by Eric Ugland
After a few involuntary showers, the Imperial Assholes finally pulled back until they were well in the tunnel. I imagine they stood there with their stupid battering ram waiting for orders to come from Caticorix.
On the other side of town, it was oddly quiet. No animals moved around the cleared ground. No birds flew in the sky. An occasional flurry of snow fell, but other than that, it was dead calm. And that made it all the more creepy. Coggeshall soldiers manning the wall were tense, waiting for something to happen. I think they’d almost have rather been fighting than just waiting.
I figured I’d be doing some waiting too, but as soon as I polished off lunch, I found myself in the company of a gruff man with short cropped hair and a scar running across his throat. He had plenty of other scars as well, but the neck one was particularly gruesome and purple.
“My lord Coggeshall,” he said with a perfunctory nod. It came out more like mah lahrd Cogzul.
“Afternoon,” I said, bussing my tray of grey meat surprise.
“I be Carpophorus,” he said.
“Montana Coggeshall,” I replied, reaching out to grab his wrist. He had a tremendously powerful grip, and taut muscles practically rippled over his entire body. “Help you with something?”
“Oh, fear ’tis the other way around.”
“You’re here to help me?”
“Aye,” he said, a smile coming to his face, one that showed he had even fewer teeth than most of the Vuldranni I’d come across. “But you might’n’t see it that way.”
He seemed to be shortening words and subtracting syllables at random. I had to pause before saying anything just to think over what he’d said and hope I got it close to right. In fact, I had the distinct feeling that if I gave him an eye patch and a parrot, he’d have made an almost perfect prototypical pirate.
“Okay, how can you help me?”
“Simple,” he said. “I been told I am to beat on you ’til you learn how to fight proper-like.”
Which, frankly, turned out to be an oddly accurate description of what he did. Carpophorus took me outside the cantina and led me to he a small open area. Then he dropped a roll to the ground, and opened it to reveal a selection of wooden weapons. He kicked a wood sword up to his waiting hand, and then one over to me. I was impressed, and made a bit of a face about it.
He hit me in said face while I was smiling, busting open my lip and spraying the area with blood.
It was more than a little shocking. I took a step back, holding my wooden sword up in a guarded position. My head was a bit shaken, and I felt the throb at my lip.
Carpophorus put his point down in the dirt, and leaned against it. He watched my face intently.
I let my guard down, and stood there, waiting for the crazy, scarred soldier to do something.
“Gods,” he said, “’tis true. You do heal right quick.”
I touched my lip. It’d stitched itself back up. Just like always.
“Now,” Carpophorus said, “perhaps you can truly surprise me, your grace, and not let me hit you again.”
I failed miserably.
He walloped me. And cracked me. Hit me, beat me, bashed me — pick your name for laying the smack down, and that’s what Carpophorus did. I tried my best to defend against his attacks, but he was good. Really good. His sword just seemed to move instinctively to get around whatever defense I thought to put up. And his body was always positioned just right to keep me off balance, making it impossible to ever get a good hit on him. Even when I thought I was being sneaky, when I’d feinted perfectly and he was obviously over-extended, somehow he slipped his blade around and hit my elbow so hard my hand went numb and I dropped my sword. Then, he popped me in the kisser with a left hook.
“You are a terrible fighter,” he said, dropping his sword and pulling a water sack off his belt. He took a big swig.
“That’s why you’re here,” I said.
“I may be good,” he replied, “but I am no worker of miracles.”
“Maybe you need to be.”
He shrugged, and took another drink of water. “In that case—”
And that’s when he really started beating up on me. It was fun. And by fun I mean horrible and painful. But effective.
Cool Beans, you’ve leveled up the skill Swords. Now you can swing sharp objects and likely not hurt yourself. Soon, maybe you can hurt others. +5% damage. +5% skill.
It was a completely different way of training, especially compared to what I’d received from Cleeve back in the first days after the caravan left Arenberg. Don’t get me wrong, I was ecstatic to be learning, but there was a rush to getting levels that seemed beyond anything I’d ever really experienced. And, perhaps more importantly, I began to understand the way I could use a sword. How to get my feet under me, how to parry effectively and dictate where my opponent’s weapon was going.
Somewhere close to nightfall, Carpophorus smacked my head one last time, plucked the wooden sword from my hand, and then dropped both weapons into the bundle. Without another word, he rolled up the bundle, and walked away.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The town of Coggeshall had slowed down. The corrupted ursus had made no other movements towards us during the day, and the ursus inside had continued their convalescence in the longhouse. Our healers said that everyone was doing well, if exhausted, and that nearly all the ursus were able to keep food and water down at that point.
I headed inside the mountain, eager to get to my new home. Just as I stepped past the entrance, I realized I had two followers.
Skeld and Ragnar, in armor, with weapons.
“Gents,” I said. “Good to see you! Whatcha doin?”
“We got tired of waiting for your next peep show. And the boss lady didn’t think we were as necessary to the guarding of the city any longer,” Ragnar said.
“Would we call it a city?” Skeld asked. “More of a walled estate with an oversized ego.”
“Not sure I’d go that far,” Ragnar said. “It’s got the trappings of a village.”
“It has the plans for trappings—”
“Stow the semantics,” I said. “Are you guys assigned back to me?”
“That we are,” Ragnar said. “Ready for adventure. Unless of course, for some reason you are going to dump us to the side of the road so you can go traipsing about with Amber.”
“Not until the siege is over at least,” I replied.
“Then,” Ragnar said, snapping a salute, “we are your loyal Lutra once again.”
“Do we have a quest we’re working on?” Skeld asked.
“Have you not been checking our quest list?” I replied.
“I took a page from my leader’s advisory book, and I have not bothered to look at any of our hirð notifications.”
“I’m not that bad,” I countered.
“How many notifications do you have waiting on you right now?”
“Is there a way to see that number?”
Skeld rolled his eyes.
“Quests,” Skeld said. “What are we working on?”
“Emeline.”
Skeld saluted. “On it.”
“He’s got a thing for the girl,” Ragnar said.
“Total fabrication,” Skeld replied.
“Do you know which room is hers?” I asked.
Skeld nodded.
“That’s not creepy at all,” Ragnar said.
Skeld snapped his spear across Ragnar’s face right quick.
“I will lead, my lord,” Skeld said, and started walking down the hallways towards the living quarters.
It wasn’t exactly far to Emeline’s quarters, but there were quite a few people hurrying around, trying to find their own way home. I found it gratifying that so many people had already eschewed the longhouses in favor of moving inside. If everyone felt safer there, did it make any sense to have any residential buildings outside? Maybe having everything in the mountain was the right idea. Maybe—
“You want to go in?” Skeld asked.
We were at a door near the end of a nondescript hallway. I noticed a room number carved into the wooden door.
“Do we have a key?” I asked.
“Don’t you have a key to every door in this place?” Ragnar asked, incredulous.
“I don’t.”
Ragnar grumbled something, then stomped off back up the hall.
I’d missed them. Even if they were a little annoying.
“So I thought you wanted to sit here and just be a guard,” I said.
Skeld shrugged. “Ragnar convinced me this would be more entertaining.”
“And you missed me.”
Skeld raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
“Let me ask you an odd question,” I said.
“I live to serve, my lord,” Skeld drawled in response.
“So let’s just pretend you like Emeline. You know, not caring one way or another where the truth lies. Are, like — shit, this might come out as offensive.”
“Ask it, Coggeshall.”
“Are inter-species relationships common?”
That didn’t seem to be the question Skeld expected, and he definitely did a slight double take before stopping and thinking.
“There’s a certain popularity to some of them,” Skeld said. “Some benefits perhaps. I have yet to really travel the world, so my view is rather limited—”
“What benefits might those be?” I asked.
“Benefits to what?” Ragnar asked, popping back up and brandishing a key.
He pushed between Skeld and me to unlock the door. Then he nudged the door open to look inside Emeline’s room.
I think all three of us held our collective breath for a moment in a vain hope we’d find Emeline sitting at her desk or on her bed. Nope. No Emeline at home.
“Inter-species dating,” Skeld said.
We all moved into the place, spreading out to look at things.
“Little chance of pregnancy,” Ragnar said.
“I guess that makes sense,” I said.
There wasn’t much space, but despite its size, it had an airy feeling to it. There was a large open area in front, then another door, or at least a doorway which was meant to have a door, and a bedroom beyond. The open area held a small fireplace along one wall, plus a few cooking implements. Nothing too grandiose: just a small cauldron and a tea kettle. The usual. There was definitely room for a couch, or a dining table and the like, but Emeline didn’t have any of that. Instead, it was filled with a bunch of random shit.
Her magic books took up a long shelf on the wall opposite the fireplace. One lay open on the small desk beneath the shelf. Emeline had been studying. I peeked at the book, flipping a page or two. But there wasn’t anything immediately apparent about what she was reading.
“Ragnar,” I said, “do you know where Tarryn might be?”
“As long you make ‘might’ the key word in that sentence, then yes.”
“Go get him. Bring him here.”
He snapped a smart salute and ran off.
“You think something magic is to blame?” Skeld asked from under Emeline’s bed.
“What are you doing there?” I asked.
“Looking through the things she thought hidden.”
“Which are?”
“A few weapons, a surprising amount of coin, and some maps.”
“Maps to where?”
“No idea.”
He shoved a stack of rolled up papers and parchment out from under the bed.
“But,” Skeld continued, “that might be because I chose to keep them rolled up under the bed. Have yet to take a look at them. Figured there’d be better light out with you.”
“Wait, is there more under there?”
“She has a whole hidden compartment under here.”
“What’s in it?”
“Patience, my lord. I can only break it open so quickly.” There was a pause. “We are okay with breaking things, right?”
“I mean, I guess we are now.”
I walked over to the cauldron and looked inside. Nothing appetizing. Something had been burnt to shit, charring the interior. I pulled a spoon off the mantle and reached it into the pot, only to see that the spoon portion of the spoon was missing. Something had melted the metal.
“What was she up to in here?” I asked.
“You rang, boss?”
I glanced over my shoulder to see Tarryn in the doorway and Ragnar standing guard behind, keeping an onlooker from getting closer.
“There’s a book on the desk there,” I said, pointing at Emeline’s desk. “What is it?”
“It is a collection of pages bound together with writing on them, generally on a single topic, your grace,” Tarryn replied.
“Ha, specifics.”
He gave me a wink and a smile, and sat down at the desk. He started flipping the pages.
Skeld crawled out from under the bed, a bevy of splinters poking at his hands. Paws. Pands. In any case, he’d been busy breaking something, and had a dark wooden box to show for it.
“What’s in there?” I asked.
“Daggers.”
He flipped the lid open, then dumped the box on the bed. Sure enough, a collection of stabby weapons tumbled out. Nothing big — they probably ranged from three-inch blades to around ten. I reached for one with a flowery blade, but Skeld snatched my wrist.
I made eye contact with him, and he shook his head.
“Remember her profession,” he said. “There is every chance these are poisoned. I think she meant for these to be found.”
“But, I mean, weren’t they a pain in the ass to find?”
“Not to find. Retrieve? Surely. But hiding things under the bed is too simple for this girl.”
“He thinks a quite highly of her,” Ragnar called out.
“I do not—” Skeld started to retort.
“Can it,” I snapped. “Save that playground shit for later. Find what it was she actually hid.”
I heard Ragnar whispering Playground? and I caught Skeld shrugging.
“Your grace,” Tarryn said, “this is a magical tome detailing the basics of summoning. If I may ask—”
“Don’t,” I replied. “Does it have the summoning spells in it?”
“It has some summoning spells in it, your grace, but they are meant for students. Was this one of the books stolen from the Magic Circle?”
“Stays in the hirð, but yes. It is. Do you know about the theft?”
“I do,” Tarryn said with a smile, leaning the chair back on two legs. “Not exactly public knowledge, but within the Circle, there was quite a bit of chatter about it.”
“Do you know what was stolen?”
“There were a lot of rumors. But most of those were about books.”
“What else?”
He dropped the chair back on four legs again.
“Maps?” I asked.
“I’m trying to remember, and to separate gossip from potential truth. Naturally, there were some of the Circle’s students or junior members who claimed the most dire and divergent grimoires were spirited away when the thief struck. Forbidden studies laid bare to some cut-purse or common burglar. I can tell you there were most certainly books that went missing, but the ones I heard reported as stolen were across such a range of topics it is hard to put a pattern together. From dark books, like the Odenwide’s bestiary of abominations from the Outside, to Strongbuck and Barkling’s primer on fire, and even the rather base but somewhat humorous treatise on astral pachyderms: Gart Pentwhistle and the Seventy Seven Benevolent Elephants. Taken as a whole, it is absurd. And there’s every chance students took the opportunity to claim a book was stolen from the library when they had it in their possession, so it might be theirs forever. You see, the library of the Magic Circle is rather notorious when it comes to record keeping. In that they barely do any. Books disappear and reappear with stunning regularity from their keep, so it is almost impossible to say what was taken for sure. There were credible reports that
some of the higher-level staff had personal effects pilfered, and that could most certainly include maps. Where those maps might lead, though, I don’t know.”
“There’s a man here in Coggeshall who used to be a guard for the Magic Circle. Do you think he might know more?”
“It depends. I am sure he knows about the event — whether he knows more than I know about the specifics of what was stolen, I cannot say. But at the least, I would wager he knows different gossip than I do.”
“You should talk to him.”
“Me? But you—”
“He isn’t my biggest fan. From what I gather, he was pretty keen on his life in Osterstadt and was not pleased being forcibly relocated.”
“Ah. I suppose I might be the better questioner then.”
“These maps were under her bed,” I said, and pointed at the rolls on the floor. “Care to take a look? See if maybe they were Magic Circle property at one point?”
“You know how to make my evenings exciting once again, my lord.”
Tarryn snatched the maps and unrolled them across the bed, taking care to avoid the bare blades spread around the blankets.
Ragnar studiously tapped on all the bricks in the room while Skeld checked the furniture.
I decided to check the desk. It was a simple bit of carpentry, so no drawers. Just four legs, some crosspieces, and a slab of wood on top. And, from the look of it, a small piece of paper under one leg to level it out. Which struck me as odd. Virtually all the furniture in the place, especially the earlier stuff, was constructed by the five-star super carpenter dude. And having seen some examples of his work, it seemed out of character for him to have delivered a wobbling table. I knelt, and carefully pulled the small folded paper out. I unfolded it gently, hoping I wasn’t going to uncover some poison or something, and set it on the desk. It was blank.
“Is invisible ink a thing here?” I asked.
