Prologue ... 1 ... 2 ... 3 ... 4 ... 5 ... 6 ... 7 ... 8 ... 9 ... 10 ... 11 ... 12 ... 13 ... 14 ... 15 ... 16 ... 17 ... 18 ... 19 ... 20 ... 21 ... 22 ... 23 ... 24 ... 25 ... 26 ... 27... 28... 29... 30 ... Epilouge ... Glossary

Chapter 5: The Crimson Rraakks

Esmeree and her fry crouch in a familiar alley. Outside, villeins of Cliffs Reach pass by, pursuing their unimportant tasks. Lining the street, a handful of beggars plead for money in their own peculiar ways. Some chant, some sing, some rant and accost. Apart from them, a particularly pathetic, filthy creature stands out. Blotch crouches in his hovel, shaking his bag to all passersby. Penetrating the noise of the street, across that distance and through those wooden boxes, the sound of that persistent jingling somehow reaches Esmeree’s ears. She grits her teeth and waits.

Time is not friendly to the impatient girl, and the Rraakks do not appear to be in a hurry. Esmeree and her fry are forced to wait.

Feeding off her frustration, her fry bicker and fight incessantly, and she constantly has to separate them. It does little to ease her anxiety, and her temper shortens. Eventually, she sends Gwydd and Este away to collect food for their wait, and relative peace returns. Baran is the youngest and quietest of her fry, and she trusts him to mind his own business and leave her alone. He makes his way deeper into the alley, searching the trash and playing with a litter of kittens he finds there.

Inhaling deeply, Esmeree closes her eyes. Her ember swells in response, filling her body with warmth all the way to her fingertips. Power coils around the hot nut of rage in the pit of her stomach. She feels her ember digging in, tentatively at first, and then more insistently, feeding off her anger’s energy. To help it pierce that nut, she tries to focus its power to a point. "Want to play a game?" her ember asks.

She exhales slowly, trying to quell the voice. "Na, now is not the time." She wonders what kind of game her ember would make up with all this anger inside her.

Opening her eyes, they are drawn to a thin sliver of white smoke. The source is a small spot of black char burning itself into the wood of a nearby box. She smothers it with her thumb. What kind of game, indeed?

Concentrating on a point somewhere near the middle of the air, she imagines that nut and her ember coiling around it. The game begins, her ember struggling to find a weakness, while she shrinks or enlarges the ball in response. When the two meet, a hot spot appears; a small spark hovers at eye-level before winking out.

She looks out into the street, and tries summoning it there. At first, it is just a wisp of smoke or a shimmering ball of heat in midair, but as she gets better at it, she tries summoning it inside people’s clothes or under their feet. She is rewarded with the occasional shriek or yelp of pain and surprise.

"What’s wrong with yer chest?"

Esmeree jumps as she whirls around to see Baran. Her hand jerks away from her ember guiltily. "What? What are yä doin’?"

Baran shrugs and wipes his nose. "Heard yä laughin’."

Esmeree swallows and smiles. "Just people doing dumb things in the street. And me chest is fine."

She is grateful for Baran’s interruption. She’d been distracted by her new trick and hadn’t been watching for Rraakks. She dismisses the boy and turns back to the beggars. For now, she focuses her attention on them and ignores the voice of her ember.

Baran climbs onto an adjacent box and watches with her. "Yä think Este and Gwydd’ll come back in time?"

"They’ll come back soon enough," she mutters.

Not soon enough it seems. It is not much later when a small group of boys swaggers over to Blotch. The same dance begins. They circle him, taunting and kicking. Now that she knows what’s going on, she’s surprised she fell for it so easily before. She shakes her head. How can she be so dense?

Just as she expects, as soon as the boys are fully engaged with Blotch, everyone in the street is distracted. Some even stop to watch the antics. Even Baran is enthralled at the torment of the pathetic beggar. Only Esmeree sees the nondescript boy approach another beggar and crouch by his pot. She recognizes this boy.

It’s her old friend, Knife.

The beggar, she’s not so sure of. She might have seen him around the Mill. It’s hard for her to tell.

Their exchange is brief. Dropping a couple coins in the pot, Knife stands and drifts away. Esmeree summons quickly, passing her charm on to the beggar this time. Today, she wants to even the score with Knife.

Slipping out of the alley, she and Baran blend into the crowd and follow the Rraakk. Whenever appropriate, she makes a guild call high into the air in the hopes Este and Gwydd will hear and follow. Once away from the larger street, Knife picks up the pace–perhaps he hears Esmeree’s calls–he’s obviously in a hurry to get out of the Guilders and back into Rraakk territory. Unfortunately for him, he chooses to pass through Marble Town on his way. Esmeree knows Marble Town very well.

She picks her location very carefully. An alley close to the slave auction, the noise will afford them some privacy from villeins and city guard.

As he hurries through the alley cramped with stacks of urns and bolts of cloth, the crowd roars in approval. A sale is made. She appears in front of the Rraakk without warning, blocking his passage. He staggers backwards in surprise, "What…"

Esmeree smiles, "It’s yer dewines boduus! Surprise!" She brandishes her gully.

Licking his lips, Knife looks right and left for avenues of escape. He steps back, preparing to flee back the way he came, when Baran charges him from behind. The Rraakk can only turn part ways around before Baran bludgeons him in the knee with a crude stick. The leg twists and breaks with a click, and Knife collapses with a sigh. Esmeree is on top of him instantly. She and Baran pummel him until he’s a groaning mess.

Esmeree stands and wipes at her bloody nose. One of his elbows must have caught her, but she had hardly noticed. Baran is shaking with excitement, "Let’s tie the Crummy Rat up!"

When finished, the boy is bound at the wrists and ankles with his own clothes. Esmeree sends Baran away to find Este and Gwydd, but finding them is just one reason for sending him away. She smiles down at Knife as he lays naked at her feet. "Mmmn… Where’re yer two friends, Rraakk?"

Knife moans and watches her with terrified eyes. The crowd roars in approval. One more life is sold.

Esmeree scans the rooftops above her, tracing her jawline with her knife. "Hmmn… I recall last seein’ them in the old Foreman Neighborhoods." She leans close to his face and whispers conspiratorially, "I hear they were found without cock or calliacus. Their guts were split, their fingers cut off and rammed down their throats." She shudders. "Not a nice death, but I think the message was clear, wasn’t it? Don’t fuck with the Black Ember guild!"

Knife whimpers, and her eyes widen with sudden understanding. The noise from the nearby auction begins to rise again. More produce is being brought out. She shouts to be heard. "Oh yäh! Yä Crimson Rraakks are mostly Bracks aren’t yä? When yä die, yä take what yä got with yä." She shakes her head sadly, "A Brack without hands or stomach or a cock ain’t goin’ tä have much fun in Johlpa’s warrior’s halls now will he? Na fightin’, na drinkin’, na fuckin’." She sighs with sympathy.

She gives him a good look at the gully. "See this? Yä left it as a gift fer me, and I thank yä. But yä know what?" She sets it aside, "I’m a dewines, a caragus, and I don’t need it tä get what I want from yä."

His eyes widen as she stands. "Now, we need tä talk." Focussing on that nut of rage, she begins to summon. "But with all this noise," she says, "Yä might have tä scream a little."

When her fry finally arrive, they find her waiting by the auction arena, watching a small family of western Bracks get sold. The sickeningly sweet odor of burnt flesh was making her gag, so she keeps clear of the alley.

Esmeree has what she needs. Now she knows where the Rraakks hide, an old inn at the fringes of Cliffs Reach’s northernmost neighborhoods. Now she knows their leader, a Brack bagaudas named Catræth.

Wiping her hands on her sides, she leaves the arena without a word and leads her fry into Crimson Rraakk territory.

They need to travel carefully. In these neighborhoods, every man and boy could be an enemy. Sticking to the main roads, they avoid eye contact and try to attach themselves with non-Brack adults who seem to be walking with purpose. Wagons and large groups are the best.

The character of Cliffs Reach changes as they travel down the northern face of the city and into the Homestead Neighborhoods. More Bracks live here, mostly owners of small shops and sharecroppers living in cramped tenements. Most of the homeless are tongueless Brack women and disfigured Chroani. Livestock wander the streets, sometimes tended by old men or naked little boys. Icons to heretical gods adorn the occasional doorframe or street post. Hexes over every shop door indicate the owner’s clan and homeland. The air is sharp with their foul seasonings and thick courmi beer.

Esmeree and her fry slip through this enemy territory, seeking out their destination. The shops and homes of Cliffs Reach slowly become more spread out, lanes and alleys turning to grassy yards and trails. Trees and shrubs become more common, the vanguard of the nearby Gwrach Forest. Nestled in these trees, on the fringe of Cliffs Reach, is the home of the Crimson Rraakks.

It is a low, single-story wooden building–Gwydd remarks that it looks like an old Brack farmstead–it’s tall barn stands nearby. Both buildings are teeming with Crimson Rraakks. A sign on the door labels the place as the Crimson Rraakk Inn.

Esmeree sighs. Such an obvious lair, it was hardly worth Knife holding out for so long.

Two horses with fancy EroBernac tack and harnesses are tethered outside the inn. Six more are tethered to posts by the barn. Scores of irritable isean fowl squabble amongst themselves as they hunt the dirt for seed and grubs. Tourc’h swine snort and root around in their pen in the back.

Esmeree and her fry make a home for themselves in the brush as they watch the inn. She is surprised to see that the activity around it is very similar to that of the Mill. As night falls, Rraakk fishers and sticks come and go, intent on whatever business Catræth set for them. Unlike the Mill, however, there are no fry, and their numbers are much smaller. As the evening progresses, she is able to count no more than 20 in the inn. This is odd because she knows there to be many more than that in Cliffs Reach. This inn must not be the only hideout for the gang. She wonders where else they could hide in the city.

As darkness firms its grip on the city, the doors of the inn fly open and firelight spills onto the grass outside. Two men stalk into the night, followed by Crimson Rraakk fishers who circle them but keep their distance. The boys’ postures indicate the need to appear threatening in the face of something very terrifying.

The larger of the two men wears heavy Brack riding clothes and carries a huge straight sword. Esmeree can’t see his clan from here, but she is surprised to see he even carries a flintlock. His hair and beard are thick with tight Brack braids. The second man is smaller, wearing blousey clothes and an EroBernd dueling sword slung low on his hip. She wonders if they could be nobles or famous warriors.

As the men unteather their horses, an adult Crimson Rraakk exits the inn. The mouth of his heavy pipe glows red in the night, and white smoke curls from his thick moustache and beard. "There be na need fer hurryin’, friends, uh?"

Swinging into his saddle, the smaller of the soldiers removes his hat and adjusts his powdered wig. "Cing Catræth, our time is valuable. We have no interest wasting it at your inn." His voice is cultured, like Myrdd’s. Esmeree imagines he comes from northern EroBernd or Ehre.

Catræth crosses his huge arms and puffs deeply, "Our dunum’s fire is warm, our beer is–"

"This inn is no dunum," snaps the courtier.

"We are small, we will grow," assures the Brack.

"Your beer is watered, and your women are built like hairless boys," the man sighs. "You know where to find us when you have the inigena bitch."

A chill of terror runs through Esmeree as she realizes they are talking about her. She grips Baran’s shoulder so tightly, he almost cries out.

Catræth shrugs and taps his pipe out against a post. "The city’s large, and it’s thick with that gwrach Loathly Lady’s boduus lackeys. But news will come, uh?"

"Fine," growls the soldier, "When it comes, you know where to find us." With that, the two riders spur their horses and disappear into the night, Rraakks and isean scrambling to get out of their way.

Catræth stands in the light of the doorway, watching the riders for a long time. The fishers and sticks watch their lord uncertainly. "Boy," Catræth finally says, switching to southern-accented Brackish and snapping his fingers at a nearby fisher. The young boy hustles forward and bows.

"Go to the Market and the Old House. See if our boy made it there." The fisher bows and starts to leave.

"Run boy! The night is short, and our friend is very, very late!"

The young Rraakk scampers into the city.

As the night deepens, activity around the inn slows and eventually stops. Unlike their monstrous namesakes, these rraakks appear to be creatures of the daylight. Most of the young ones retreat inside the barn. The highest of the sticks, including Catræth, find lodging inside the rooms of the inn.

Esmeree orders her fry to circle the barn. Who know how long the yard will remain deserted, so time is of the essence. She instructs the boys to release the horses and tie the barn doors shut with their reins. When the time comes, they will join her in her attack on the inn itself.

As her fry seal the main doors, Esmeree slips inside the barn and pauses just inside the doorway, letting her eyes adjust and getting her bearings. Boxes, barrels, and hay cover the ground and are piled against the walls. Strange farming implements, as arcane to Esmeree as ahrounoi automata, lay forgotten in the middle of the floor, and the smell of livestock is thick in the air. Esmeree wonders if farmers recently used this barn or if buildings like this just always smell this way. By their muffled sounds, over a score of boys are sleeping in the hay, and more are in the lofts.

Taking a deep breath, she begins her summoning. Her ember reaches out and touches her core of rage. In a forgotten corner, behind some boxes, a small fire ignites.

Moving stealthily, she makes a circuit of the room. Nearly 20 fires are burning before she finishes. A white blanket of smoke crawls up the walls and collects under the lofts.

Smirking, she backs out of the barn and stumbles into someone.

Spinning around, she meets the surprised eyes of a young Rraakk boy. His face changes from pleased shock to horror when he glances over her shoulder and sees the smoke filling the barn. Already, the Rraakks inside are waking and crying out in terror. Many flickering, orange lights illuminate the room.

The boy lunges for the door but immediately falls to his knees as Esmeree drives the handle of her gully into the back of his head. A swift kick knocks the air out of his lungs. After that, it’s easy to choke him out.

Esmeree slams the barn door shut, lacing the last set of reins around the handle. Almost immediately, Rraakks on the other side scream for release. Their pounding rattles the door in its frame, but it doesn’t open.

She fingers her knife as she stares down at the prone Rraakk at her feet, wondering whether she should bleed him out or not. Noises rattle throughout the inn as the occupants inside awake to the fire. Esmeree makes up her mind and leaves the boy alive.

She slips into the darkness of the trees and watches the show. Gasping from exertion and excitement, her fry rejoin her. They have done well. Watching the fire rise and spread, they learn that dry wood and hay burns very, very quickly. No one escapes the fire. The screams have turned from desperate to agonized by the time the remaining Rraakks inside the inn can respond. Thick smoke billows from under doors and between planks of the barn.

Two Rraakk sticks manage to wrench a door open, and a fireball of heat and flame bowls them over. Two blackened figures lurch out of the barn, but they fall down relatively quickly.

In total, Esmeree counts four Rraakk sticks fighting the fire. None of them are Catræth.

"Mol, Easy!" Este breathes, "How’d yä light the fire?"

"Never mind that," she gestures towards the inn, "We go in there."

Before they can object, she bursts from her cover and bolts for the back door of the inn. Throwing the door open, she stumbles in on a handful of Brackish bna who are watching the fire. A couple of them cry out with an awkward, honking noise, and Esmeree realizes they’ve had their tongues cut out.

A vicious swing with her gully convinces them to back away from her. "Listen tä me, yä Brack whores," she hisses in Brackish, "Get in the way, and yä’ll have more tongue than tits!"

One of the women, one of the oldest, glances outside at the fire and then smiles at Esmeree. The matriarch meets Esmeree’s eyes, and her look conveys a lifetime of abuse that Esmeree understands all too well–at least she hasn’t had her tongue cut out–at least not yet. The bna nods, touching the side of her nose with her finger, and with a complicated gesture, she mobilizes the others. Picking up whatever heavy furniture they can find, they do their best to block doors or windows in case any of the Rraakk outside think of returning.

The inn is of typical Brackish tavern fare. Chairs, tables, a cooking fire as well as a large communal fire. The women’s simple pallets circle the fires for warmth. Horrible, gaudy Brackish tapestries and war braids cover the walls.

The matriarch points to an open door across the room. The meaning is clear. Catræth is there.

Esmeree leads her fry to the door and carefully peeks through. Beyond is another common room with an open fire pit, the residence of the sticks. Their beds are in disarray, abandoned as they leapt to save the barn. The room is unoccupied, but on the far wall is one more door.

"Catræth’s in there," Esmeree sighs.

"Yäh! We got the rat cornered!" growls Gwydd, "Let’s get the boduus!" Grabbing Este, he charges forward.

"Gwydd, na!" Esmeree runs after them, but she is too late.

Gwydd throws the door open. Beyond is a room almost as ornate as the Lady’s. Esmeree gets a glimpse of a golden bed, Brackish tapestries draped overhead. Catræth’s back is turned as he picks something up off the bed.

Led by Gwydd, Esmeree’s fry charge in. As Catræth turns, all Esmeree sees is the gaping mouth of something black and evil in his arms. She manages to grab Baran’s collar just as the room explodes.

The doorway’s sturdy hickory wood and solid Brack design shields Esmeree from most of the blunderbuss’s fury. Sizzling pieces of red hot shrapnel and shredded wood fly through the air. Smoke and thunder knock her and Baran off their feet.

Esmeree lays stunned on the floor for some seconds, no longer clear where she is anymore. Her ears ring from the explosion, and her body is covered by countless stinging injuries. Her hair and clothes smolder. The air is thick with smoke and the smell of sulfur and blood.

The world snaps into sudden focus when Catræth appears over her. Grabbing her by the throat, he picks her up and throws her into his room. She slams hard into the base of the golden bed and is slow to get up. "You fucking little witch girl!" Catræth roars in his native tongue. "To the Hells with the gold, I should send you down to Cassibodua on my own!"

Esmeree holds her head as she tries to stand. The room spins before her eyes. She has difficulty focussing on first Catræth and then the two pulpy masses lying in front of the door. Lying amidst a cone of scorched and torn flooring, smoking bits of bone and muscle mix with wood and clothing. There isn’t much else left of Gwydd and Este. Esmeree leans against the huge bed for support.

With a sneer, Catræth throws his gun aside and begins drawing his long spatha broadsword. With that opening, Esmeree lunges, trying to duck under his arms. Surprised, he rocks backwards, jerking his sword out of its scabbard. The cut is high and wide, and Esmeree plunges into his midriff. Her ember summons repeatedly, but for some reason, her spells go awry. Small fireballs fly across the room, but none find their marks. The room burns, and the air fills with more smoke.

Grabbing her with his free hand, Catræth pulls his sword back to run her through. Esmeree’s knife leaps into her hand. Cutting upwards, she rips across his belly and buries the gully’s blade deep into the underside of his biceps. The sword drops to the ground as Catræth screams.

The handle slick with blood, she looses grip on her knife as the big Brack twists away. She is airborne when his good arm backhands her, and she lands among the blankets on the golden bed. Looking upwards, she realizes the tapestries above her are on fire. Looking around her, she sees that the whole room–if not the whole inn–may be engulfed.

Catræth bellows as he pulls her knife from his arm. Bright red blood sprays from the wound, soaking his clothes down to his leg, and he rocks slightly on his feet. His hand runs across his face, covering it with blood in a horrible warrior’s mask. The weakness caused by his wounds seems to enrage him even more. He looks about to go rraakk.

Esmeree’s fought before–her superior health and strength has given her an edge over older, larger fishers–but she’s never fought a Brack warrior in his prime. Even unarmed and wounded, she’s certain he can choke the life out of her with one hand.

She looks left and right, searching for a place where she can roll off this bed before the burning tapestries above it come down. Catræth solves that problem for her. Leaping on the bed with her, he lunges. She tries to scramble away, but a powerful grip closes around her ankle. She is thrown across the room, slamming into wall and crumbling into a heap on the floor. Ash and embers from the burning ceiling rain down on her.

It is hard to see and harder to breathe. Shadows flicker and fade at the corners of her vision. Distantly, she sees Catræth climb calmly off the bed just as the canopy above collapses. Melted gold leaf flows and boils as the wood beneath burns. As the bed explodes in flame, the Brack is surrounded by a halo of fire as if he is a dragon from the Fire Hell. She reaches out a hand in weak supplication, willing him to dispel. He snarls, "Yä die now, boduus witch!"

He stalks forward and then jerks to a stop, the pointed tip of his spatha bursting from his belly. He looks down at it, and snarling with fury, he spins around, jerking the sword out of his attacker’s grip. Behind him, Esmeree dimly sees a hunched figure, covered in filthy rags. Something about their moist, fetid nature appears to repel the flame.

Blotch is shocked when Catræth turns on him and is even more surprised when his huge hand finds purchase around his throat. With a strangled cry, the beggar’s hands clutch at the Brack’s fist, trying to break that tightening grip.

Esmeree blinks, and with the last of her strength, she scrambles across the floor, past the combatants, and out of the bedroom. Gasping at the relatively clear air down by the floor, she rolls over and kicks what’s left of the door shut.

Her blistered eyelids blink as she tries to catch her breath. Her ember tingles. Suddenly, Baran is crouching next to her. "Easy? Are yä OK?"

Clutching at his shoulder, she tries and fails to rise. She nods and croaks assent, finding speech impossible.

She is surprised to find him completely naked–his clothes must have burned away–but she is relieved to see no injuries on him at all. She is grateful she managed to save him from Catræth’s cannon. The youngest of her fry, she has always tried to shield him from the worst the Mill has to offer.

He smiles and touches her face. "Thank yä fer tryin’ tä help me, Easy." Kneeling over, he kisses her. Open mouthed, his smooth lips press against her blistered ones. His tongue is sweet and fresh, as if he just drank cool spring water. She inhales, sucking in his pure breath. As he pulls away, her ember flares. A swelling sensation fills her lungs and chest, and rolling over, she vomits up black mucus, ash, and burned flesh.

When she rolls back, Baran is gone. Hands grab her by the shoulders and quickly drag her out of the inn. Outside, the night air is cool. Scores of people are clustered around, fighting both fires and trying to save the neighboring buildings. The Brack bnas drag Esmeree away from the crowds and to a sheltered place among the trees. One of them kneels by her, "Pektus, where is the beggin’ man? Where are yer other mosacs?" She still has her tongue; she must not be married yet.

Esmeree is surprised to find she can speak again, "Two of me fry are dead in Catræth’s room, but the little boy is still in there somewhere!"

The women look at each other. "Yä mean the little blonde-haired mosac?"

Esmeree nods urgently, "Yä got tä get him out! Else, the fire’ll take him!"

The bna shakes her head sadly and points next to her. Esmeree looks over to see a sad figure laying in the dirt. Baran’s hair and clothes are scorched, but he died of a gut wound. Angry pieces of wood and shrapnel project from his flesh.

"But I saw him inside," she says weakly, sadly, "I saw him!"

The woman takes her by the shoulders and gives her a shake. "Yä done enough here, inigena! Others are comin’! Yä better get back tä yer Mill now, else yä never leavin’ here, yäh? Understand?"

She pulls Esmeree to her feet and leads her through the trees. Esmeree is stunned to find most of her burns reduced to mere angry blisters and red rashes. Only her hair and smock continue to smolder.

She is very, very tired, but driven by some unseen urgency, she manages to reach the safety of the Mill before collapsing.

The fire ruined her clothes. Though it pained her to do so, she was forced to buy herself new ones, something she very rarely does. Her hair, however, will take longer to return to normal.

No one in the Mill comments on the sudden disappearance of her three fry–fry disappear all the time in Cliffs Reach–and no one questions her decision not to take on any more. The only purpose for fry is to make money for their fisher. If the fisher wants to work on their own, who is to argue?

Apparently, the Lady didn’t need Esmeree’s help in rooting out the source of the leak. By the time she recovered from her trials with Catræth, a strange beggar stood gutted and strung up before the doors to the Mill, a vivid warning to all others who would oppose the power of the Lady. Esmeree examined the body closely. The beggar was unfamiliar to her and could be anyone, but his teeth looked a little too healthy for a homeless man. What concerned her most of all, however, was he bore no trace of her charm spell. Andelliza flatly refused to spend any energy searching for other possible conspirators, and as the kidnap attempts seemed to have stopped, Esmeree found other interests.

Since Esmeree’s battle with the Crimson Rraakks, members of the Black Ember guild look to Andelliza with a new sense of awe and respect. While Esmeree’s involvement in the burning of the inn remains a secret, Andelliza’s has grown to nearly legendary proportions. All anyone knows for sure is the Black Embers struck a telling blow against the Crimson Rraakks. Street lore tell of how the Lady brazenly entered their lair alone, scourging them with vengeful fire and slaying their leader. While she doesn’t encourage the rumors, Andelliza does quietly accept the credit. Esmeree and Andelliza never speak of it, though she is pleased that she was able to foster her Lady’s renown in Cliffs Reach.

To Esmeree’s knowledge, Blotch never emerged from the burning inn, and she can only speculate on his fate. Sometimes, however, she spots a small hovel in the corners of alleys and wonders at the hunched figure at its center. Out of gratitude, she drops a few quarter coppers in his bag and refrains from giving him a kick.

© John Lawson 2001