Guiromélans crouches on the jagged rocks and stares out at the angry sea.  It has turned bitterly cold, and his injured shoulder aches like a fresh wound.  Drink and anger fill him to the gills.  Anger with his crew and its quartermaster.  Anger with this island, this auberge, and its wretched paqa.  Anger with himself at his failures as sailor, captain, and Raven.

Anger at this storm, for trapping him here.

He has rarely seen it worse.  Fueled by its power, the waves pitch and crash against each other, obliterating themselves against the boulders far below his cliffs.  The wind moans across the waters, catching the spray and sending it high into the air, covering him with a chill, salty dew, even at this height.

Lightning fires deep within the clouds, briefly illuminating the black sky, and Guiromélans holds his breath as he counts.  Before he reaches three, the thunder rolls over him.

He curses silently.  He drinks and curses and drinks and curses.  For 12 days they have holed up on his cursed paqa island, and for 12 days, the storm has waited for them, raging not quite a league off shore.

He knows the mood of the crew is as black as these waters, and they have good reason.  Having spent nearly all their stolen plunder, they are discovering many of the island’s pleasures are now closed to them.  The warmth of the tavern’s fires,  the warmth of the paq-eyas meals, the warmth of the Fitta priestesses.  Food is plentiful—their larder is fully stocked with rations that they should be eating while at sea—and their shelter is for the most part comfortable—their sloop is largely repaired, their holds filled with coal and other supplies.  The crew is rested and manned with fresh sailors, recruited from the lists of idle sailors.  Guiromélans and Bo’s’n Abandinus have recruited many replacements—primarily of Söderkarl and Muttese descent—though they have also signed-on an expatriate Ehrech and EroBernac.

Guiromélans worries that such an influx of non-Bracks will galvanize Mogens’s followers ever closer around him.  He worries that the longer they stay here, the greater the chances they all will turn against him.

The crew, new and old, is eager to set sail.  They wait only for favorable weather.  The longer they wait, the angrier they get.  Much of the crew’s growing rage is directed towards Guiromélans.  They have spoken to Muttese sailors who have since left, foolishly willing to brave the storm.  It is as Guiromélans has suspected.  News of the Knight’s Torment has spread through many of the Weaning Shores weihs.  Should they ever leave this island, they will find their victims prepared and waiting.

So much for Guiromélans’s grand scheme.  There will be no more raids on local villages.  With this news, his currency with the crew has diminished considerably.  Tolerance of the Raven’s presence is evaporating quickly, and Mogens’s popularity is rising.

The crew has more than just Guiromélans’s lack of prospects to be suspicious of him.  They now believe the storm is following their ship—or more accurately, they believe the storm is following him—forcing them further and further from the mainland, deeper into the Weaning Shores.  Guiromélans hardly cares—beyond the Seven Kingdoms’ waters is where he wants to go anyway—but the crew resents being driven further from their homeland.

Is he responsible?  Does the storm follow him?  Can it truly be that he is cursed never to see the sun?  The evidence is difficult to deny.  For nearly 3 months, he has sailed with this crew, and for nearly 3 months has it stormed, giving neither ship nor crew any peace.  He has not seen the sun since that fateful war in the Bracklands.  It is already Last Summer, 5 months later, and fall is beginning.

Guiromélans blinks up at the stormy sky.  Has it truly been that long?  How could it have rained for that long?

Surely the witch’s power couldn’t have lasted this long?  Could it?  Could the sweet, black angel be that powerful?  Guiromélans shakes his head.  No, this is something else.  Be this curse or blessing or message, it comes from a power higher than a mere sorceress could summon.

Guiromélans cradles the precious artifact in his hands and weeps drunkenly at what it shows.  Since he fled Orqueneles, he has claimed the stones of many sorcerers, but it makes no difference.  No matter how many witches he kills, no matter how much evil he roots out and destroys, still the Empyrean Median is tarnished by his moral weakness.

Despite the roar of the wind and surf, he hears the boy approach long before he speaks.  “Hey, Cathubodua!” Balen shouts as he negotiates the rocks a little too quickly for his slight frame.  “Tell me, tell me, O!  Have I a question yä cannot know!”

Guiromélans smiles at the game despite himself.  “Ask, and I shall answer,” he slurs as he gestures for the boy to approach.

It is a simple game.  Medianism boasts of host of 1127 saints throughout its long history, and Guiromélans hopes the Dulia will serve to educate as well as titillate the interests of a young man.  He need only match his knowledge of Medianist lore against whatever challenges the boy can think up.  It is necessary, if Balen is to continue on the path Guiromélans hope to set for him.

“Name me a saint who was killed by God, uh?” Balen says as he stands at the Raven’s side.

Guiromélans thinks for a moment.  “I know of three… no, four if you count the fallen lords.”

“Och fi!” Balen moans.  “Four?  Fuck, and I thought I had yä stumped!”  Gripping the knight’s belt, he leans precariously out over the surf until Guiromélans pulls him back.

Wrapping his oiled Brackish cucullus around them both, he and the boy settle down to share the stories.

“First was Dieudonnée of the Robais,” Guiromélans begins, the alcohol helping his mind drift easily to that far-away era.  “She was a Drungi princess, and her tribe lived in the lands that would one day become the Duchy of Ehre.  She lived a long time ago, before even Pennenc the Wise.”

“What happened to her?  What did she do?”

“She did many important things—she was a just ruler, and her lands prospered—but most important of all, she was the first to hear the Word of God.  She was the first to bring the God of the Medianists to us and to offer the road of purity to our souls.”

“But why did God kill her, uh?”

“She did many good things, Balen,” Guiromélans says a little sadly, “and but for one terrible flaw, she would be honored as one of the highest saints…  She had a stone of power—she was a witch—and because of that, God had to put her to death.  For that, she was made the Fallen Lord of Stone rather than a proper saint.”

“He killed her just fer bein’ a stone-summoner?  Ah!  The vitchoor!” Balen spits.

“BALEN!” Guiromélans roars, surprising even himself with his anger.  The boy only halfway meant the blasphemy, but he seems to enjoy Guiromélans’s outrage nevertheless.

“Was she pretty, uh?” he needles.  “Tell me about the things she did afore God killed her!”

“Perhaps some other time,” Guiromélans says sulkily, no longer willing to cater to this profane child’s whims.  “There are three other saints to tell you about.”

“Yäh?  And what are they?”

“Lyulph was the next.  He was also from Ehre and was a disciple of Pennenc.  When the faith was still young, and the laws of God and Pennenc were still being questioned, many challenged the place of God in the land.  Many wanted to go back to the old ways and the worship of devils like Johlpa and Thunderer and Gock.  In the city of Quillo, the people threatened to burn God’s churches lest He give them proof of His power.

“Only one man would stand in the way of the desecration.  Lyulph barred the mob’s passage and warned that such actions would bring down God’s wrath—and when they challenged him, he offered himself up as proof of God’s power—a martyr to God, he earned his passage into Heaven.”

“And what happened?”

“God displayed His power.  He displayed it most dramatically.”

“Yäh?”

Guiromélans smiles at the child’s enthusiasm.  “Should we ever pilgrimage to Quillo together, I shall show you the God’s Melt that still marks the steps of the church.”

“Was Lyulph a stone-summoner too?”

“A sorcerer?  Yes he was.”

“Then why do yä say God killed him?  Why couldn’t he have just burned himself up instead?  I heard of this one sacardd of Johlpa who killed hisself by—”

“Because that’s not the way it happened!” Guiromélans states sharply.

“But—”

“The third was Nabunal,” Guiromélans hurries on testily, “a converted Synesi who fell into Muttese hands.  So horrible were his tortures that God finally granted him peace.  He too was a disciple of Pennenc.”

“Yäh?  Horrible tortures?” Balen asks, his eyes gleaming.  “Like what?”

Guiromélans shakes his head.  “First, reeds were thrust in-between his nails and his flesh and into all the tenderest parts of his body and then withdrawn.  After this torture had been repeated several times, a knotted stake was inserted into his bowels to rend and tear him.”

“Och fi!” Balen exclaims with wonder.

“Throughout his ordeal, he never cried out or begged for mercy.  Instead, he merely sang prayers to God.  Eventually, God took pity on him and closed his eyes.”

Balen looks thoughtful and then suddenly frowns.  “Now, wait!  What—”

“The last was Gaudin,” Guiromélans interrupts, sensing the direction the next question would take, “a learned man and respected wizard from the EroBernd Empire.  In an effort to find the spark of divinity within even the lowest demon, he managed a modicum of success, transforming some into true, pure humans.  Sadly, in doing so, he inadvertently changed himself into a corrupt demon, and rather than lose his soul to the Hells, God slayed him before he could be driven insane.”

Guiromélans shakes his head as he shields his brow from the rain, “But the way Gaudin died is not what we remember him most for.”

“What else did he do?” Balen asks, sensing excitement in the knight’s voice.

“It is funny that your question should bring his name to mind, with us exploring these young islands of the Weaning Shores,” Guiromélans answers.  “Long before his retirement, Gaudin waged war against the Fée and the paqa.  He was a mighty general and a powerful wizard.  Great were his battles against the soulless ahrounoi.  Countless numbers fell before the power of his armies and his spells.  The conflict tore the heavens, boiled the Skudd, and in the end, shattered the land once known as Háimóþli.”

“Ham?… Hamoth?…”

“Háimóþli.”

Balen nods.  “Where is it?”

Guiromélans pats the sea-worn stone beneath them.

Balen frowns, “What?”

Guiromélans smiles, warming to the tale, the boy’s earlier blasphemy already nearly forgotten.  With drink, he is easy to anger but almost as quick to forgive.  “As a sailor, you must know the tantrums of the Skudd, yes?  The dangers she presents.  The traps she lays to suck young sailors like you beneath her waves?”

“Caidryn says,” Balen gasps as he stares out at the turbulent waters, “that the Skudd’s full of rogue waves lookin’ tä swamp unwary more’das and smash fishin’ dunums tä pieces!  And haunted islands that appear and disappear accordin’ tä the stars, and they’re filled with ghosts and hidden treasure!  And sea monsters big enough tä eat the Artaithto-Cing whole in one bite!  And steam spouts and geysers and fire mountains and—”

“Yes.  Yes, of course,” grumbles Guiromélans, feeling a little crestfallen.  “It seems you’ve already had a thorough grounding on the nature of the Skudd…  But I am primarily concerned with the tales of tidal waves and volcanoes and other events that occur far at sea and deep underwater.  What you may not realize, Balen, is that what the sailor fears, others may desire.”

“What?”

“The Wars of Empty Horror—the wars between the ahrounoi and man—were waged over the ownership of the Skudd, boy, and the powers it hides within its depths.  The crafty ahrounoi were up to something… something bad and dangerous… within her depths.  Wherever the skin of the world is thin, you can be sure the ahrounoi are nearby.  There was a time when the foul creatures and their unholy creations were everywhere—on our shores, in our waters—Gaudin took it upon himself to stop their schemes and drive them back into their mountains.”

“Sä what happened?”

“War,” the Raven whispers almost wistfully as he watches wave smash against wave, “Great, glorious war.  In the defense of God, man met Fée in terrible conflict.  Battle raged on the surface of the Skudd and across the face of Háimóþli.  Nearly a whole generation of Medianist men laid down their lives to defeat the foe.  Countless scores of our soldiers died in the service of God.”  He leans closer to the boy and murmurs in his ear, “This was the beginning of the Drungi tradition of polygamy.”

“What?”

“The taking of more than one wife, following the lead of your Brackish tribes, I’m sure.  There were far too many women for the men to marry just one.  Though it was necessary after the wars, it is no longer.  But that heresy still can still be found in parts of Mut and the Southern Territories.”

Guiromélans wipes his eyes and flexes his injured arm again.  “In the end, the ahrounoi were forced back underground, and the Skudd was ours again—but the ahrounoi were not without their resources—and they exacted a terrible price for our victory.”

“What was that?”

A massive wave smashes against the rocks, launching the water skyward and covering the two with salt spray and foam.  In the chill rain, they hardly notice.  Guiromélans nods out towards the blackened sea.  “There’s something out there, Balen, something the ahrounoi left, hidden in these Skudd waters.  Eater of ships, destroyer of lands…  Ever wonder why there are so many tidal waves in the Skudd, Balen?  Why safe harbors in Muttese lands are almost impossible to find?”  Guiromélans nods again, “There’s something out there, something left by the ahrounoi, and it sends its waves hard against these shores.”

Guiromélans pats the rocks beneath them.  “What happened to Háimóþli?  You’re sitting on what’s left of it.  Ehre and Mut were once joined as one land—and then came the waves, the ahrounoi’s revenge—and they have pounded fair Háimóþli to pieces.  All that remains are the reefs and islands of the Weaning Shores.”

The two sit in silence for a long time, watching the ahrounoi’s vengeance slowly wear their island away.

Suddenly, the boy speaks churlishly, “Doesn’t sound like Gaudin was all that great.”

“What?”

“What’s he doin’ bein’ a caddos and all, and yä makes Dieudonnée just a fallen lord, uh?”

“Well, you see, she was impure!” Guiromélans exclaims, shocked and stunned that the boy could so completely miss the point, “She was a witch!”

“Yäh?  T’wasn’t the dewine’s fault!  But this Gaudin was a fuckin’ afron!  Boduus gets hisself turned intä a dusios, and God makes him a saint?  That’s buachar!”

“How DARE you!” Guiromélans shouts, grabbing Balen by the shoulders and shaking him violently.  “Who are you to defame the name of Gaudin?  He was one of God’s chosen!  He saved us all!”  His sudden anger surprises them both.

“He was bad!” Balen shouts back.  “He just killed people!  And started cuall wars!”

“He was a general!  One of the best!”

“Yäh?  And he got his entire kingdom sunk!  Some general!  But Dieudonnée helped people!  She heard the word of yer God!  She was the first!  Where’d yä be without her, uh?”

“No she wasn’t!  Stupid little boy!  How would you know—”

“Yä said yerself!” Balen shouts through his tears.  “She heard yer boduus God’s words first!  T’wasn’t fer her, wouldn’t be any cuall Medianists around now!  She was yer God’s first prophet, not that vitchoor Pennenc!”

“She was a WITCH!” Guiromélans shrieks, crying as well and not entirely sure why.

“Yäh?  Sä what!”

Fury ignites deep within Guiromélans’s breast.  Without warning, he throws aside his cloak and drags Balen to his feet.  The boy screams in terror as the Raven throws him off the edge of cliff.  Only Guiromélans’s powerful grip keeps him from tumbling into the meat grinder of waves and reefs far below.

“So what?” Guiromélans shouts over the child’s cries.  “Look!  Look into the face of death, the face of judgment!”  He shoves the boy further over the edge.  Balen’s legs can only just barely reach, and his toes scramble desperately for purchase on the stones.  “This is the face of God, boy!  There is no compromising!  There is no negotiating!  There are no shades of gray!  Only black and white!  There is no purgatory!  Only salvation and damnation!  Sin and purity!  Life… and death!”

Balen falls silent, merely staring at Guiromélans hopelessly, his entire body trembling.

“Can you not see?” Guiromélans pleads, his voice cracking with sorrow and shame.  “Dieudonnée did not need to do anything!  To be a woman and to be a sorcerer is to be anathema in God’s eyes.  It did not matter that she was good or just or pious.  By her very being, she had sinned!  To sin is to violate the Word of God, God’s law!  To sin is akin to stepping from this sea cliff.  Judgment is the terrible power of the rocks and waves below!  Once you’ve fallen, there is no turning back… no second chances.”

“There are too second chances!” Balen screams in sudden, terrified fury.  “Yä just told me there were!”

“W—what?”

Balen squirms violently, suicidally against the Raven’s grip.  “Yä told me there is!  Yä told me Gaudin turned a bunch of dusios intä proper men!  Were they damned, or did they go tä Heaven too?”

“No, you don’t understand,” Guiromélans murmurs weakly, too quietly for the screaming boy to hear.

“If yer God could save the demons, why couldn’t He save Dieudonnée, uh?  Why didn’t she get yer second chance, uh?  Why does yer God always have tä kill people?  Why can’t the boduus help us?”

Guiromélans listens to the boy’s screams as his eyes stare out to sea.  Second chances?  How can there be second chances?  He has always known God’s judgment to be immutable, incommutable.  His understanding of the Latria depended on it.  Can his knowledge of Medianist doctrine be so faulty?  No.  These are lessons he’s heard in sermons all his life, parables he’s read from the Certu.  There is no question that his memory is sound.

Then what can it be?  Has he fallen so low that a child’s questions can baffle him?  Guiromélans searches desperately for a meaning and fails to find one.  How can demons be granted salvation—creatures who have committed naught but pain and harm upon God’s works—and yet a pious and honorable witch be condemned without mercy?  There is nothing within Guiromélans’ experience to answer this.

How can he be confounded by a child’s simple riddle?

Perhaps he is missing a deeper meaning here?  Nothing in God’s world happens by accident.  Everything has a purpose, everything has meaning.  He was led to this confusion by Balen’s questions, questions that sprung from Guiromélans’s tales of saints and fallen lords.  Those tales—learned independently throughout his life—by themselves cause no problems.  Combined, however, they do indeed invoke difficult questions from little boys’ mouths.  Dare they tell a tale of inconsistency in the Will of God?  Do they expose a weakness in His infallibility?  No, there must be something else.  There must be another answer.

This riddle sprung from the tales.  The tales sprung from… the game!  A simple challenge posed by the child he now holds dangerously above these rocks.  But how could this boy start in motion a chain of events that would elicit such turmoil?  He could not, unless the spark of inspiration was fueled within him… by a divine hand!

Realization slowly dawns on Guiromélans.  He should have sensed God’s work in this all along.  Is this another joke?  Another trial?  If so, what is the lesson to be learned?

Closing his eyes, Guiromélans prays for guidance.  Torn by the wind and rain, he stands with the boy suspended over the breakers and prays until his arm begins to tremble beneath the weight.  In the end, it is just as he feared, no answer is forthcoming.

Guiromélans curses quietly as his eyes open.  It seems God is content to continue taunting him.  But when his eyes refocus, he blinks in surprise at what he sees.  He wipes the rain from his face and eyes and strains to see out over the blackened sea.  Can what he sees be true?

Cutting through the storm-savaged waves as though immune to their power, a Seven Kingdoms man-o’-war slowly steams past his island.  Her sails furled against the storm, she travels under the power of her massive steam engines, trailing a grayish bruise of smoke behind her.  Countless gaslights shine from her windows and gun ports, and Guiromélans fancies he can even hear the music being played to entertain the ship’s officers and guests.

From this distance, he can just make out the standard of the Order of the Raven flying from its masts.  Ravens here?  Can it be that Partinial is still looking for him?  What delicious irony it would be for his friend to pass by so closely and still miss his mark!  To think, if he just stood in one of those windows with a spyglass, his search might be over!  Guiromélans halfway wonders if the young Raven has some sort of assistance in tracking him down.  A wizard?  Another artifact?  How interesting…

Suddenly, the night is full of possibilities.  Realization dawns on Guiromélans like the long absent sun.  He flexes the hand of his injured right arm.  The fall from the rigging was bad, but it could have been much, much worse.  If sin is the fall, why couldn’t God be in the ropes that save you?  A painful lesson, but hardly a fatal one, and now, perhaps, it is all over.  All this humiliation was but the prelude to the final fall and ultimate redemption.  He looks at the passing cruiser.  He is the lamb to the slaughter, and the instruments of his execution have at last arrived.

Guiromélans looks down at the sagging child.  “Balen,” he says softly.  “The truth be told, in my homeland, a man would be sentenced to death or mutilation for the things you’ve said.  What the fate of a mere child like you would be, I dare not say.  The Seven Kingdoms do not take kindly to such things being said about and against God and His chosen.”

“FUCKS yer God, then!” Balen shrieks.

Guiromélans smiles and then looks back out at the passing cruiser.  “Before, I might even have rendered judgment myself—right here and now—and let you fall… but now, I am no longer the man I used to be.  I can hardly claim to be pure of faith and spirit...  You speak of second chances, Balen.  In this case, we shall let God decide if you are deserving of one.”

Balen frowns with confusion, hardly daring to hope, as Guiromélans reaches into his cloak with his free hand.  Producing the artifact, he holds it near the boy and examines the results.

Finally, he smiles and pulls him back upon the rocks.

 

The two slowly make their way back towards the paqa outpost.  The boy walks cautiously, shakily, his eyes rarely leaving his companion.  The Raven walks with confidence, with a spring in his step that hadn’t been there for a long time.  The Raven’s cruiser has long since past, but he still catches himself looking out to sea, almost expecting to see it dropping anchor and launching search parties.

Balen watches him, careful now to keep out of arm’s reach, as they work their way down towards the beach.  Though they can’t yet see it, the lights and sounds of the auberge echo from around the rocks and embrace them warmly.

Balen looks around him.  Among the tangled driftwood and rock of the beach, there are plenty avenues of escape.  Nearby, the gaping wreck of a small ship rocks gently on the bare rocks.  Its drowned crew probably choose to brave the storm rather than stay at the outpost.  Its wreckage and cargo have already been picked over by the perminant residents of the outpost.  By next tide, the rest will be gone, battered to pieces and washed out to sea.

Screwing up his courage, Balen takes a heavy rock in his hand and makes his stand.  “Hey, boduus!” he shouts.

Guiromélans stops and inclines his head without turning around.  “Yes, Balen?”

Balen tests the weight of the rock.  He doesn’t throw it yet.  He wants to make sure the vitchoor sees it coming.  “Hey, boduus!  Turn around!”

Slowly, Guiromélans turns, and the look in his eye gives the boy pause.  “What is it, Balen?”

Balen bites his lip and hesitates.  “What yä says next may decide whether yä lives or dies!”

“Really?”

“Yäh!  I gots friends on the ship, uh?” he says, daring him to disagree.

“You have one friend, Balen, besides me.  And I would agree she is a good one to have.”

“Yäh?  Yer a friend?  Some friend yä are!”

“Yes.  Some friend…”

Guiromélans is about to turn away, when Balen shrugs and drops his rock.  “If I said such bad things, why didn’t yä kills me, uh?  Why didn’t yä lets me drop?”

Guiromélans smiles warmly.  “Because God decided that tonight is the night for second chances.  Yours to live.  Perhaps, mine to die…  And, I prefer not to kill children.”

Balen frowns as the Raven turns away and begins walking back towards the auberge.  He takes a hesitant step forward and then another.  “Was it that ship yä saw?” he shouts after him.

Guiromélans pauses and looks back at him.  “Yes.”

Balen jogs about half the distance to the knight and stops.  “They’re other boduuses aboard?”

“Ravens.  Yes.  At least one.”  Guiromélans thinks for a moment and then adds, “I suggest you not tell anyone about that ship.”

“Yäh?” Balen challenges, “Why not?”

“Mogens and some others might not react well to the news…” Guiromélans thinks again before saying, “And it may be a danger to me, you see.  That ship, those Medianists, they’re looking for me, I think.”

“Because yer a bagaudas now like me and Caidryn and Mogens?” he asks with surprise.

Guiromélans hesitates and then smiles again.  “No.  Because of something I stole.”

“Stole?” Balen nearly shrieks in surprise.  “Yä stole somethin’?”

“Yes.”

Balen points at Guiromélans’s breast.  “Was it that circle yä keeps lookin’ at?”

His hand unconsciously shields the artifact as he nods.  “Yes.  It was a terrible crime to take it, but it is something I needed for my mission.”

Balen’s eyes narrow, and he takes another step closer.  “Yä calls yerself a Cathubodua, and yä steals?  What kinda knight are yä?”

Something close to contempt drips from the boy’s voice, and Guiromélans hardly blames him.  “What kind of knight travels with Brackish pirates?  What kind of knight am I?”  He nods, “I am a Raven… or at least, I was.  I strive, Balen, to serve God’s wishes, and in doing so, once again earn His good favors.  I think…  I think my quest is nearly over, Balen.  I think God has revealed His plan for me at last.”

Balen’s face screws up with thought.  “The ship?”

“Yes, the ship.”

Balen grimaces as he approaches.  “Sä, what is it yä stole, uh?  What is that thing?”

Guiromélans stares down at the boy standing before him.  Already his curiosity and bravery has overcome the fear of their earlier encounter on the rocks.  Guiromélans is hardly surprised.  Such traits he recognized in him long ago.

Slowly, he reaches into his cloak and produces the artifact.  It is a bisected circle of coiled silver and iron bands, girded by second and third bands, one of silver, one of iron.  A ruby and sapphire the sizes of a child’s fingernail are set into the outer circles.  Balen’s eyes widen as he stares at the pale prize.  He gasps in amazement as Guiromélans takes hold of its base and, with a flick of his finger, sends its rings spinning.  Lightning and firelight flash in the tiny facets cut into its surface and its gems, though not nearly as much as they would if its silver was polished.  The hinges need oiling too, and the rings hum as they spin.

“What is it?”

Guiromélans stops the rings, taking care to make sure the ruby is at the top and the sapphire at the bottom.  “It is the Empyrean Median,” he sighs.  “It is an item of great importance in my homeland of Orqueneles.  I stole it from the cathedral of Peiné Païen in Castitasdecus, and the Ravens have hunted me ever since.”

“Empy— Empy-ran-Median?” Balen repeats with some skepticism.  “Looks like it needs some cleanin’, uh?”

Guiromélans smiles and holds the Median closer to Balen.  Before the boy’s surprised eyes, the patina and flecks of rust covering it’s silver and iron fade and disappear.  In the rain of the storm, it now shines like a new star.

Pressing it closer to his own breast, Guiromélans’s face becomes sad and tired as he sees its surface fade and soil once again.

“Mol!” the boy exclaims.  “How do yä do that?”

Guiromélans fingers the Median reverentially.  “It is a test of God, a gift left behind by Hoël during his campaigns in Ehre.”  He proffers it towards Balen, and they watch as its luster returns and then fades as it nears Guiromélans’s breast again.  “It tarnishes in the presence of heresy.  I use it to test for heretics… and to test the condition of my own soul.”

“It thinks yä spoke evil against yer God?” Balen laughs with surprise.  “It don’t knows yä too well, that’s fer sure!”

“The Empyrean Median is an infallible herald of God’s Word, Balen,” he says sadly as he returns the artifact to its place within his cloak.  “Though it may be hard for you to understand, I know I have betrayed God, and I am being punished for it.  My sole goal is to amend my crimes.  I shall do this by defending God’s cause.”  He looks at the boy affectionately, “And if I can save a soul or two in the process, so much the better.”

Balen self-consciously draws a line in the sand with his toe.  Without looking up, he mutters, “Is that what yä were doin’ tä me?  Tryin’ tä save me soul?”

“Yes,” he answers without hesitation.

 

The tavern dome is filled with Muts and Söderkarl.  Guiromélans cranes his neck to see a familiar face among the press.  Already, it has swallowed-up the swift boy, Balen.  Sighing deeply, he slowly pushes his solitary way through.

The k’Lida left days ago—their mysterious business done at the outpost—and rather than stay and risk further moral temptation by the unclean races, they chose to take their chances with the storm.  Perhaps they hoped it would shield their passage from the Muttese patrols.  Their ships are large, but they are slow and under-armed for their size, no match for a Seven Kingdoms cutter or even a jaght.

So that leaves just the Söderkarl and Muttese.  Though their numbers have dwindled slightly as the days have passed, there are still a lot of them.  Fights are frequent, and Guiromélans’s Bracks being brawlers as well, they have seen their fair share of the action.  With the Knight’s Torment finally repaired, he would like to escape this place while his crew is still in seaworthy condition.

Now that he knows the Raven warship is out there, he is doubly impatient.  He senses that salvation is at hand, and still this damned weather blocks him!

The boy is pure of spirit.  Somehow he has managed to avoid the corruption and evil that surrounds him.  Guiromélans knows, should he be surrendered to God’s law, He will embrace him.

A roar swells above the crowd.  A tall paqa pushes through the revelers, a large cage held high over his head.  Patrons shout and pound their tables as he passes.

Guiromélans heads for the sand pit, knowing his Bracks are always ready for a spectacle.

The mastiff is powerful, heavy muscles rippling beneath its scarred pelt.  Oblivious to the shouts and catcalls, it casually sniffs the air and sand as his master leads him around the ring.  The beast is the local champion, and Guiromélans has seen him fight several times since his arrival here.  The storm has prevented the delivery of more worthy opponents, and most of the matches of late have been merely bloody spectacles for the crowd and energetic meals for the dog.  His last fight just days ago was an exception, and the mastiff paid a heavy price in that victory against the dracunculus.  Frankly, he’s surprised the dog has recovered so quickly.

The champion’s ragged ears perk up as a paqa carries the challenger’s cage into the pit, and his master has difficulty holding back the straining animal.  Despite the excitement, Guiromélans notes there is little betting.  Another slow day for the fight organizers, he supposes.

The paqa gingerly tips over the cage before leaping out of the pit.  A litter of six stunned kobolde tumbles onto the sand.  By their gaunt bodies, Guiromélans knows the paqa must have been starving them, probably just for an occasion like this.  These kobolde are very, very hungry.  At least they will make the fight interesting.  Just as they begin to get their bearings, the mastiff’s low growl fills the arena.

Guiromélans is not a fan of such contests, and his eyes drift to the people around him.  Not to his surprise, his gaze falls upon a group of familiar faces, and he pushes his way towards them.

Caidryn and Adalgis and Gofannon sit with other crewmembers of the Knight’s Torment.  Their table is close to the pit, and their attention is riveted to the action before them.  It takes several seconds before any of them notice his arrival.  A grunt from Caidryn serves as his only greeting.  Others simply edge away from his rain-soaked form, refusing to be distracted by his arrival.  So much for respect for your captain.

Caidryn watches the fight with bright eyes.  This is the first he’s really seen of her since their argument days ago.  As he looks at her, he wonders where she’s been hiding.  Even Balen has been left alone, and Guiromélans has had to rescue him from several scrapes in her absence.  Nevertheless, whatever she’s been doing, it seems to agree with her.

Guiromélans takes a seat and sits quietly for as long as he can stand it.  He has learned from years of experience that Bracks tend to become excited and adventurous after blood has been spilt, be it their own or another’s.  Though his excitement to move on is growing, he is content to wait.

As the room fills with the shrieks and yelps of the desperate contest, his eyes drift through the room, eventually falling upon the face of Mogens.  The Quartermaster sits near the end of the bar, close to what serves as the outpost’s hiring hall.  With him are the five Muttese breibançon he’s “recruited”.  Every traveling gwledig, it seems, deserves an honor guard of local muscle.  The stupid Brack continues to eat and drink lavishly, and the beds of Fitta are rarely dried from his seed before he is back for more.  In Guiromélans’s eyes, it is in bad taste for the Quartermaster to throw that much money around, especially since the majority of his crew is now broke and living aboard the sloop.  For every share a crewman aboard the Knight’s Torment earns, the Captain and Quartermaster earn two.  It is reasonable, then, for Mogens to have a few more marks to enjoy, but not this much.

Guiromélans suspects, if he ever bothered to check the ship’s coffers, that Mogens is dipping into others’ pockets as well.  In all likelihood, his own.  The Quartermaster knows Guiromélans has no taste for the pleasures of this place.  Why let good money and good whores go to waste?

Guiromélans’s eyes narrow as he watches Mogens insolently pluck a feather from an unsuspecting husband.  The paqa shrieks in impotent outrage.  With his five hired swords, perhaps he is feeling a little more secure.  Guiromélans glances around the table at his companions as they watch the fight.  Perhaps with those five swords, the rest of the crew is feeling a little more intimidated?

Gofannon catches his eye and stares back.  “What?” he grunts as he pounds the table with excitement.  “Yä don’t likes tä watch?”

Guiromélans nods his head with ennui at the sand pit.  “Conflicts where the outcome is not in question do not interest me.”

His crewmen moan in disgust, but the Chief Mechanic nods his head.  He gestures towards Mogens.  “Yä’ve been watchin’ our dear Quartermaster, uh?  Yä don’t likes what yä sees?  Five new bagaudas tä back his word.  It might make a Captain’s job very hard, uh?”  He leans closer and examines Guiromélans’s face.  “But now I sees somethin’ in yer eyes.  Somethin’ new.  Yä not worried about Mogens na more?  What’re yä thinkin’, boduus?”

Guiromélans smiles and looks around at the others.  Hearing Gofannon’s words, they too are now watching him.

“Call it a revelation.”

“What?” Master Carpenter Adalgis exclaims, “Out there in the storm?  Yä came in with the mosac.  Did yä finally fuck him?  Is that what yer—”

Before he can react, Caidryn strikes, the back of her fist sending the Master Carpenter sprawling off his bench.  The others guffaw as Adalgis picks himself up, but Caidryn merely glares at Guiromélans as she flexes her hand.

“No,” Guiromélans assures, “Nothing so… inappropriate or ill-advised.”

He flags down a husband and orders a drink before settling down and gripping the edge of the table.  The Bracks’ eyes move from his face to the whitened knuckles of his clenched fingers.  “Suffice it to say, I know of our next target,” fire flashes in his eyes and in his voice, “Believe me.  It holds everything you and I could ever desire… but we must leave soon if we are to seize it.”

“Seize it?” Gofannon exclaims.  “What’re yä talkin’ about?  This ain’t na more’da is it?”

Guiromélans’s eyes shine, “Why, yes it is.  Yes it is indeed!”  His enthusiasm abates a bit when he sees the looks exchanged around the table.  “Is there a problem with that?”

“Oh, na,” Adalgis grunts, nursing his jaw as he sits back down.  “Not with us.  Not with the morwr aboard the Artaithto-Cing.”

“Mogens is the problem,” a sailor mutters.

“What do you mean?  What are you talking about?”

Much to Guiromélans’s surprise, his companions exchange many uncomfortable glances before Adalgis speaks. “Mogens’ll never attack another ship.  Especially in a storm.  Especially without a stone-summoner tä serve him.”  He shakes his head, “He’s strange that way.”

“Why not?”

Adalgis carefully draws a line down the left side of his face.

“His scar?” Guiromélans asks, “What—”

“It happened a long time ago,” Caidryn says.  “Long before I signed on.”

Gofannon grunts humorlessly, “Yäh.  Long time before that.  Long time before we joined the Artaithto-Cing and signed on with Forré.  Years ago.  In Xshudrå’s Tapestry—”

“Xshudrå’s…” Guiromélans asks, frowning.  “You mean the Tapestry Delta?”

“Tewi!” Caidryn snaps impatiently.  “It don’t matter what yä calls it!”

Gofannon grins faintly as Guiromélans rocks back in his chair in frustration.  “Yäh,” he continues, “What yä boduuses call the Tapestry Delta.  Mogens ran a more’da there, before he ran with Forré.  Raidin’ the Ulbandi and Synesi that tried tä sail intä the Skudd…”  He sneers at Guiromélans, “and the occasional boduus ship too.”

Guiromélans ignores the dig.  “Yes?  So?  There is a point to this?”

Gofannon shrugs.  “One day, his caragus falls ill.  Too much tä drink, uh?  Sä, Mogens sails without him.  Crosses a more’da with one mean stone-summoner on board.”  The Chief Mechanic whistles into his drink at the memory.  “Thought it was an easy prize, but that stone-summoner beat us this way and that way and all over.  Sank our more’da.  Killed most of us, or left us fer dead.”  He drinks hard and fast before slamming his mug back down.  He shakes his head as he wipes his mouth.  “Found meself washed ashore.  Later, I found Mogens with that… wound.”

“So this sorcerer gave Mogens his scar?”

Gofannon glares at the Raven.  “He gave us all scars.  I just ain’t showin’ yä mine, uh?”

“And when Mogens got back home?”

Adalgis laughs, “He killed his lag-about stone-summoner.”

“Of course.”  Guiromélans crosses his arms and smiles.  “So all this, everything, is because he got beat once?  He refuses to attack ships at sea without a stone-summoner of his own because—”

“Because he fears their stone-summoner,” Gofannon blurts angrily.  “Only cualls sail without a stone-summoner!  And we sails without ours because of yä!”

Guiromélans quickly reads the man’s body language and immediately changes his attitude.  They are on dangerous ground here.  The Chief Mechanic is one of Mogens’s most solid supporters.  He would much prefer not to antagonize the man right now.  He shrugs in what he hopes is in a disarming way, “That’s an old argument, and I don’t want to rekindle it.”

He looks at Adalgis, “And now it makes sense.  Why he would even consider allowing a Raven… a boduus to join his crew!”

“Because yer a fuckin’ witch-killer,” Caidryn says angrily.  Guiromélans frowns.  That’s a strange thing for her to say, and there is something in her voice now.  Something new.  Is she still angry from their fight?  Guiromélans tries to read her expression, but she only turns away.

“Yäh,” Gofannon mutters, his black eyes boring into Guiromélans’s, “He thought yä had yer uses, but he didn’t think yä’d become such a problem…”

“Never sail without a sorcerer,” Guiromélans sighs, finally turning away from the Brackish girl.  “Wise advice, I suppose.”

Adalgis winces strangely at the comment but then nods, “Yäh, but not Mogens.”  He glances around at his companions and briefly reads their faces before continuing, “He don’t do it in a wise kinda way, uh?”

“More like a cuall,” a sailor grunts as he takes a drink.

“What do you mean?”

“He’ll not attack another ship,” Gofannon snaps.  “Na matter what.  Not fer gold, nor guns, nor bnas.  Not if yä threaten his life, uh?  Na.  Nothin’.”

“Not even if the stone-summoner’s a dusty and blind old odocos or a bare-faced pektus!” a sailor laughs, “Don’t matter if he’s asleep, crippled, or dead!  Mogens’ll not move against him!”

Guiromélans carefully analyzes what he hears, picking apart each word.  A deep anger begins to grow in his breast.  “Wait a minute!” he stammers, “The häxa’s island!  He went out to find the witch, to hunt him down!”

Gofannon smiles cynically.  “Is that what yä thought?  Nage.  As soon as yä were outta sight, he beat it back tä the more’da.  We ate well and toasted tä yer memory!”

“And that’s where he sat, safe and sound, until yä released the waters,” Caidryn sighs.

“You knew about this?” Guiromélans asks her solemnly.

Her eyes harden as she senses his tone, and her lip curls defiantly.  “Yäh.  But only after the fact.”

Guiromélans looks at Adalgis, but the Master Carpenter refuses to meet his eye.  “And you as well.”  Guiromélans shakes his head in disgust.  “He let you face the danger.  And you still follow him.”

“What are we tä do?” he asks helplessly, indifferently, “He’s our rix, uh?”

“He’s your Quartermaster,” Guiromélans corrects, “and I’m your Captain.  He is to protect you from my mistreatment.  Not the other way around!”  He shakes his head, “Doesn’t he have any honor?”

Gofannon’s smile is smug, infuriating.  “Not in the way yer thinkin’,” he sneers, “What, with yer boduus Medianist pomp and ruffles.  Marchin’ in straight lines, keepin’ yer pretty flags clean.  Proud knights in shiny armor sippin’ tea and salutin’ each other!”

Guiromélans smiles at Gofannon’s ignorant generalizations.  “Your knowledge of Seven Kingdoms warfare is woefully deficient and embarrassing, Chief Mechanic.  Enough Bracks before you have learned what it is to war with us.  You have but to ask, and I would be happy to… enlighten you.”

Gofannon’s eyes darken, and Adalgis cuts in, “He is an outlaw, Cathubodua.  Mogens is outcast and outlaw—banished from his tribe—stripped of his ater’s name and rights.  He is luct-marvos and has nothing to look forward to in the afterlife.”

“And this makes him a coward?” Guiromélans asks incredulously.

Adalgis shrugs, “When yä have nothin’ tä looks forward tä after death besides the embrace of Cassibodua, yer in na hurry tä die.”

Guiromélans merely frowns.  “Disgraced in life, he fears death,” he says thoughtfully.  Looking at Caidryn, he murmurs, “Yet disgraced in life, I welcome it.”

Caidryn frowns.  “What?”

“Yä don’t understand,” Adalgis mutters, shaking his head, “Yer a boduus.”

Guiromélans snorts at Gofannon, “Outcast or not, coward or not, he claims to lead you.  Unless you, too, are resigned to Mogens’s fate, all this reflects poorly on you as well.”  He looks at Adalgis, “Frankly, I’m surprised you’ve tolerated it.”

“Tolerated?” Gofannon barks.  “It’s yer presence that we’ve tolerated!”

“Tolerate me?”  Guiromélans asks.  He leans closer to the Chief Mechanic.  “You’ve done a great deal more than merely tolerate me.  This crew voted me Captain!  If it wasn’t for your leader’s treachery and incompetence, such an opportunity would never have happened!”

“Mogens’s incompetence?  Of what?  Leadin’?  Or killin’ yä?”  Gofannon’s toothless maw is a black pit.

Guiromélans shrugs.  “Take your pick.”

“Well,” he hisses, “mayhaps that’s about tä end, uh?”

“What?” Guiromélans smiles, “Will another nighttime visitor attempt to make my bed with me in it?”

Gofannon smiles cruelly, “Or mayhaps we’ll hit another shallow, uh?  Perhaps next time, Aelle won’t put a rope in yer hand tä save yä, uh?”

The Brack suddenly freezes beneath the Raven’s stare.  Slowly, Guiromélans sits back up in his chair as the table around him becomes deathly quiet.  He remembers hanging from the mast.  He remembers calling down to the Quartermaster, warning him of the nearing sandbar.  He remembers the look Mogens gave him just before turning the wheel into the sand.  He remembers falling, hitting the water.  He remembers the hands of Caidryn and Adalgis pulling him into the longboat.

Already, the fight in the pit is over.  The mastiff, bloodied but unbowed, worries the corpse of a slain kobolde.  His master struggles in vain to drag him from the sand.

“Do yä hear?” Gofannon shouts, suddenly stirring, “It just best if yä—”

Guiromélans rises abruptly, cutting the Chief Mechanic off.  “Excuse me,” he says calmly.  “I need to have a conversation with our Quartermaster.”

“Guiromélans, don’t!” Caidryn shouts, but he doesn’t listen.  Leaping from the table, she and Adalgis follow him.  After a brief pause, the rest of the sailors do as well.

“This isn’t wise, Cathubodua,” Adalgis warns, weaving through the crowds in an effort to keep up with the Raven.

“It never is,” he answers simply.  “And it never a good time for it either, so don’t bother telling me.”

Caidryn grabs him by his arm and jerks him back.  Guiromélans stops, wincing at the pain in his shoulder.  “Yä sees?” she hisses, “Yer hurt!  Mogens is the best we have with the spatha!”

Guiromélans looks thoughtful.  “Everyone says their leader is the best at fighting.  Have you ever wondered if that is the only thing that makes them leaders?”  He shakes his head.  “How sad that would be.”

“There’s five of those Muttese bagaudas with him!” she warns, “There’s too many of them!”

“Tell me something,” he says suddenly, earnestly, “What is it you wish?  To see me dead?  Or to see me live?  I can never tell.”

He looks at Adalgis, “First he doesn’t have the courage to kill me personally and instead sends someone else in to do the job.  I chose then not to learn of whom—perhaps it was you—but I felt my survival was message enough to dissuade future efforts.  But now he chooses to make the attempt himself, yet it is still a coward’s gesture.  And still it fails.  The man is a coward, Adalgis, and I have no use for cowards in my crew—not with what I have planned for us—especially when they are quartermaster.”  He smiles grimly, “And besides.  If I let him keep trying, sooner or later, he’ll succeed.”

“Guiromélans!” Caidryn spurts.

Guiromélans looks at her and squeezes her shoulder.  God is offering many paths to his goal it seems.  With so many options, it is almost hard to pick which is best.  “Death at the hands of the Ravens?” he asks, not really talking to her, “Death at the hands of an unwashed infidel?  Perhaps either can serve as penitence?”  When she frowns in confusion, he merely shakes his head.  “Don’t complain, Caidryn,” he says before moving on.  “I will kill him for you.  This is what you and Balen have wanted all along.”

At his approach, the eyes of the five Muttese mercenaries are upon him almost immediately.  Evidently, Mogens was quick to warn them about their Captain.

The Quartermaster beams at Guiromélans without humor or pleasure and salutes with his mug of steaming paqa beer.  “Yer soaked through, me Captain!” he shouts, “Yä’ve been standin’ in the rain again, I sees.”

“The weather seems to welcome me,” Guiromélans states solemnly.

“And yä needs a crowd tä talk tä me now, boduus?”

Guiromélans stops and glances behind him.  Nearly his entire crew is here to watch, plus a good deal of the Söderkarl and Muts.  How could news have spread so quickly?

“Looks like they expects somethin’ tä happen, uh?”  Nothing in Mogens’s voice acknowledges the fight they both know is about to happen.

Guiromélans shakes his head, “It seems you have acquired a crowd of your own.”

“Yäh?” Mogens laughs as he slaps the shoulder of his nearest bodyguard.  “They were sailin’ north tä Ehre when the storm marooned them here, uh?  Five fine cings in search of work, na matter where it comes from.  Who am I tä pass up good muscle that’s willin’ tä work?”

“Good muscle, hmmn?” Guiromélans raises his eyebrows, “Then they’ve signed our Articles?  Have they yet sworn to follow the Captain’s command?  I don’t think our crew has had the opportunity to meet them.”

“Och!” Mogens waves the comment away, “Such formality!  That is not necessary, I assures yä.  Tä avoids any complexity, they shall be paid directly from me shares.”

“Ah, then they must work cheap,” Guiromélans sighs, “or haven’t you told them you’re broke as well?”  He looks at the five Muts, sizing them up.  They are all bigger than he is—bigger than most of the Bracks among the crew—like most Muts, Söderkarl blood probably runs in their veins.  Heavy Söderkarl long swords hang at their hips.  They all sport shaved heads and Muttese topknots, and their faces are bare except for heavy, long mustaches worn in Unhulþa fashion.  Their eyes are steel as they watch Guiromélans’s every move.  The Raven smiles at the nearest, waving at the food and drink Mogens has laid around him, “What?  Did you think all this generosity would last?  I’m afraid to say, good Quartermaster Mogens’s as poor as a scalc.  You should feel honored.  He’s been dipping to other’s purses just to impress you.”

Cracks have appeared in Mogens’s veneer of jocularity.  “If sacrifices must be made, I’m sure me crew’ll makes them.”

Guiromélans shakes his head, “They’ve made enough sacrifices… for you at least.  They need not to also pay for your own personal lackeys.”

“They are necessary.  Strong cings with strong blades, uh?  And like you, has have the knowledge of firearms.  Five rifles for five cings?”

“Ah?  What skills do they bring to the Knight’s Torment?”  Guiromélans voice drops, “other than that of spilling blood?”

“I wouldn’t dismiss such skills sä quickly, boduus…”  Mogens smiles.

“Oh, I do.”

“Yä’ll not think sä once yer flesh has lapped at their steel.”

“Well, I hope such an opportunity doesn’t present itself,” Guiromélans says sardonically.  His demeanor quickly looses all humor.  “They go.  Now.”

“Nage,” Mogens says, his voice almost a dog’s growl.

All around him, Guiromélans hears with rush of whispers in the crowd.  Men speculating on the causes of this conflict, predicting the outcome, placing bets.  “Mogens—”

He is interrupted by a hopeful chirp.  Looking over and up, Guiromélans stares into the face of his paq-cob server.  In his over-sized hand, he holds Guiromélans’s long-overdue drink.  “This is a bad time,” he hisses quietly.

“Five áiz,” it squawks.

“Just put it down over there,” he snaps.  “Or send it back!”

“Five áiz!” it insists.

“No!” Guiromélans answers sternly, “I don’t want it now!  Go away!”  A fight is about to break out, and this dumb bird insists on arguing with him!

As he struggles with the paqa, he sees Gofannon sidle up to Mogens and whisper into his ear.  Mogens’s eyes flicker from Guiromélans to Adalgis to Caidryn.  The ante has been raised.  Tensions increase palpably.

Nodding at his Chief Mechanic, Mogens shouts, “What’s the matter, uh?  Yä can’t affords yer own drink?  Yä lost all yer coin on the hosts’ pit match?”

“No.”  Guiromélans pushes past the ruffled paqa, trying to get himself between it and the impending fight, “As I told your Chief Mechanic there, I have no interest in matches where the outcome is a foregone conclusion.”  He shakes his head.  “They bore me.”

Mogens laughs, “Yä thinks six-tä-one odds are too much of a challenge?  Or not enough?”

“In this case…” Guiromélans glances at the five Muttese bodyguards, “not enough.  I’ve seen few defeat many before…  The pit match served its purpose, I suppose, but it was hardly interesting.”

“It’s purpose?” Mogens snorts.

“A dog needs to eat,” Guiromélans smiles.

“Yäh?” Mogens mocks.  “I saw yä with the others!  Watchin’ the fight yä were, like a blood-suckin’ boduus!”

“Are you watching me, Mogens?”

The Brack sneers, “I’m always watchin’ yä.”  Mogens smiles nastily as he turns to Gofannon, “Yä sees?  This is why I likes him sä much.  Na brains, but he has courage.”

“One more than you,” Guiromélans says under his breath.

“Five áiz!” the paq-cob squawks at him, hopping from one foot to the other.

“Come, me paqa friend!” the Quartermaster calls after it magnanimously, “I shall cover me good Captain’s bill!”

Before he can stop it, the paq-cob pushes the drink into Guiromélans’s hand and stalks over.  It extends its grotesquely long fingers towards the Brack.  “Five áiz!”

Guiromélans holds his breath as he watches the Quartermaster’s eyes.  Mogens nods to Gofannon.  “Pay him.”

The Chief Mechanic smiles.  Without warning, his hand snaps out and grabs the paqa’s wrist.  He then displays a large iron lispund.  With a cruel leer, he presses it hard into the paqa’s palm.  The hush of expectation fills the circle, but the paqa fails to react.  It cocks its head as it stares at the increasingly confused Brack.

Laughter begins to titter through the crowd.  “What is it?” Gofannon shouts in frustration as he stares up at the paq-cob.

“A clever trick, Gofannon,” Guiromélans says quietly, “but Paqa are not Fée.  Iron does not burn them.”

The Chief Mechanic gasps with surprise as the paqa shrieks in sudden outrage.  The birds must be stronger than their lithe forms suggest.  Spinning the Brack around, it reveals a jagged sidearm and presses it against his throat.  The cruelly-hooked weapon appears to be the perfect counterpart and extension for the natural claws most paqa keep well trimmed.

“Let him go!” Mogens shouts, angry and embarrassed.

Guiromélans steps closer.  “And to top it off,” he adds conversationally, “you also underpaid him by half!”

“Get it off him!” Mogens shouts to his bodyguards, ignoring the Raven, “Kill it if yä has tä!”

Before the mercenaries can move, Guiromélans acts.  The suddenness with which he draws his saber surprises even the breibançon.  As they draw their swords in response, Mogens turns his attention to the Raven.  “What is this?” he snarls, “What is this?  Do yä thinks this paqa’s worth yer life?”

“I think it is time for you to die, Mogens.”  The room around him becomes deathly quiet.

The Brack’s eyes brighten, “Ah!  Yä thinkin’ tä become Quartermaster too, uh?”

Guiromélans flexes his stance, carefully watching the movements of the Muts around him.  He shakes his head.  “No.  You are a coward, Mogens, a foolish warrior, and a weak leader.  That you have to hire loyalty is proof of that.”

“Yä can’t be both quartermaster and captain, cuall!” Mogens screams, “Not by yer own rules!  Not by yer precious Articles!”

Guiromélans shakes his head, “I’m not challenging you for your position or shares, Mogens.  Twice before, you’ve tried to take my life in a coward’s fashion.  Twice you have failed.  As Captain and Raven, this is an insult I cannot tolerate.”  He smiles at the Quartermaster, “So now, I am giving you a man’s opportunity to finish the job.  Do not embarrass yourself by refusing any further.”

Mogens grimaces in fury.  “Yä sees?” he mutters to no one in particular, “Just as I expected.  This soulless walkin’ dog comes tä steal away me ship, uh?  ‘Tis why I’ve taken me precautions, yäh?”  He draws his spatha and levels its tip at Guiromélans.  “Yä comes fer me, and yä’ll not gets five steps before me men cuts yä down.”

Guiromélans shakes his head sadly.  “Coward.  I remember words spoken by a man who claimed to be brave not too long ago.  When Captain Forré also refused to face me, what was it you said?  ‘What does it mean when a Captain would rather risk the lives of six of his men before he risks his own?’”  He stares hard into the Brack’s eyes.  “Well, what does it mean when a Quartermaster would rather risk five of his men than face me?”

Mogens becomes white-lipped, his scarred cheek shuddering.  “Come, Mogens,” Guiromélans mocks, “I am no stone-summoner.”

The Quartermaster’s eyes snap open wide, and he glares first at the cowering Gofannon and then at the others.  “Oh yäh,” he sneers as he looks back at Guiromélans, “I’ll face yä.  Yä’ve been a dead man fer a long time now.  ‘Tis only time tä prove it tä yä.”

Guiromélans nods and sets his drink down.  Carefully he removes the Median from his cloak, and slowly he turns to face each of the Muttese bodyguards.  “This is a personal matter,” he says.  “I would strongly recommend you don’t interfere.”  He glances down at what the Median shows and shrugs, “Not that it matters much, I suppose.”

The Muts’ expressions remain impassive, their blades drawn and ready.  Murmurs of anger and excitement ripple through the crowd around them.  Guiromélans returns the artifact to its place and takes up his mug.  “Very well,” he sighs as he takes a drink.

The big Quartermaster pushes past his bodyguards and approaches Guiromélans.  The tip of his spatha swishes back and forth above the floor in typical Brackish dueling fashion.  Guiromélans does not bother to watch.  Drinking until his mug is half full, he bends to place it on the floor.

Just as he expected, Mogens chooses this opportunity to attack.  Swinging his heavy broadsword high, he rushes forward to crush Guiromélans with the down-stroke.

Guiromélans dodges forward, scooping his mug up as he moves.  His saber meets the spatha with a clang, but he does not try to stop such power.  Instead, he sidesteps and turns, allowing his arm to collapse with Mogens’s downward swing.  The broadsword skims a hair’s breadth from his breast on its way down.  Dirt and straw fly as its tip bites deep into the earthen floor.

The five Muts move as a unit, immediately closing on Guiromélans from all sides.  Still turning, he throws his steaming drink into the face of the nearest breibançon.  The mercenary reels away, clutching at his burning eyes and face and howling with pain.  His reaction proves fatal as Guiromélans’s saber disembowels him.

Guiromélans completes his turn around Mogens.  Grabbing a fistful of braided hair with his free hand, he drives the handguard of his saber hard into the back of the Brack’s head.  Mogens grunts, his knees buckling, but Guiromélans pulls back on his hair, arching the Brack’s back and forcing him to keep his feet.  Pressing bodily against the Quartermaster, his proximity momentarily confuses the other warriors, and Mogens’s body momentarily shields him from their attacks.

With their employer between them and Guiromélans, the Muttese mercenaries hesitate.  It is just as well for Guiromélans.  Already, his shoulder is screaming with agony.  Waves of pain pulsate down his arm, making him feel as though his hand is filling with blood.  All around him, he sees Bracks quarrelling with Söderkarl and Muts.  Caidryn swings wildly at one of Mogens’s mercenaries, her spatha almost dwarfing the girl that wields it.  Her stabs are earnest and powerful—every cut intended to be a killing stroke—and perhaps this is the only thing keeping her more experienced opponent at bay.  But soon, she will tire, and the breibançon will still be fresh.

Should they survive this, he must speak with her about her fencing technique.

Guiromélans’s attention returns just in time as the nearest Mut lunge thrusts at him.  Guiromélans jerks Mogens sideways, fouling the attack and eliciting an outraged howl from the Quartermaster.  Cursing in Low Muttese, the mercenary impatiently grabs at his stunned employer and tries to pull him aside.  Just as he creates the opening, Guiromélans runs him through the throat.

Two other Muttese close in from the other side, and Guiromélans is about to turn Mogens to face them when the Quartermaster suddenly lashes out, elbowing him hard in the face.  Guiromélans reels backwards, his vision sparking in and out, and he smashes into the bar, its hard edge driving the breath from his lungs.  When his eyes clear, he sees a bodyguard closing on him, his long blade cutting the air.  Guiromélans tries to parry, but he is off-balance, too late, too slow.  His injured shoulder fails, and he cannot get his saber up with any strength.  The Mut’s long sword strikes the saber and knocks it away, and its long edge cuts into Guiromélans’s side.

Guiromélans blinks as he stares into the surprised eyes of the Mut.  He should be dead.  Such a blow should have cut him cleanly in half.  The two look down to see the long sword partially buried in Guiromélans’s side but wholly buried in the wood of the bar behind him.

The breibançon jerks desperately at his sword.  Before he can free it, Guiromélans drives his elbow upwards, connecting with his jaw.  The blow knocks the Mut back far enough for him to get his saber back into play.  With an upward cut, he drives his blade deep under the ribcage.  The Mut gasps and lunges for Guiromélans’s throat.  Fending off the clutches with his free hand, Guiromélans twists his blade and rips it out.  The mercenary falls to his knees, tries to rise, and falls to the floor.

Guiromélans’s senses are reeling.  His ears are ringing from the blow and from the chaos of the auberge around him.  His right arm is nearly numb with pain, and he can barely lift his blade.  His left hand clutches at the blood streaming from his side.

Three more, he tries to remind himself, there are two more.  And Mogens.

Arms grab at him from behind and the side.  He cuts upwards with his saber, only to have the attack intercepted by others.  His wrist is twisted until he is forced to surrender the weapon.  All around him, thickly bearded faces flecked with beer-foam press close to his.

“There’ll be nej more of that now,” one of the faces says in Söderkarl.

Guiromélans looks around him, finally allowing his panic to fade.  Mogens and the remaining three Muttese bodyguards are likewise restrained by burly Söderkarl.  Muts and Söderkarl and Bracks argue and shout all around him, but no more blows are landing.  Mogens and Caidryn are screaming at each other, but the noise around Guiromélans is such that only their highest peaks reach him.  There is not a paqa in sight.

“What is this?” Guiromélans demands of the nearest man, “Release me!”

The Söderkarl steps aside to allow another man to approach.  Like Radla the Moritex, he is marked in Mynyddi fashion—long, parallel scars radiating from his eyes, nose, and mouth—and his long hair coils around his body like a serpent.  “Release you?” he laughs in EroBernac, “This you may wish, but six on one is hardly fair!”

“No!” Guiromélans screams, “I must fight!  I live or die at God’s pleasure alone!”

“Yes, I see that,” the scarred man murmurs, poking Guiromélans’s fresh wound with his finger.  When Guiromélans winces, he nods and samples the blood, “I see that indeed.  But it doesn’t matter.  Such a fight offends my Söderkarl friends’ sensibilities.”

“Nej fair,” a Söderkarl mutters in broken EroBernac.

Guiromélans’s eyes narrow.  “What is it you want?”

The Mynyddi shrugs and turns to face the crowd around them.  “This was a duel between two men!” he shouts, “We shall make sure it remains a duel between two men!  Einvigi!”  The Söderkarl in the room roar in approval.  The Bracks and many of the Muts look around uncertainly.

The Mynyddi turns back to Guiromélans and looks down at the dark stain spreading through his shirt and down his trouser leg.  His hand darts out, grabbing the sword wound so hard, Guiromélans nearly faints.  “You’re injured, Raven,” he says quietly.  “You sure you want to continue?  You sure you can continue?”

Anger and shame spreads through the Raven.  He glares at this strange man, even as he forces the pain and weakness behind him.  “Yes, I can continue,” he hisses.  “So get your hands off me, lest I come for you when I’m done!”

The Mynyddi smiles and uses Guiromélans’s shirt to wipe the blood from his hands.  “You are welcome, Guiromélans.”

“You know my name?” he whispers.

He nods, “You are known to me, yes.”

“Then tell me yours!”

The Mynyddi bows, “Call me Baldruus, and for the duration, I am at your service.”

Grinning broadly, he turns away from Guiromélans.  “This karl wishes to continue the duel,” he shouts to the crowd.  He points at Mogens, who now looks very isolated.  “What say you, Brack, now that you don’t have your bönder to protect you?  Dare you now fight as a karl and not an ergi?”

Mogens licks his lips and looks around him.  Not even Gofannon is willing to stand with him now.  “Jâ,” Baldruus smiles, “It is just like before.  No backing away now, Mogens.  Will you flee just as Forré did?”

Guiromélans’s eyes snap up at the words.  Forré?  How would this scarred stranger know of that?  He has little time to contemplate it, however, as Mogens shouts, “Yä wants me tä face the boduus, yäh?”  He turns to face his crew scattered throughout the crowd, “Sä yä not takes me word any longer, uh?  And now I must spill the blood of a boduus tä proves meself tä yä?  I says tä the Hells with him!”  He points at Guiromélans, “Cast this dubi-gnatos out of our company!  Let us set sail fer home and—”

“Cloart!” someone in the crowd shouts.  Caidryn’s voice joins it, as does a third.  “Cloart!  Cloart!”  Soon all of the Knight’s Torment’s crew is chanting, “Cloart!  Cloart!”  Some of the Söderkarl and Muttese join them, though most know not what it means.

Beneath his tightly braided beard, Mogens’s face turns nearly black with rage.  Driving his spatha into the ground, he spits into his hands and rubs them together.  Slowly, Guiromélans steps away from Baldruus and his Söderkarl.  Someone returns his saber to him, and he flexes his grip on the blade.  He makes some tentative twists with his torso.  Much to his surprise, the pain is reduced, and much of his strength has returned to his arm.  Such be the blessings of God.  May they hold out long enough for him to finish this duel.

Mogens takes up his spatha and holds it aloft.  “I am Mogens, son of Horsa, son of Tollo, son of Ler!  I am here tä prove yä evil.”

Guiromélans nods and salutes with his saber, “I am Sir Guiromélans of the Iron Fist, Vavasour of Ehre and Raven of the Seven Kingdoms.  I mean to avenge the wrongs committed against your crew.  Committed against Caidryn.  Committed against me.  I mean to avenge my self against you.”

Immediately, Mogens leaps to the attack, but Guiromélans is prepared.  The Brack fights fiercely but conservatively.  He knows Guiromélans’s saber is faster than his heavy spatha.  Rather than try to kill the Raven quickly, he concentrates on Guiromélans’s arm and sword, hoping to tire the flesh or break the steel.

Guiromélans does everything he can to deflect the punishing blows.  His arm is weak, and he can feel the pain quickly returning.  The clothes on his side and his trouser leg have become cool and sticky against his skin from the blood, but now he feels fresh wetness in his boot, evidence that he is bleeding again.

They trade cuts and blows back and forth—Mogens somehow muscling his heavy spatha around in time to block Guiromélans’s quicker stabs—Guiromélans somehow defending himself against his opponent’s crushing power.

Guiromélans gasps as he ducks beneath an unexpected cut at his head.  He returns the favor with a blow to the face with his handguard and a quick knee to the stomach.  Somehow, Mogens regains his stance and parries the killing blow.  His counterattack forces Guiromélans back on the defensive once more.

As Bracks go, Mogens is a superior swordsman.  Guiromélans’s strength and accuracy are beginning to deteriorate quickly.  If he does not end this soon, there is the possibility of him losing this fight.

Sensing the Raven’s growing weakness, Mogens presses the attack.  Gasping with effort, his spatha becomes a blur of deadly steel.  Guiromélans blocks, fends, and dodges desperately.  Mogens spins, delivering a crushing downward swing that could have cut three men in half.  Guiromélans only barely deflects it, and it leaves him no time to react when Mogens’s other hand reveals a shining gully.  As the broad-bladed knife plunges towards him, he can only raise his left arm as defense.  The knife plunges into his forearm, stopping only when the hilt hits bone.

Mogens shouts in victory as his opponent falls to his knee, but Guiromélans doesn’t give him time to celebrate.  Before the Brack can raise his spatha for the killing blow, Guiromélans spins low.  His saber scythes through the air, cutting down the Quartermaster at the knee.

The Brack falls heavily to the ground.  His bewildered eyes look around until they focus on his severed leg and then on Guiromélans.  Vomit and blood soak his braided beard.

Slowly, unsteadily, Guiromélans rises to his feet.  Mogens gasps and gestures weakly.  “C’mere, boduus,” he hisses.

“What, Quartermaster?” Guiromélans asks.

“I’ll be seein’ yä in Hell!” he screams, madly swinging his spatha up at him.

Guiromélans blocks the attack, severing the hand at the wrist.  Without hesitation, he plunges his blade into the Brack’s chest.

All around him, the spectators of the auberge echo the final sigh of the former Quartermaster.

Guiromélans looks around him.  Slowly, he raises his left arm and the gully still lodged in his flesh.  “Can someone please take this for me?”

The Söderkarl applaud with a loud shout.