The Third Internecion

by Erik A Otto

  Chapter 10

  The General

  Timothur would walk with the Traitor daily by a stream that meandered through camp. Try as he might, he couldn’t help dwelling on her insidious notions.

  The princess acted no less desperate. Either her grand theater was still in play or her mind was overcome with whatever demons a madwoman might be afflicted by. Yet Timothur found himself coming away less frustrated or angry. At times he enjoyed the banter with the princess, despite the fact that they disagreed on so much.

  Ronaldo, the Great Defender’s adviser, kept sending him notices. The Great Defender himself had signed the last one. It suggested they might demote him if he didn’t return to Thelonia. Soon he would have to comply, but first Timothur wanted his shot at capturing the Bronté brothers. Then at least he would have something to show for his actions, and some answer for the unfair butchery of his brother.

  As for the Matagon Monks, they had stopped asking for permission to see the princess. Instead they had simply informed him they would be arriving in two days. He imagined they wouldn’t be happy about being rebuffed for so long.

  He had two days. Two days left with her.

  While he learned little from the princess, his active squads in Esienne and Tardiff had many ears to the ground. What he was hearing was confusing and troubling.

  Jawhari troop movements had been scouted heading east, increasing their proximity to Belidor and Pomeria. It was difficult to know what it meant, but any large troop movement was something to be wary of with the Jawhari.

  More ponderous was that the majority of the Belidoran fleet was sailing to Thelos for maneuvers and to defend against the Sambayan threat. But the Sambayans had no real fleet to speak of, except for maybe some rickety converted merchant vessels.

  Reports of noblemen going missing were frequent. Timothur reckoned some of these must have been due to the Bronté brothers, but then again, some had happened on the same day in two cities. How could the Bronté brothers be in two places at once? To add further confusion, there was a seasonal festival being planned at the Old Keep, happening just before the first day of the Third Internecion, meaning a number of key nobles would be attending. Aggravatingly, the story played right into the princess’s crazy notion of blackmailed nobles helping to give away the Old Keep to the Cenarans.

  All of this strangeness and coincidence was too much to put to chance. More and more he believed something was going on, some sort of conspiracy, perhaps engineered by the Jawhari or even the Pomerians. The Cenarans were obedient savages and must be a front for the real conspiracy. Yes, something big was going on, something troubling.

  But he still didn’t know what.

  The air was chilling quickly this evening, a mist rising up from the stream as the temperature descended. On some parts of the path, this mist was so thick that it felt like they were walking through a cloud. They knew the path well by this point, so it was no impediment to their daily walk.

  “I can tell you’re troubled, General,” Hella said.

  He looked at her. She had changed her hair so that it was tied into a tail, with only a few strands caressing her high cheekbones. Even though she no longer wore her hair like her, she was beautiful in a different way.

  “Something is amiss, of that I’m sure, Princess. But don’t be fooled—I most certainly don’t believe your story.”

  “I hope you will be swayed, General, for we have less than twenty days left. After that, it won’t matter.”

  Her persistence no longer surprised him. He just ignored her plea and moved to the question he’d planned to ask. “What’s the significance of the Old Keep? Why would the Cenarans attack there?” Or the Jawhari or Pomerians, he thought.

  “There’s the religious significance,” Hella responded. “And the fact that the Keep has never been taken by any enemy. It would immediately remove a foundation of Belidoran resolve, but there’s more than that.”

  Hella paused again before continuing. She seemed to be internally debating what to say. Then she sighed and replied. “Well, I suppose you already think I’m mad. This certainly won’t change your mind. I do sometimes doubt the veracity of this, but the Truthseeker has never lied, according to those who know him. He has said that in the Great Library there are two things of significant importance—and of value to the Cenarans. There’s a chamber behind large bone-laden doors that holds creatures such as gargoyles and other huge beasts. Also, there’s a map showing the locations of other, similar chambers, and a means to gain access to them. This would be a formidable addition to any army, if true.”

  It did sound like another crazed notion, and it would be easy to dismiss her insanity. It certainly would be nice to finally relegate her stories to the realm of fantasy once and for all.

  But he couldn’t, of course. In this case, Timothur knew there could be some element of truth to what she was saying. Most didn’t believe in gargoyles or other mythical beasts, but Timothur had seen a gargoyle enter similar bone-laden doors in the ruin in Albondo.

  He stopped her then, and looked into her eyes. He tried to force the truth out of her with his azure gaze. Still, he could see nothing. She was a rock, or…

  “Princess, I should say that there must be something to your stories. I don’t believe this nonsense about the Cenarans, but I find myself doubting—”

  “General!” A man called out from behind them. Footsteps echoed nearby, following the fell voice.

  A moment later, a guard broke through the mist. “General, Leftenant Quenton’s squad returns from Esienne. Your ploy worked, sir. They trapped the Bronté brothers.”

  Finally! A rush of adrenaline hit him. “Good. And the outcome?”

  “Sir, two of the brothers were killed in the attempt to capture them, but we have the Imbecile. We have General Granth’s murderer.”

  Timothur smiled. “Excellent. Lead me to him immediately.” And he moved to cut back through the mist.

  Looking back, Timothur watched the princess as they carved through the fog. He had never seen her look so solemn. Something was left unsaid, he knew, but his recollection of what it was faded against the exhilaration of catching his brother’s murderer.

  They found the Imbecile in the prison tent. He was kneeling, with his hands tied behind his back. Leftenant Quenton was sitting in a chair behind him.

  He didn’t resemble the descriptions. The Imbecile was supposed to have vacuous eyes. He was known to drool profusely, and to make whispers and sounds under his breath. This man looked normal, aside from a bruised face and bandage on his arm. And he made no sounds. Had they apprehended the right man? Or perhaps the traveler’s tales had all exaggerated this man’s qualities.

  Timothur was tempted to kill him then and there, but he knew he needed to save something for the monks. In fact, he might be vindicated. The monks and the Great Defender might see the necessity of his actions if he could provide two of the Marked infidels instead of just one.

  “Do you know who I am, Imbecile?” Timothur asked.

  The Imbecile looked at Timothur sidelong, as if trying to decipher the function of a Fringe artifact. “You are not your brother,” he said.

  It was a strange thing to say, but this was a strange man. “No, I’m not. I’m alive, and he is dead, at your hand. I’m disappointed that you refuse to show your true self. No strange sounds or mimicry, then?”

  The man was quiet.

  Timothur looked to the leftenant. “The other two are dead, then?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Good work, Leftenant.”

  Then the Imbecile blurted out, “For the good of the house. For the good of the house.” His voice was slightly lower, and his cheeks puffed. This must be the mimicry.

  The leftenant explained, “It sounds like he could be imitating his brother. The one called Baldric. We spoke with him before he passed. The mimicry is…quite accurate, sir.”

  Timothur remembered from the reports that this Imbecile was supposed to have know
n Sebastian. “What about the Truthseeker? Can you do him, Imbecile?” Timothur was genuinely curious.

  The Imbecile cast his gaze down and to the side, and when he looked back, he looked different. His face was scrunched up like a mouse, his voice nasal. “The Red Rains come earlier to those in thrall to volume, vice, and vanity. One can learn much from those without much,” he said.

  Timothur had a flashback to his ride with Sebastian through Albondo. It was exactly like something Sebastian might say, precisely the way he would say it. “Well, you don’t look like the Truthseeker, Imbecile, even though you try, but your emulation is perfect.”

  Then the Imbecile looked down and to the side, and up again. His face looked broader somehow, and a grin spread across his face. His voice changed. “How does it feel, Bronté? Do you get girlish thoughts now and then?”

  Timothur’s knees jittered. He repressed the urge to look behind him to see if Vanaden was in the tent. The words he said…they sounded so much like a taunt Vanaden would use. In fact, Timothur remembered a time when they had been horsing around and Vanaden had hit Timothur in the groin. He had said the exact same thing.

  The Imbecile said it again, exactly the same way. “How does it feel, Bronté? Do you get girlish thoughts now and then?”

  It was uncanny.

  Then the Imbecile’s face changed, his expression shifting to a dismissive look. “What of the children? They were Sambayan.”

  It was Vanaden again, but what was he saying?

  “What of the children? They were Sambayan. What of the children? They were Sambayan. What of—”

  “Enough!” Timothur yelled, silencing the Imbecile. It sounded so much like Vanaden. Did he actually say those words, though? If he did, what was the context?

  He didn’t have time to figure it out.

  The leftenant’s hands had been obscured behind the Imbecile. They lurched into the air dramatically. “Oh no!” he said. “He’s freed himself.” It wasn’t until then that Timothur noticed a sword lying on the ground, virtually at the Imbecile’s feet.

  And Timothur stood right in front of him, weaponless.

  The Imbecile’s hands came around to the front. They were indeed free. He immediately grabbed the sword and pointed it in Timothur’s direction.

  Timothur’s mind raced. The jailor was far away, across the tent, and the leftenant had fallen back in his chair. He was helpless on his back. The exit to the tent would require Timothur to cross the Imbecile’s path. It was either run for the doorway or face the Imbecile unarmed.

  A standoff ensued, with Timothur preparing to duck or dodge the blade. “Go ahead and run, Imbecile. You win this round. But no one kills my brother and gets away with it. I’ll find you eventually.”

  “I’ve killed your brother, but you’ve killed two of mine,” the Imbecile said.

  The words didn’t give Timothur confidence he would get out of this in one piece.

  The Imbecile cocked his head up and to the left, seeming to look around Timothur. Hella had arrived at the tent flap, along with her guard. The Imbecile locked eyes with her for a moment and nodded, as if in confirmation of something. Then, in a flurry of motion, he turned around and thrust his sword deep into the helpless leftenant’s chest. The leftenant’s body curled around the weapon, spasmed, and then went limp.

  “Guards!” Timothur yelled, and he used the opportunity to cross the tent toward the exit. He hesitated at the flap, though. Why had the Imbecile killed the leftenant? Timothur was all that stood between him and freedom.

  The Imbecile withdrew his weapon from the leftenant and turned to Timothur. Then, closing his eyes, he kneeled in the middle of the tent and dug his blade into the dirt. He said, “This man wanted me to kill you.”

  What?

  It was an absurd turn of events.

  Timothur quickly rewound the scene in his mind. It was indeed suspicious: the leftenant sitting obscured behind the Imbecile before he freed his hands, and the sword being placed neatly at his feet.

  “But why didn’t you?” Timothur asked.

  The Imbecile looked at him sidelong again. “Because you are not your brother.”

  Madness. Madness everywhere.

  Chapter 11

  The Purveyor

  The journey from Spoons to Niknak was mostly uneventful. Paulo had ridden on the Shepherd’s Road countless times, and so the landmarks were uninspiring, a faded and worn backdrop against the weight of his concerns.

  The traveler’s tales they heard, on the other hand, were becoming more and more colorful. People would speak of large bands of treasonous infidels about in Belidor and Thelonia. Darian’s slaying of Vanaden Granth and the release of the princess was a popular story that was often exaggerated and misrepresented. One man even spoke to them about the Jailor of Kalianca being loose in Belidor, expecting to instill fear in them. Zahir listened to the stories without expression, unfazed by the irony.

  There were reports of abductions and killings in all the major Belidoran cities. Some even spoke of a Cenaran threat, but it wasn’t taken seriously. It was just another fickle rumor, interspersed with rumors of similar threats from the Jawhari and even still other threats from the all-but-extinguished Valderans. The uninformed traveler would find it difficult to tell myth from reality.

  One development of interest, and concern, came halfway along the Shepherd’s Road, at the junction of the southern road to Pomeria. They had encountered a Fringe couple making their way north to Spoons from Low Plains. As usual, Paulo sat with them over a meal so they could exchange tidings. They spoke of the infidels and of more mundane news, and Paulo in turn reassured them that Spoons was open to Fringe immigrants. Then one of the travelers said something that caught Paulo’s attention.

  “Purveyor, I don’t place much stock in these tales of infidels and abductions. It’s gossip circulated by the common folk. But there are things that I have seen with my own eyes that do disturb me. Tell me, what do these great fissures in the earth represent? Why do these continue to appear?”

  “What fissures in the earth?”

  The man looked surprised that Paulo was uninformed. “Great wet holes with strange…lips. They come up from the earth with a vile stench. People have called them land mouths, for lack of a better name. There is one I heard of in Thelonia, one in Pomeria and one in Low Plains. Personally I have only seen the one in Pomeria, just an hour ago, and until I did, I believed it to be a folk tale like the rest.”

  This was indeed troubling. Paulo asked, “Can you show me the closest one? It’s the first I have heard of it, and it concerns me as well.”

  “For you, Purveyor, of course.”

  The Fringe traveler and his companion took them to the site. It was just as he’d described. Great fleshy folds had come from below and opened up the earth to create a huge smelly hole.

  Paulo felt the folds of the lip at the edge of the great mouth. Together they hoisted up the smelly blubber-like material to see the underside. Looking closely, he could see the same consistency he’d seen so often. Then, taking a step back, Paulo assessed the size of the fissure. It was large in circumference, about the size of Round Top, which made him more certain of its origin.

  “This is the folded skin of a bone mound, I think. When a mound is fully harvested, this is usually what remains, albeit dried out and clustered with bone chucker feces and other waste.”

  “So what happened to the bone mound?” the Fringe traveler asked. “I heard from the local people that the ground just opened up one day, and I don’t think anyone was here to harvest any flesh or bone.”

  “There was no mound,” Paulo answered with some hesitancy. “The earth failed to produce one in this case, so only the skin rose to the surface,”

  “But why, and why is it happening all over Matteo’s lands?” the traveler asked.

  “Have there been any new bone mounds in Low Plains recently?” Paulo asked.

  “Actually no, none in the last couple years. Usually there’s at
least one a year.”

  “The system could be failing.”

  “The system?”

  Paulo didn’t want to get into an extensive explanation. He smiled at the man and his companion, trying to reassure them. “Don’t worry yourself about this. Make haste, and get to Spoons. You will be safe there. In the meantime, I will bring these tidings to Niknak, and we will figure out the cause of these…land mouths. I thank you for showing me. It’s of great service, and you will be recognized in the Fringe Arcana. We must continue to learn about the natural world.”

  They didn’t look reassured by Paulo’s explanation, but the couple eventually went on their way.

  When they were out of earshot, Zahir asked, “What’s the real story, Purveyor?”

  Paulo grimaced. “I don’t know for sure, honestly…but I fear what I said is true. I fear the system is failing. These land mouths may be failed bone mounds, and perhaps the earth no longer has the ability to create the flesh and bone. Without the bone mounds, the bone chuckers will not be able to nourish the plants, and without that…”

  “What?”

  “Famine, disease. What concerns me most is that this doesn’t appear to be a localized problem. You heard him: these land mouths have come up in distant parts of the realm, and I haven’t heard of a new bone mound found for years. This problem, this coming famine and disease, it may be for…everyone.”

  Zahir’s head went back in a rare gesture of surprise, his brow furrowed. “Really? But these are just holes in the ground? When will this famine start?”

  “Not for many years. Maybe ten or twenty.”

  Zahir’s surprise vanished, and he laughed. “That’s just as good as never to me, Purveyor. We will be lucky to live through the month.”

  The finding was troubling, but Zahir was right. This oddity was trumped by more immediate concerns. The Cleansing was approaching quickly. Even though the Fringe wouldn’t be the main thrust of the Cenaran attack, they would likely be victimized when the Cenaran offensive was in full swing.