daughter. I simply required a guide for the city. Yet at every turn, events conspire to vex me. And I will not accept your money. Where I come from we do not deal in slaves like barbarians.”

“There is no slavery in Al-Lazar,” came Naira’s automatic response, as her daughter sat quietly next to her.

“You may paint over rot, but the rot remains. It is my firm belief that slavery, in all of its forms, is a great evil that needs to be expunged, wherever it is found,” I responded as smoothly as possible. I noticed that Cordelia looked at me as if I was explaining some sort of cosmic truth, her lips moving to silently repeat my words.

Surely those were inspirational words? Perhaps I needed to add some more conviction.

I noticed that Zariyah looked as if she wished to say something, the strain of holding something back drawing her features tight.

“Is there something you would like to add?” I inquired politely.

She looked at me then, not quite meeting my eyes. She shook her head and looked away. I was given to the study of her profile, the delicate arch of her nose, and the tilt of her eyes. I felt an urge to trace the line of her cheek, but I quashed it. Buried it beneath layers of decorum and doubt.

Was it disappointment that had flickered across her face? Had my words fallen short? In the court of a woman’s feelings, had I, unwittingly, played the fool?

Had I failed an unseen roll of the dice?

And for all that, not even a gain of Charisma. Did this world not reward doing good?

Chapter 30 Cats & Dogs

To the simple and common man, it must seem that the most puissant and powerful all wear the most monstrous of masks.

- Attributed to the playwright Vlan di Panoli.

“Your daughter is free. I do not keep chattel. I find it unseemly and unworthy,” I exclaimed with a smug smile.

“And you would state such before a magistrate?”

“Of course. Your daughter’s freedom was never mine to possess. That being said, I would still much appreciate it if Zariyah showed me some of the basic sights of the city. I have some alchemical samples that may be of some monetary value that I will need to sell, and the gear of my companions and I are in sore need of maintenance.”

“Might I suggest that you leave such matters with me? A foreigner unversed in the ways of the city may not command the most competitive price. I will send one of the boys to have these small matters seen to. It is the least I can do,” Naira offered, her voice almost breaking with emotion as she drew an unprotesting Zariyah to her.

Wiping away a loose strand of her hair from her daughter's face, she looked at Zariyah with eyes full of a mother’s love. “Take Master Gilgamesh to the Grand Bazaar and the Artificer’s Quarter. Show him the wonders of our home,” Naira paused for a moment, pursing her lips in thought. “You are a man of your letters, I presume?”

“I can certainly read, much better than I can write. In my land I would be considered somewhat of a scholar,” I replied casually.

“Then Scholar’s Row may be of some interest to you. Zari, take him there, but be sure to stay away from the Dust Dens.”

Zariyah simply nodded, no words needed for her part of acceptance as she played the part of the obedient child.

“With your permission, I will send the gear of you and your companions to a trusted armorer that comes recommended from the Guild. Also, when you return, there is something I must speak to you about. Another service that I can perhaps do for you, is to make the most of the predicament that you find yourself in.”

While I appreciated the offer of a small tour and being relieved from the drudgery of a minor chore, I could not help but feel that I was getting the worse end of the deal.

“Well then, since this matter is sorted, I would like to see the city now,” I said perhaps a little brusquely.

“As you wish, Samasa,” was in turn her curt reply.

Zariyah rose and inclined her head towards me, gesturing that it was finally time to see the rest of the city.

“Oh, and Zari, you had best wear the veil when you are outside. We have had far more foreigners come in this year and there is no need to provoke them. Along with other… less desirable sorts and riff raff,” Naira added almost offhandedly.

Zariyah stiffened slightly in protest, her fingers about to sign her displeasure, but she stopped herself. It must be a tough thing to learn that the prejudices of yesterday followed us to the present.

I could contain myself no longer. “It must be boorish of me, no doubt of that, but why is it that your people are hated so?” I asked with a frown.

Both women bristled at the inquiry, but it was the mother that decided to answer. “Master Gilgamesh, you must be from lands further away than most to not know of our people and the feud that others have against us. There are those that blame our people for the Cataclysm, the event that once broke the world,” she answered, looking away with a long sigh. “I will not go into the history or theological debate that those not of the Hazagadam justify their cruelty. Just let it be simply said that they believe, because we worship only the One God, our so-called sins brought about that dark event.”

“I am no stranger to cruelty and prejudice. It can be found in places high and low. A common affliction of the human condition, we don’t need many reasons to learn to hate,” I responded, perhaps a little too vehemently.

“But there is more to it than that, isn’t there? There is a reason that the children of the Hazagadam must bear the price of their parent’s sins, no?” added Cordelia cooly, in almost a half-whisper.

They both looked taken aback, the daughter oddly looking more confused than the mother.

“Perhaps you are right. I only know I was not born in the time of the Cataclysm, and neither were my parents nor my daughter. We had no responsibility for the breaking of the world,” Naira responded, her eyes flashing with fire.

“Cordelia…” I said through gritted teeth

The lady knight nodded at this, giving out a radiant smile but holding her tongue. Truly, the woman did not learn and needed to be kept on a shorter leash. Why did she always deem it proper to obnoxiously add fuel to the flames? Perhaps it was time for a different approach.

“We really must be on our way. Cordelia will, of course, see to my equipment and Larynda’s care. And keep the north man in check. I trust you above all to see to things in my absence,” I said placatingly, finally standing up. “Naira,” I added, in a brief goodbye.

Cordelia stood up and gave me a deep bow as if she were receiving the command of a king or lord. “By your will,” she accepted most meekly, presenting an attitude at odds with her earlier displays and snide comments.

Without looking back, I finally exited the inn, drawing in deep the questionable city air. There was a hint of salt to it, under the scents of a pressed humanity. Still, it was relatively clean when compared to the barbaric squalor of Ansan.

I barely walked three paces out into the street when I felt a small tap on my shoulder. Turning around I saw a somewhat bemused Zariyah with an expression between a frown and a thoughtful smile. She had me wait while she adjusted a veil around her face, covering her eyes.

Her fingers flashed at me, their meaning only vaguely understandable until I remembered to use my Identify spell.

Again, will you be playing the part of the guide or shall I? her delicate fingers slowing to a more understandable pace.

“Ahh, of course, lead on. I just wanted an escape from well… all of that,” I answered, growing a little hot under my collar. “The Grand Bazaar, right?” I added with a weak smile, wanting to change the subject.

Her expression turned to one of bemusement. Yes, it is not too far from here. You had best follow and be sure to keep up, her hands messaged me. As she turned away to take the lead, there was a ghost of sad smile on her lips. With a sigh, I eagerly followed her, and together we navigated our way through the afternoon throng.

She walked with a casual grace that would put most dancers to shame. Sure and confident, she adroitly avoided the various obstacles in her path. In comparison, I could only bumble along, my eyes overly distracted by the slight sway of her hips.

As we continued, the streets began to change. The buildings were of a finer cut of stone, marble in places, and seemed to press closer together and reached several stories higher. By my reckoning, some of the domed buildings were about seven floors high. Incongruous to this, lines of rope burdened with laundry reached over the streets between them. When a light salt wind blew, an errant drop from above splashed on my face as I looked up.

Slowly, I could feel that there was a more feverish buzz in the air. I could hear shouts as, somewhere up in the distance, hawkers cried out the price of their wares. In reaction, I couldn’t help but clasp Zariyah’s shoulder to stop her progress as she almost disappeared into the crowd.

“Where are we now? Where is this?” I asked.

She looked at me, opening her mouth as if to laugh before quickly covering it with a hand. Uncovering her mouth, her lips began to move but no sound came forth. Looking embarrassed for some odd reason, she answered me instead with her hands.

We are now in the Merchant’s Quarter, and we will soon be at the Grand Bazaar, her fingers told, a polite and deferential smile on her face.

Her eyes darkened as she saw something frightful behind me.

“Move your behind, or I will move it for you, you fool!” came a deep and throaty growl that could not belong to any man. Disturbed, I turned around to confirm.

Before me, a figure loomed, bearing a rough resemblance to a man. Clad only in loosely fitting trousers of local design, his presence was undeniably imposing. Despite being unclothed from the waist up, he was far from naked. Light brown fur covered a broad torso that rippled with slabs of lean muscle. Atop wide shoulders sat a large, maned leonine head with a maw parted to reveal formidable fangs that seemed on the brink of a roar. His hands and feet had claws that looked wickedly sharp. A tail swished behind him, signaling his animosity. Behind this daunting figure, three somewhat similar creatures stood, a mix of man and beast, though less formidable in stature. They were clawed and furred, but they possessed a leaner build and their faces were of distinctly lupine aspect. They snickered, yapping like feral dogs.

These were the beastmen of your typical fantasy.

A line of sweat ran down my back, and I saw the man-lion smirk, his feline eyes sparkling in delight with my discomfort. Thankfully my combat reflexes came to the fore, as I automatically cast an Identify on the leonine figure.

Hashmal the Fang of the Storm - Claw Savage (Beastkin lvl.9)

Health: 177/177

Stamina: 49/50

Mana: 7/7

As the spell returned to me with the information it had gathered, the leonine Beastkin pushed past me along with his wolfman posse. It was then that I burst out laughing, releasing all of the tension that had been building up within me. Like a burst dam, the laughter left me in a flood. I vented great peals of laughter that could not be ignored. The situation was truly absurd.

These Beastmen, their leader at least, were nothing more than low-level trash and not worthy of regard. The fact that he came with a grand sobriquet just added to the hilarity. Fang of the Storm, indeed!

Hasmal stopped in his tracks, quivering with a new rage. “You dare to mock me, feeble human!”  Hashmal screamed in a primal challenge, his golden feline eyes glaring at me.

“No, not at all. It’s just that… not every day one can witness a domesticated house cat walk about on two legs,” I answered, uncaring of the consequences. Zariyah shot me a worried look as she unconsciously grasped my sleeve.

Truly enraged, the lion like Beastkin let loose a deafening roar. I let the sound flow over me and through me. For that was all it was, just sound. The crowd scattered and shied away from us. Zariyah looked at me shocked as if I had sprouted horns.

“Wait, Hashmal. The naked ones are usually all weak, but this one… He might be one of them. There is no fear scent on him,” one of his pack warned.

“Yes, we don’t need human trouble. We are just here for the tournament, ‘member?” another one of them whined.

Yet, their warnings fell on deaf ears, For I continued to laugh, and the sound tinged with madness drew their leader Hashmal into a reckless charge. His claws, sharp as razors, lashed out with lethal intent.

As it did with Sevas, the arm in which my mimic resided blocked an oncoming flurry of blows with almost consummate ease. Hashmal was not fighting one, but two entities.

The Beastkin was, no doubt, objectively fast, but I had fought things that were faster and far stronger. Still, I was not invincible, and neither was my resident. The Mimics Health was slowly being chipped away with each successfully deflected blow. My vision narrowed to focus only on the leonine Beastkin and the world around us seemed to slow, every motion exaggerated, every detail crystal clear. Out of my heavy armor, I found that I could move with even greater speed. Hashmal had bitten off far more than he could chew.

It was time to get some experience points.

Through the continuing flurry of blows, I launched an attack of my own, a Power Strike aimed at his center of mass. My closed fist flew like a rocket, smashing into flesh with a satisfying thunk.

I needed to end this quickly. Though there was still lingering indecision in their posture, his friends looked like they soon would join in the fray.

With a grunt of pain, he tried to create some distance between us. It was, however, too late, as my other hand was now grasping him with an iron grip. My fingers had sunk deep through to the rough skin beneath, denying the lionman his escape. I saw his expression change from surprise to worry, all in the blink of an eye.

In response, Hashmal lashed out with his foot, desperately striking me for a measly ten points of damage. I grimaced more out of surprise than anything else. Again he kicked out at me, his claws inflicting this time only eight points of damage.

This would simply not do. With a measured strike, I delivered a blow to Hashmal's stomach. He doubled over, clutching his abdomen and collapsed to the ground, gasping for air.

The pack, seeing their leader falter, surged toward me. Vaulting over the wheezing Hashmal, one lunged for my throat. My Mimic arm acted swiftly, shielding me, and the creature's jaws clamped down on it, unable to pierce my skin, due to my passenger’s protection.

I was quickly learning how to fight with the Mimic and found it best to leave my defense to it. It was a simple matter of releasing conscious thought of the arm, the Mimic would do the rest. If I had any sense of fair play left in me I might have considered it cheating.

Meanwhile, another pack member seized my leg, its teeth sinking into the flesh of my calf. But before it could rip away muscle and flesh, I dropped my stance and neutralized it with another Power Strike. My hand, swift as a blade, struck a precise hammer blow to the nape of its neck. With the threat neutralized, I thrust my foot forward, sending the stunned beast tumbling.

When you fight someone, truly fight, there is a strange part of you that hesitates. It’s the part of you that hesitates to strike at the groin, the throat, the eyes, or other vulnerability. This is the part of us that feels sympathy. We do not do it not out of a sense of misplaced honor, but because we feel the pain that we inflict. A truly selfish, and very human, thing. I felt none of that here.

It is odd how we can lose focus at the strangest of times.

Sudden movements at my periphery demanded my attention. The last of the pack I saw out of the corner of my eye. He looked worried as he cautiously circled us. His eyes darted and flickered about, looking for an opening. Although he snarled in my direction, a subsequent soft whine betrayed him. The wolf Beastkin gnawing at my arm slashed at me with his free claws, causing minor damage to my Health and, more irritatingly, to my clothing. I strained against him, trying to throw him off, but with his longer limbs, greater height, and weight, he had the leverage. His jaws clamped on tighter with desperation and I could see my Mimic’s Health being eroded.

We struggled like this, in a poor and pathetic display, my Health being whittled down by the second as he scratched and clawed at me, refusing to let me go. Stumbling and trying to trip each other, we tried to throw each other down to the floor as we grappled. Desperate, I started instead to strike at him, but again, this close, I lacked the distance to give my blows any real force or power. However, after a good amount of struggle, I was able to deliver a blow to his ribs, causing him to yelp in pain. His sudden cry caused him to release me, and I followed up with another punch to his nose, stunning him cold.

Enough of this mindless brawl, and damned be the consequences of it, it was time to use my magic. The dark spells within me screamed in agreement, but these thoughts would soon be shattered like brittle glass.

“Stop!” came a halting voice, weak with defeat but strong enough to cut through to me. “Stop, or she dies!” the last Beastkin threatened, drawing a claw near Zariyah’s neck. The damn beast had got around me while I had been busy with his mates. Zariyah, caught in his grasp, could only offer a silent plea through her wide, frightened eyes.

I looked at the wolf-man, saw the fear in his dog-eyes and his tail drooping between his legs. His eyes met mine, and what he saw reflected in my gaze must have frightened him further, for he looked as if he wanted to break out into a run as I took a step towards him.

As I was looking around for something to use to distract the wolf-man or to play for time, I saw tall bronze halberds above the heads of a panicking crowd. Rapidly, they pushed and parted the gaggle of people. With a scramble of metal and leather, they coalesced into a formation of armored men, just under a score strong. At their front, their leader, no doubt, was a man clad and armored in bronze and misty-blue steel. Elegant runic inscriptions adorned his armor and weapons, while a helm topped with a white plume sat upon his head.

“Stop! Stop! Stop in the name of the City Guard!” the plumed soldier demanded, in a clear voice that was just a touch away from a shout or scream. He looked at me, then at the kneeling, and still spluttering, Hashmal, his fallen Beastkin friends, and finally at Zariyah being held hostage. His eyes sucked in all the details as they narrowed in focus.

“By the tits of the great Goddess, what in the heavens is going on here!?” he barked, his gray eyes alighting upon me. His stern gaze demanded nothing less than a truthful and concise answer.

It seemed that trouble had once again found me at the most difficult of times. I could almost hear the dice of fate rolling as I prepared a suitable response.