by Jon Kiln
Allette blushed slightly. “You need not thank me, friend,” she replied. “You believed in me, that is thanks enough.”
Taria smiled. “Yes, well you have proven that you certainly have a talent for this,” she said, nodding to the book that Allette still carried. “I know that you will heal a great many people in the future.”
“It does feel nice to be good at something,” Allette said, blushing anew.
Taria leaned forward and embraced her, giving her a small kiss on the cheek, before returning to where Rothar was waiting.
“It seems the two of you are getting along rather well,” Rothar said with a grin.
“Well, if you are going to make a city woman out of me, it only makes sense that I start making friends,” Taria shot back, coyly.
“Well, I am glad to see it.”
“I hope she can accomplish what you asked of her,” said Taria.
“She’s very clever,” replied Rothar. “She brought me back from hell, I feel confident she can do the same for the people of this city.”
Rothar had tasked Allette with a very unique and important duty, she was to attempt to concoct a cure for Obscura addiction. Rothar and Allette had agreed that it would be best if the tonic created a sensation similar to that of the Obscura, but less potent. With no Obscura coming into the city, the townspeople would be given the replacement substance in small amounts, and weaned off of it slowly. No one knew for sure if the plan could work, but everyone sensed that it was the only way. A complete and immediate removal of the drug or any replacement would certainly lead to the utter destruction of the King’s City.
“Allette was a user of the Obscura,” Rothar said to Taria now, as they walked through Castle Staghorn side by side. “She is in a unique position to help the helpless. She understands what the drug does and why it is so addictive, she understands their desperation. If anyone can do this, it is her.”
There was a sudden racket at the far end of the corridor and several soldiers rushed past them in the direction of the commotion. Rothar and Taria hurried ahead to see what was happening.
A group of three addicts had apparently managed to sneak into Castle Staghorn, and had just been discovered by a servant, hiding in a store room. The men were now engaged in hand to hand combat with the servant and a handful of sentries.
Taria was aghast at the condition of the pillagers who seemed to be in advanced stages of addiction. The men had yellowed eyes with matching skin that was stretched tight across their gaunt cheekbones. Their unwashed hair was matted and slick with grease, and their clothes were horribly soiled and tattered. One man had lost his shirt altogether, and his rib bones showed clearly though his skin. He looked like a man long dead.
Taria turned her eyes away as Rothar, always bound by duty, stepped in to help with the fracas. After a bit of shouting, a couple of thumps and gasps and a groan, the little battle was over and the soldiers dragged the men off to the already overpopulated dungeon.
Chapter 39
While Allette went back to her chambers to begin the search for a miracle concoction that may not exist, the other’s availed themselves of the castle’s weaponry and supplies, stocked up on rations and made certain their horses were watered and fed. Then, they rode together to whatever was left of Witherington.
Tomorrow would be a critical day, a day on which the future of the King’s City was hinged, but tonight was a night for preparation. Gathered in the blacksmith’s shop that Harwin called home, the rough little group of warriors took inventory and readied their armory.
Dewitt and Trevitt sat bent over Harwin’s wheel, sharpening their own blades and the blades of every other person in the party. Stone tended to the meager, mostly leather armor of the men and managed to piece together a suit for Harwin using spare parts. Taria restrung every bow and checked every arrow shaft for straightness, tossing aside the bent or damaged arrows and collecting chicken feathers for new fletching.
Harwin was hard at work, fashioning new arrowheads for Peregrin and Gamble and repairing Rothar’s well worn dagger. It had not been long since Esme had presented Rothar with the weapon, but the blade had already shed much blood, and not a drop of it unjustified.
The mood about the shop was not somber or fearful, but undeniably intense. Few words were exchanged, and the only constant sound besides the whirring of the wheel was Stone, humming a battle song from some past lifetime. The song was short and the melody simple, and the old huntsman repeated it again and again. In time, Gamble picked up the tune and hummed along, followed shortly after by Taria. As evening settled over the sooty and ashen village, every soul in the blacksmith’s shop had taken up the call, and the haunting notes of an old, forgotten battle hymn floated hauntingly through the abandoned streets of Witherington.
***
Rothar himself was the only one absent from the conclave. He had saddled Stormbringer and rode immediately to the Southern mountain range for an urgent meeting with the ogre clan.
Talfor met Rothar at the main gate in the great Southern wall, and patiently led him to a high plateau that was ringed with massive boulders. Once upon the plateau, Talfor produced a great horn, which he blew to create a sound that seemed to make the mountains quake.
As they waited, Rothar and Talfor talked. With Rothar shouting and Talfor reminding himself to speak softly, the two talked of life in the mountains. Ogres were not much concerned with the affairs of men although they were more than happy to help a friend when needed. Often misunderstood, the giants were a remarkably loyal bunch. When it came to conversation, however, ogres were not interested in the happenings in any city, in any kingdom, anywhere. What an ogre loved to speak of were mountains, forests, lakes, anything larger than them, any place or majestic product of nature that allowed them to feel at ease.
The sprawling mountains in which they now lived was a source of great joy for Talfor, and he regaled Rothar was detailed accounts of gorges, valleys and hidden waterfalls within the craggy confines of the Southern range. In time, however, the conversation turned to Waya, mother of the ogres, who had been slain while saving Rothar’s life in Duchess Miranda’s Manor.
“I can tell that you must miss her greatly,” said Rothar, noticing the way the ogre’s voice changed when he spoke of his mother.
“Of course I do,” spoke Talfor, somberly. “But I know that she is watching us all from the great beyond, and I am certain that she knows peace now, and not pain. I only regret that she did not live to see us be freed to roam these glorious hills. She would have loved this place.”
“I have no doubt of that,” replied Rothar. “I admit that I barely knew your mother but I see who she was by knowing you, and as such, I think she was a woman who loved mountains.”
Talfor smiled down at his friend. There came the sound of a rockslide and another ogre stepped easily up onto the plateau. Talfor greeted him as Brignor. Shortly after, the other ogre elders made their way to the meeting place, each taking a seat on one of the massive boulders that circled the flat space. Talfor introduced them as Falwort, Strife, Dundle, Nole, Olem and Wilt.
“Our little friend and champion for our redemption has something to ask of us,” Talfor boomed to his brethren.
Rothar fought the urge to cover his ears and wondered if he ought to take issue with being called “little friend.” He decided to let it pass.
“Friends,” Rothar called out. “I know that you have seen the mysterious flying objects over the Banewood and you have seen where they have landed. There are men controlling those machines, and those men aim to bring great harm to King Heldar’s city.
“I consider myself a friend to your kind, and I hope you will allow me that. I was by your mother when she went to the great beyond, and I carry her goodness with me in my heart to remind me that there is more than just evil in this world. Your mother was a combatant in the war against those who would harm the innocent, and I hope that you will carry the torch for her.” The ogres nodded and hummed sadly, revering t
heir fallen matriarch.
Rothar waited a moment before continuing. “The King has shown great kindness to you in recent times, and I know that you are a noble folk who do not wish to allow any harm to befall their allies.”
The ogres said nothing, but nodded in unison at his words. Rothar looked up at the huge, round eyes that stared back at him.
“Tomorrow, at first light, myself and several other skilled men, whom I trust very much, will be entering the Banewood to confront the enemy, however, our numbers are too few, and your reports tell me that as many as sixty machines are in the wood.”
Dundle spoke up, a battle ready look in his eyes. “I see what you want from us, and I am all for it. We will stomp them out, from the foot of the mountains to the shores of the Amethyst Sea.”
A hearty cheer went up from the gathering of giants.
“I appreciate your enthusiasm, I truly do,” said Rothar once the ogres had quieted down. “But, there is more to this battle than simply crushing the enemy forces. There is an entire city of these dogs about two days ride from here, on the other side of the Andrelicas Mountains. If we simply destroy the men they have sent, what is to keep them from sending more?”
Again the ogres were silent, patiently waiting for Rothar to explain what he wanted of them.
“Tomorrow is a vital day indeed,” he continued. “But it is not a day for killing - not of the wholesale variety at least. We must leave enough men alive to fly the machines back to Haval.”
“So your intention is to let them escape?” asked Falwort. A collective grumbling arose from the group. Ogres were not bloodthirsty, despite popular opinion, but they gave no quarter when in battle. To an ogre, retreat was never an option - for either side.
“Yes, Falwort, in a way, that is my exact intention,” answered Rothar. “I intend to let them temporarily escape, but we will be following them home.” He paused a moment to scan the giant faces that ringed the plateau. “Mark my words,” Rothar shouted, “they are carrying death to their city, just as they have carried death to mine.”
Chapter 40
Dawn came grim and crimson to the eastern sky. It seemed almost as though the red desert had seeped into the Banewood and was staining the horizon with it’s infernal, bloody hue. But before the first hints of pink had arrived above the tree line, Rothar and Peregrin had led the rest of the group to the meadow that separated the edge of Witherington from the Banewood.
In the darkness, the band of would-be warriors stood together and spoke in hushed tones, going over the details of their plan for the final time. As they spoke, the ground trembled, slightly at first, then growing to an earthquake-like rumble. Dark shadows blocked out the starlight in the south. The ogres were joining them.
Around a dozen towering shadows approached in the darkness. On the ground, Rothar and the others lit torches to make their position known, and avoid being crushed underfoot. In all the lore of the kingdom, it would be the first time that the men of the land had fought alongside the ogres. There were many stories of the king’s men battling the ogres, and of course, the tales of ogre servitude in building the southern wall, but this day would make the first time that the two breeds would find themselves on the same side of the fight.
Peregrin leaned back against a narrow sapling, only to feel it twist and shift behind his back. He was leaning against the spear shaft of one of the giant ones. Talfor lowered himself to his hands and knees so that he could confer with the little men without forcing them to shout.
“Good morning, Talfor,” spoke Rothar. “I trust you and your kin have readied yourselves for battle.”
“Indeed,” replied Talfor, his hot breath washing over the group of humans, causing their eyes to burn. “We prepared all through the night.”
Ogres, as a rule, went into battle thoroughly drunk. Libations seemed to have a much different effect on the giants than it did on men. While it steeled their confidence, much as it did for humans, it also gave the ogres an unmatched focus and dexterity. For an ogre, getting drunk was no small task. The clan of warriors had been up through the night, draining barrels of mead in preparation for the fight ahead.
“Very well,” said Rothar, a slight smile playing across his face in the darkness. “Have your fellows been briefed of their duties?”
“Of course.”
“Good. And they have promised to kill no more than half of the men they see?”
Talfor snorted. “Yes, although that was a harder sell than you might think.”
“I understand, Talfor, but you know the reasons why, and you know it is imperative that we leave enough of the dogs alive for our purposes.”
In truth, there was no need to leave half of the Reapers alive, a fourth would probably be sufficient, but Rothar knew that even if the ogres dispatched only half of the men they encountered, and his own companions tangled with the other half, they would still need to exercise some restraint in order to leave enough men standing to beat a hasty retreat to the red desert.
Talfor rose again to his feet and the ogre war party casually began to spread itself out across the meadow, muttering and belching fumes. Taria came to Rothar’s side and gently touched his elbow. Rothar looked down at her hand. In the first light of day he could see the delicate outlines of her servant tattoos. The thought of her time in the desert, serving Bakal, made him bristle, and gave him extra resolve to tend to the duties of the day. The Reaper who had captured him, drugged him, tossed him back into the desert, had made it clear that his people intended to enslave the citizens of the King’s City first, and then the realm beyond.
He smiled grimly at Taria. “I swear to protect you, my lady,” he said.
Taria raised her eyebrows in feigned offense. “And I, you,” she replied. Taria laughed and so did Rothar, but both knew that the other was speaking the truth. They would protect one another in the face of any adversity. There was no evil in the world which could break this vow, nor shake their faith in one another.
Peregrin approached and placed one hand on Rothar’s shoulder, the other on Taria’s.
“Luck in battle,” he said, reciting the traditional huntsman battle oath.
The bitterness and jealousy that Rothar had sensed in Peregrin in days past was gone, and the clear eyes of his oldest friend reflected his own determination.
“Luck in battle,” repeated Rothar.
Finally, the wavering, crimson sun rose to the top of the distant canopy. There was enough light by which to kill, and the sky was bleeding with anticipation.
Chapter 41
Allette felt like a trinket on a shelf. She had surrounded herself with so many tinctures, vials, jars and bowls, that she could scarcely move with jingling or jangling, upsetting her collection of substances with each harried movement, yet she knew she must act swiftly.
With the help of Esme, Allette had converted the small quarters that the women shared in Castle Staghorn into a makeshift apothecary’s laboratory. From the kitchen, the castle grounds and the belongings of many a helpful castle resident, they had collected as many of the elements described in the remedy book as they could find.
No one had ever encountered anything quite like Obscura before, so there was no known remedy or substitute. Allette was forced to try to concoct such a substance herself. The task seemed nearly impossible, but she knew that she was perhaps the best suited for it in all the King’s City. She had a knack for medicine, and, perhaps more importantly, she knew exactly what it felt like to use Obscura. No one who had not been under the oppressive influence of the herb could faithfully reproduce it’s effects.
“Luna moth wings for relaxation, a touch of Nightshade to slow the pulse, Tiger Lily to ignite the imagination,” Allette whispered the elements of her concoction aloud. She tested the mixture periodically - only a small taste, to see what effect it had. She was getting closer, she could feel it, and with each taste she felt more of the familiar warm vibration that she had immersed herself in when she was afflicted by the Obscura,
controlled by the ladder to God.
It was as disconcerting as it was comforting, feeling those old feelings again, but there was simply no other way to test the remedy. The remedy was her mission, she would not let Rothar and the others down.
“How is it coming, Allette?” asked Esme, her voice floating from behind a stack of wooden boxes. The boxes contained ordinary smoking tobacco, which would be infused with the artificial Obscura, if and when Allette got it right.
“It is… getting there,” answered Allette, shaking away the cobwebs that were trying to crowd in from the corners of her consciousness. “It is not quite right yet, though.”
Flipping through Ariswold’s book, Allette searched the pages and her memory for the missing ingredient. The concoction was missing something, something important, but what? Allette pushed the book away from herself, accidentally sliding a mortar and pestle off of the table. The clay bowl hit the floor and smashed into countless pieces. Allette cursed.
“I will clean it up,” said Esme, appearing from behind the stack of boxes.
“No, no, it is my mess, I will take care of it,” replied Allette as she came around the the table and squatted to pick up the pieces.
“Ouch!” she cried out as she cut her hand on a sharp piece of the pottery.
“Are you alright?” asked Esme, hurrying to her side.
Allette did not answer at once, she was staring at the cut on her hand with a curious expression on her face. That was it, the pain.
“We need to take away their pain!” Allette said excitedly, jumping to her feet and returning to the book, forgetting about the mess on the floor.
The Obscura not only transported the mind of the user to another place, it rendered the physical body utterly numb. Allette had once seen a fellow Obscura user fall asleep next to a fireplace. During his slumber, the man had rolled over into the burning logs, catching his leg on fire. Two of the other people in the den had managed to shake off their drug induced stupor long enough to drag the fellow out of the flames and stamp out the fire on his leg. The man slept through the whole ordeal and felt no pain until he awoke the next day, screaming and thrashing on the floor.
