KW2: the Bleeding River

It is the cool of the day, and the forest air is fresh and sweet. Through the leaves, the glimmering armor of the knights caught the eye of many an inquisitive bird. The riders had stopped by a brook for a moment to water their gylles, and dampen their faces. Rhadan, at the front of the company, said a brief prayer, then drank from cupped hands.

A scout on horseback approached, short of breath. A knight raised his arm in greeting, and the scout reciprocated, then approached Askei, and, lowering his scarf, spoke. 'The Kivedon is near, sire' he said. 'It will not be much longer until we reach it.'

'How near?' asked the Tirmetsk, flinging loose droplets off his hands.

'Nearly a full tilat. I am fortunate to report that the Frontier is manned by a few dozen men. Kurajed levies, the lot of them. Their commander, I gather, is a Dinoranian.'

Askei muttered a quiet curse as he adjusted the stirrups of his beast's saddle.

'Where is the nearest path?' he asked.

'Past the tall grasses over there' the scout pointed. 'There is a lesser path, bisected by a small tributary stream, shallow enough to wade through, that leads down towards the greater body of the Kivedon.'

Now tall atop his gylle, Askei gave a swift gesture and took up the reins. 'Lead the way' he commanded, and the Dinoranians rode, the brook water still dripping from the mouths of their beasts.
The greybacks at the front of the company bounded over the bushes with ease, and, after reaching the stream and monitoring the tree line, were halted to wait for the carts to pass through. As they were waiting, Isai noticed Kkani appearing withdrawn into himself. Still atop his cassowary of a vedder, the captive's robes seemed to form a silken cocoon around his mottled head. 'Kivedoru,  in our language, is one of the several names for a Dinoranian,' said Kkani suddenly. 'We call the river Shurra - "honeyed foam," for the sweetness of its water on the parched tongue.' Isai raked his mind for traces of his distant days of education, for crumbs and pieces from that academy that was nothing more than a childhood memory to him.

'...and Kivedon was the name of one of our old gods, before the Ironking Dejnus did away with them.'

'The pagan God of Rivers?'

'Not quite. That was Fleras. Kivedon, among gods, was one of the few who could be considered mortal. He was associated with the Greater Sun, and Lenjeia, his wife and half-sister, with the Lesser. In the darkness of the dyre-winter, when the suns withdrew from our side of the earth, they said he and his wife were killed by the envious moon-gods, to be reborn when the sun rose again to our side.' Kkani sniffed in amusement. Isai, weary, continued. 'The river that carries his name, they said it flows red in the winter with their blood, and in the summer it flows white, marking their rebirth.'

KKani sniffed again, and smacked his lips. 'That is ridiculous. How can a god associated with the mightiest of the cosmic bodies be mortal? The sun may tilt and set, but it is as permanent as the earth.'

'In the ancient days of the earliest colonists, the Dinoraenes carried still the memory of our Vollai, the single sun of our forefathers' land. A frail, meagre, lone sun. There came a day where she for a moment flickered, and in that momentary, year-long flicker, the lands of our ancestors froze deeply.'

'The hardiest crops die when sun is absent. Surely the people would have starved.'

'Many did, but our godlike ancestors were brilliant in the ways of science and magic. They took shelter, and when the sun was at its weakest, they rose from the earth and seized it.'

'Of course they did...' Kkani muttered.

'With its white fires they fueled their mighty warships, which sailed for the Eye of the Gatefather Himself to seek revenge. At least, that is how the story goes, and ends.'

'They failed, and fell to purgatory.' Kkani grinned. 'Or as we 'natives' call it, the Liskuvanna, the mother of mothers.'

'Gjaeia Anje, the world of waiting. The faith is truth. It is what our ancestors attested on their monuments, and in their holy books. There will come a day when the Dinoraenes set sail for the stars once more, and the spaces between the worlds shall flow with the ink of our reeds, as they did in the age of the Prophet-father.'

Kkani tilted his head down, his nose pointing towards the silent Vedder, as if he was pondering the beast he rode upon but could not see. Suddenly his head jerked upright and his eyes seemed to burn through the blindfold as he let out a quiet, high-pitched, wheezing laugh.

'You don't actually believe that, do you?' he asked, still beaming. 

'I do.'

A vain people you were and still are! Monuments and star-ships!' Kkani tilted back his head in a brief bray of unbridled laughter, and his blindfold flushed a brilliant blue as it caught the sun. He sighed, then recomposed himself. 'Never have we Kurajeds had use for such grandiose ideals. A field, a wife and a few good books are all my ancestors needed, and to that I would add nothing! Perhaps a musket, for when mere monuments no longer satisfied your kind, the men on the far side of the Yerai.' He brought his broken fingers together in the shape of a castle, then rapidly pulled them apart. 'Monuments!'

'Great men tend to leave legacies that outlast them, be they material creations, or little glories woven into the fabric of the lives of theirs sons and successors' said Isai with a conviction belying personal offense.

'Great men!'

'Even you Kuri must have houses and fields, stories and traditions passed down from the ones that came before you?'

'We do, of course! Most of the time such things were always brought to ruin by your kind... Outsiders...'

'Do you forget that it was the Northals, the very race of xenoithe that our men slaughtered in the Great War and press against even today, that have always conquered your lands, and not the Dinoraenes?' said Isai, remembering more and more with each word.

'What of the Sannawi and the Askarons? Were they not tertian peoples? Did your Prophet not call the bloodstained tertians 'akhine ani?'*'

'But that was millennia ago, long before our nations were even united! Besides, the Askaronate was ousting the Old Races, those barbarians, and always swore to protect the Kurajeds from the Beast.'

'The Beast! Your King, curses upon his name,' said Kkani in a strangely polite but critical tone perhaps native to him, the kind Kurajeds reserved for their war-chiefs and Jenjûi, 'he claims to be a defender of the Sithenians in the Northern Protectorate, yet he butchers them every day in the name of religion.' Isai, confronted though he was, decided not to loose his emotions and prejudices on the blindfolded heretic.

'Our King is a descendant of the Prophet' he said calmly, half-shutting his eyes. 'He has the divine right to do whatever Gods command.'

'You do not defend men by slitting their throats and carrying off their daughters, even if gods decree it to be so. Is that what Protectorate means in your language? Is it that you protect men from the pains of growing old?'

'Our faith is truth.'

'All wickedness comes disguised as truth.'

'Enough,' Askei commanded, and both men fell silent. So too did the rest of the knights, and even their gylles, who had been trilling and grunting amongst themselves since the start of the march. They were nearing the river's edge, and the bamboo thicket that had crowded the last quarter mile of beaten road had thinned, and now gave way to a great open plain, a lively green expanse glimmering beneath the suns. The river, still young from its source in the mountains, ran across this plain at a width of almost sixty yards, flowing serenely and carrying with it much sediment from its progenitor. There too was manmade debris. The remains of former bridges, once connecting the South with the Mvarnar, since burned down in the Arkic War, now littered the edges of the river, and in parts were partially submerged in its waters, donating charcoal, flakes of paint and ancient splinters to the riverbed. Charred though the ruins were, there were still embers of the thick red paint that had once brightly adorned them. Everything else had been burned away or plundered to the bone.
On the other side of the river, a strong-eyed man such as Askei could make out the armed silhouettes of a small number of Transkivedian border guards. The majority appeared to be Kkani's compatriots, Kurajeds without a doubt as the scout had described them. The wide, tapering brim of the sury¹ is unmistakable, even from such a distance. The levies marched to and fro along the riverbank like clockwork, with tall, crescent-shaped glaives held against their shoulders and pointing upward. A few short horses and a mule stood beside the guards' post, eating cautiously from the lush foliage that bordered the water's edge. A soldier with a musket sat on the ruins of the far-side's bridge, with a long pipe in his mouth and his legs freely hanging over the river below. He was quick to catch sight of Askei and company, and, using the musket as a lever for his considerable bulk, got to his feet. The pipe still held to his lips, he spoke soundlessly. At once the other guards rushed to the river's edge, their cries of alarm only barely reaching the company over the gentle roar of the river. The man on the bridge took from his pack a large fork-rest, and forced it in between two planks atop the ruin. He observed the company's distance, and then, fixing a wick, he promptly mounted the musket in the fork-rest and prepared it to fire.
Askei noted with his far-seeing eyes that the wick was in fact as dry as the gravel beneath the gylles' feet. If the musket's wick was anything at all like that of the West Dinoranian Arquebus, it would not light properly unless soaked in oil. Unintimidated by the musketeer's bluff, he dismounted and stepped forward to the riverbank. 'Sire, take heed! The man atop the bridge will shoot!' said Eison in a panic, his gylle producing a shrill whine. As the midday sun shone through faint clouds, down onto the sury, and in slivers past the slits and onto the face of the man with the gun, Askei did not so much as flinch. Into the river the gentleman warrior trod, and, raising his left hand, he produced a tall stick from which flew a pale flag. A moment passed, and the musketeer lowered the stock of his gun to rib level. There was a heated discussion among the Kurajeds, whom, having huddled together, had their tall hats resemble the battlements of a veritable straw castle. Finally they broke one after the other to form an orderly line. Two soldiers, whom had presumably been designated emissaries, took a boat to the river and began to row. Still, the musketeer kept his weapon at the ready.

Isai flashed a bearded smile. 'Even a long-gun like that would be hard-pressed to hit a particular target at this distance' he reassured Eison, aside. 'The ball,' he said, pinching his fingers together, keeping them only slightly apart, 'is a missile like any other. As is the case with arrows, javelins, bolts and darts, your bullet loses momentum as it flies. At a certain point, a pebble in the wind would hit harder than it, and even then, remember that brother Rhadan is superbly well-armored of skin and flesh as well as steel.' Eison smiled heartily. A fair-haired young man with a broad, well-meaning grin, he had been attached only recently to Rhadan's knightly company, and felt he had much to learn from the older men.

'I hope to one day brave bullets as Aie does' he proclaimed.

'Gods willing, dear boy. Gods willing.'
The Dinoranians waited at the riverbank. The crossing of the two Kurajeds had made weary even the most patient soldier, and, when the men finally arrived, Askei approached to speak with them and gave a bow. At once the mercenaries tensed. 'Come no further, warmongering Dinoraene!' said one, his hand on his dagger. The other leapt from the rowboat and held a spear to the edge of the Tirmetsk's cuirass. Before the company could respond, Askei raised his hands. 'These Dinoraenes have no interest in war' he replied, unfazed. Indeed, all except Eison had not even chanced to draw their swords. This was a mission founded on a precarious peace, and every man knew this. 'What about him, then?' the Kurajed snapped a glance at the young knight, whose eyes were wide and whose breathing was deep. 'The is a Tùsk.' said Askei. 'They kiss each others' swords upon greeting as a sign of trust and respect. He is young. It must have been instinctive. In any case, it seems you are the one with spear in hand.' The Kurajed raised his brow.

'I will kiss no sword' he said angrily, then withdrew, spinning the glaive halfway back to his shoulder. 'What is your business, then, well-armed Dinoraene, if not to make war?'

'My name is Askei Rhadan. My cousin, the Lord Ecsemis, has fallen ill with Ellurose. He will die if he is not treated. The Kirmisoto captive we have taken has brought us here, having informed us that your leaders possess such treatments in the form of a rare fruit.' The mercenary gave a jaded sniff. 'We bring supplies with which we hope to purchase any such remedy from the Archduchy.' Askei continued. 'We are so armed as we are out of fear of the banditry for which your province has garnered much fame .'

'Ha! A likely excuse' the Kurajed snorted.

Kkani came forth at the word 'banditry,' unbound but remaining blindfolded. He took a breath and spoke to the soldiers in their own language, exchanging thatched and silken words as Askei looked on. Finally, they seemed to reach an agreement. 'Tirmetsk Rhadan,' Kkani began. 'You and I are to accompany these soldiers to their barracks.'

'Alone?'

'Alone, unarmored and unarmed.'

Askei clenched his teeth. Immediately protests erupted from the knights, but were halted when the Tirmetsk gave a wave of his hand.

'We cannot accept such terms' he said, unmoved in tone.

The soldier was adamant. He buried the shaft of his spear in the ground and tightened his grip on it. Three glass beads tied to it clattered against one another.

'No weapons or no cure, word of the Duke. That is final.'

Pressing a finger against the grip of his sword, the Tirmetsk acquiesced, and ungirded it. It fell to the ground and was immediately picked up by an attendant.

'We have come this far, and we do not have much time left,' Askei said to his men. 'I will go with the Kirmisoto, and we will return with Cure.'

Isai quickly took his commander aside.

'Sire, you cannot possibly go ahead with this. They could kill you in a heartbeat! What then?'

'Have you forgotten that we gave the battalion orders to cross the river should we not return by sundown? I will make that known. The Archduke himself would not risk war over such a trifle.'

'But you are the Tirmetsk! Who will command this battalion?'

'Have you too forgotten the reward and necessity of risk?' He looked at the Kurajeds, then back toward Isai. 'My motives are unchanged. If I am dead or captive, you will lead.'

'Sire,' Isai began, mortified, 'as great as that is an honor, I must insist on coming with you!'

The Kurajed stamped his spear. 'Two men only!'

'You Eastern dogs! Askei Rhadan is a soldier of the Ansuer, and of the King-and-Emperor! He deserves a worthy escort!'

'Isai, that's enough.' said the Tirmetsk. 'If we both die, these men will be leaderless.'

'How can we know this entire affair will not end in ambush or robbery?'

'Our finest men will escort him,' the spearman interrupted. 'The archduchy will let no harm come to your Tyrmex.'

'Lies! Northal lies!'

'Isai!'

'...'

'Trust me.'

'Always, sire.' 'I will be back before sundown. Word of a wanderer.'

'What of the carts?' asked Isai, defeated. 'The Mvarnarriin say they need the Tirmetsk's unarmed presence in return for a single-fruited Arkkel wreath' remarked Kkani, 'and nothing else is required of us.' Commotion amongst the Dinoranians. Askei turned to them, running the tip of his foot through the soil. 'Then I will go.'

The noise faded. 'Have faith, Akhine, for I will return. If, Gods willing it, I do not, the Knight Isai Thòele is your Tirmetsk, and your previous orders will stand. For now, hold your positions.'

He removed the warpieces from his armor, leaving only the basic and the ornamental, and handed his dagger and his mace to Isai, whose thick brows hung low.

'May the Prophets walk with you, sire.' Isai gave the Ourasian salute and bowed.

The knights too saluted as Askei followed the Kurajeds to the riverside.
The waters were not quite still, but not quite troubled. A mist rose from the river as they crossed, and a cloud of midges swarmed and danced above their heads. Rather than crossing, crawling would be a better description, for its seemed the Kkurie were rowing at an intentionally leisurely pace to spite their fastidious guest. They knew not of the necessity of time. They knew not that they would be embroiled in a great war if the Tirmetsk's return was so much as a minute past sunset. They made nothing of overheard promises. As far as they were concerned, this great, ornate and high-ranking Dinoranian was on their side of the river now, and he was hence beneath even them. They relished the reversal, especially considering that their commanding officer was a grey-browed Dinoranian himself, one who oft delayed their salaries and struck them round the ears over the most minute of transgressions. By now the mist had thickened, and the suns concealed themselves behind a veil of cotton and pale lace. Looking back, it became impossible to see the men of the company, and looking ahead, the end of the river was nowhere to be found. Though Askei grew very much impatient, he was reluctant to spit on his gracious hosts' doorstep. Far too much was at stake.

'I ask that you gentlemen row faster. We do not have much time.'

'Time, hu-u-u... Time flows slow on the Shurra' said the oarsman with a ghostly countenance.

'Time runs like water for the wretched, like honey for the immortal, hu-u-u' whispered the spearman, clutching the towering black lance by his shoulder.

'Flows, gushes like blood for the insolent' said Askei, untensed.

The Kurajeds scowled at him.

Kkani said nothing, as if he had been deafened as well as blindfolded. There came the peeping cry of a plover, which glided gracefully over the shimmering grey waters.

'The blood of birds has a bitter taste' said the oarsman. 'Bitter, bitter like the wind' he croaked, as water splashed beneath the rising oar. 'Bitter blood. Filthy flesh. May the winds strip this world of its filth.' 'Asa.†' 'Asa hei.'
The Kurajeds looked at Askei, then looked away in unison.
'The key slips from the lock. The key is unbroken.' 'The lock slips from the key. The key is unbroken.' 'Asa' 'Asa hei.'

The musketeer, who had been waiting on the bridge, had his gun's firing-rope held in his mouth in place of pipe. He pointed the musket up and toward the Tirmetsk's boat as it passed, for a moment mimicking the action of a shot.

'Ban! Te tsur Te!' he whispered to himself. 'You're dead, redblood!'

As the mist climbed over the riverbank, a forest came into view, one with a strip of road, identical to the one on the other side, running into it. At the edge of the river, a solemn figure in occidental armor watched the nearing emissaries. Before Askei could catch the faintest impression of his face in the mist, the man turned away, swiftly mounting his beast, a Crested Gylle with bright blue wattles and long, curving quills. The rider whipped its haunches and sped away, the gylle braying indignantly before disappearing, ghostlike, into the forest, where its whining calls echoed.

At last the boat reached the bridge-pieces, and one of the Kurajeds alighted to moor it. The other unrolled a sheet of mulberry paper, which he read from, then translated.

'You will ride with us to the Duciku's camp from here. It is not far, but be warned, he may not grant your request if you do not give him the words he lusts after.'

'I would think so...' Askei did not want to ask for clarification, fearing it would make him seem ill-informed.

'His grasp of Dinoranian is poor' admitted Kkani. 'And he is translating directly from Kuri. The gentleman means to say that the Duciku is likely to be offended if you are not willing to be conversational.'

'Yes, that's what I meant' the soldier grunted.

'For the cure I would happily chat for as long as is needed,' said Askei, 'but that cannot be too long. Our return to the river before sunset is paramount.'

'The Duke is a nice young man. He won't keep you longer than is needed' said the spearman, with hints of a smirk. Kkani lifted his blindfold, and lowered it again.

The mess of silt in the Transkivedian soil stained Askei's sabatons, which he promptly removed from his riding-boots and, seemingly by instinct, handed to Kkani. The captive pretended not to 'see' them, and instead carried on walking with the other Kurajeds. Askei shook his head and shoved the muddy steel into a small satchel. So used was he to the service of his squires and attendants, that he had half-expected his hosts to wait on him as they did. Alas, even on Dinoranian soil the old leopard was not the esteemed Grand Master he once was, and under his breath he reminded himself of this.

He looked around, and took in the bizarre appearances of his newfound stewards. Their hats like wide-hanging limpet shells gave them a truly agrarian look, one contrasting with the supposed cutting edge of their Northal masters. From the hats' apices hung dark horsehair trailing down to the brim, above a layer of loosely-tied cloth that absorbed the sun. But what was the point of such wide brims, such an unwieldy diameter of hat? As if the gods sought to answer his question, there fell drizzle, and Askei's bewilderment gave way to an envious understanding. His helmet, he thought, could provide some shelter, but he soon learnt that the holes in his raised visor would not keep out the water. In fact, they would intensify its flow onto his face and into his eyes. Bothersome though it was, he carried on bare-headed, and began to long for the great feather-cap that he had left with his wife in Piennae. 'Oh, to be back in her arms!' he lamented to himself. 'To feel once more her hands in my hair, her scent in my nose, her voice in my ears!'

The day that had been warm on the Dinoranian Side had, over the course of a few hours and over the distance of a few tilte, become damp and cold. The beads of sweat that gathered on Askei's forehead were first joined, then replaced by the relentless moisture of the humid Transkivedian Plain. It was almost as if he had crossed over into another world with the crossing of the Kivedon, one inhabited by strange men with strange customs, and in the grip of an eccentric warlord from a faraway land. He looked back across the river, and gave a raised palm to reassure his knights, who by now had become nothing but faint silhouettes in the mist.
Before Askei could see a response, the Kurajeds mounted the stout Kerçan mares that had been waiting by the edge of the forest. Their humor still burning like their spices, they had saved the shortest mare for Kkani, and, for the esteemed Dinoraene, they had saved the mule. The men rode into the forest, across a gravel path that, save for a few slight dilapidations, was not dissimilar to the one the Dinoranians had taken to the river. The saddle was poorly fixed to Askei's mount, which, it should go without saying, was a tremendous step down from the mighty Roisvell he had dismounted not a short while ago. He wondered if that would be the last time he saw the beast, with its regal quills and its great white mane, its tall feathers stirring gracefully in the mildest zephyr. He could not help but shudder, and the sight of the mule's ears twitching with lakeflies was no remedy for this dread.

What Askei was told would be a provisional Kurajed camp appeared before the men, and at once it seemed to be of a far less provisional nature than the Dinoranian encampment from which Askei had departed. Far from it. Here there were bricks and mortar, wells, walls and sloping tiles. This was no encampment. Perhaps the Duke of Mvarnar had transformed it into a base of operations for himself, and, accordingly, had brought his ducal sense of luxury along with him.

Small but mighty columns of Horsemen in suries galloped to and fro, calling out commands. The Kurajeds, having as little fighting manpower as they did, had already seemed to have mastered the matchlock, before even the Ostretians and the Northals, who had known of the might of the black powder long before their insular neighbors. Yet, they never even dreamed of using guns on horseback as the Westerners did. The horsemen, hailing from an ancient caste of mounted warriors, were armed with black lacquered lances and short bows. For these monastic warrior orders, the gun was a tempting and formidable force indeed, but it could not possibly match the lightning-fast action of Kurajed archery. The quivers of even the lowliest of the warriors bristled with arrows, each bearing the marks of a skillful fletching technique that was passed down the generations since antiquity. These lightly-armored riders, known as the Surukuru-isherei knights, were truly a sight to behold for the lone westerner, who both dreaded and appreciated the thought of facing them on the battlefield.
As they entered the camp the glow of hanging lanterns fell on them like a veil of gold.

Between the lodgings of the soldiers, there was a coop for pigeons, one for chickens, and one for geese. These birds were of strange breed, and were nothing at all like the gentle, modest doves that Askei's mother had raised. Their feathers curled wildly like the hairs of a bison, and disproportionate, shoelike projections dragged with their feet, collecting fallen feathers and waste. Their scent, that universal avian sourness, even it smelled different. A little less pungent, and a little more refined. Equally foul.

On the far side of the camp there stood a tall granite shrine. It was a solid block, the front of which had been carved to resemble a strange, vaguely human creature, one that was seated on the back of a dragon. The sculptor had made fine work carving flowing silk robes and well-toned limbs, and the sharply-chiseled glyphs that had surrounded it seemed to intensify as they were followed to termination. High above, a scowl of mythical fury stared ahead, one that would make even the bravest knight cower. From the sides of the creature's head emerged two others; one head belonging to a plump-lipped goddess, and the other to a snarling lion. At its knees men in suries gathered, and each laid down what he could. Candles, petals, food, pearls, carved statuettes, wine, beads and other offerings littered the steps.

'Beware of the carved divinity, for deceit is the clay of the carver,' Askei recited, his brow heavy with distrust.

Kkani sniffed. 'Ansàrska is a Northal Goddess of war. Shumasuruma - 'Death's Consort,' she is called. Her cult has taken root in our lands, where she is known as Akaru - 'the Black-lipped Lady.''

'Morbid creations from morbid minds.' Askei longed for his sword. 'To hell with the Alien. They impose even their gods upon you?'

'Worse. Their gods were willfully adopted. The Dinoranian Prophet, as you have cited, knew of the dangers of the foreign idol. My people did not.'

'No honorable man bows before a foreign god.'

'Every honorable Kurajed was slaughtered in the War. Now there only remain the clever, the lucky, the weak and the cowardly. All bearers of the Brand.'

Askei could see the Northal Cross in ubiquity, stamped onto the skin and limbs of the soldiers in various sizes and shapes. As he looked, he saw a train of captives in robes similar to Kkani's. They were fettered and blindfolded, and a group of mercenary spearmen were forcing them onwards.

'Slaves,' remarked Askei.

'Willing slaves, leading unwilling slaves to their shared destruction. It is a sight not unfamiliar to history, is it not?.' Kkani shook his head with a cynical smile.

The men neared the Duke's sitting hall, which was guarded by two men and a pair of guard dogs that barked savagely at the Dinoranian. The Kurajed soldiers escorting him shushed loudly, and one entered to announce the group's arrival. The dogs, jumping at the ends of their chains, were pulled away.

There came a loud, rasping voice from the far side of the hall.

'Who comes?'

'Rhadan Askei and company, my lord.'

'At last!' The Duke, the youthful patriarch of the Northal-backed Duchy of Mvarnar leaned forward in his painted seat, and the many faces in his retinue paled in anticipation. 'Enter, men of the dry side of the river, and kneel before the Seed of the Silver Emperor!'

Askei and Kkani were ushered in, with the other Kurajeds close behind.

The Duke was a Kurajed, and by the lilt of his accent, Kkani could immediately tell he was was a treacherous Karùenner, a man from the only Kurajed Isle that had willingly surrendered itself to the Northals. The Karùenners became the Empire's hardest-working mercenary-slaves, all of whom had their loyalty bought firmly and handsomely by the Northals, but not always with silver and gold...

This one in particular, this faintly-mustached young man who was of Karùenne Noble birth, had claimed descent from the First Northal Emperor, and clambered viciously up the Transkivedian ranks. He was one among many promised as pension a lucrative plot of land near the port of Eresali, the cultural and economic capital of the Northal Empire. Believing the lie, he had drawn up ambitious plans to move to that paradise, that great city of silver across the Endless Sea, and establish himself among 'his fellow Northals' once he had served his time in the Archduke's ranks. Whether such grand plans would ever come to fruition was doubtful indeed, and to everyone present but the Duke himself, who would snap savagely at any critic who attempted to undermine his vision.

Askei and Kkani entered and bowed politely, each in their own national fashion.

'Come, Dinorai, be seated.'

Kkani bowed his head and sat on the ground, which was completely covered with reed mats and carpets. Askei undid a portion of his armor to allow himself to sit, but could only manage an awkward half-seated squat that forced a piece of armor against his gut. He ignored the discomfort, for it was trivial compared to the pains he had bravely endured for his whole life. Regardless, Askei hoped he wouldn't have to hold himself in such a position for long.

The men of the retinue, almost all of them Kurajeds, uncles, cousins and comrades of the Duke, sat in a semi-circle in the fringes of the main seating area. Almost every man smoked, lighting their pipes brimming with the powders and extracts of various botanicals, which rendered the hall blindingly smoky, and perfuming it with so many pungencies that it became most difficult to distinguish each from the other. Men chattered amongst themselves, made motions of their hands accompanied by strange, almost animal-like noises. Their women, though most were veiled, were each either the head of her man's household, or his private harem, the latter indicated by the presence of certain styles of pearl bracelets. Even under the veils, Askei could feel the women's judgements cast upon him, their boiling lust, their xenophobic hatred, their religious incantations flitting from long-unkissed lips. The Duke's own women, standing straight or sitting at his side, were ornamental concubines at best, and slaves at worst, not daring to speak unless spoken to. Among them were Dinoranians, Ostretians, Heiaks, Sithenians and Ciskivedes, women of various shades and tongues, numbering perhaps a dozen. They were chosen on account of appearance alone, and not much else. This ducal grouping was certainly the strongest of character, for the Northal pretender, a rather easily bored man, was known to value constant entertainment by his brides. One, an Ostretian beauty whose features caught the light as they protruded through her translucent veil, was said to be the finest lutist in Transkivedia, who had enchanted the Duke with her singing as he was wandering through a bazaar in Ertosaha. Another, a dark-lipped Kurajede, carried on her shoulder a tame but sharp-toothed monkey that allegedly understood every word that was spoken to it, but only if the words were spoken in the rare Isihiiri dialect of the Kuri language.

Askei, upon his arrival, cared little for the peculiarities of the courts of the Great East, and for their objectifying collections of performing concubines and eunuchs, much preferring the old Dinoranian tradition of strict formality, reservation and sanctity merited by an institution such as the Court. In the old knight's time, even the richest of princes was loyal to and protective of a single woman alone, the one he was wed to, and exemplified a perfectionist Nizām, 'Order,' in his court as he would his fief. They followed the example of the Prophet, who, it was said, had reigned, unwavering, for a thousand years before his death in battle with the Great Beast Adrak. His sense of state, and his near-humorlessness in times of distress have been mirrored by many great and terrible men in the four millennia following his sacrifice on the draconic battlefield.

The Duke, on the other hand, seemed to himself exemplify disorder. The colors of his robes did not agree with one another, and were worn simply because the dyes that stained them were of the most extravagant and expensive varieties. He was sat behind a bookstand, where a translated copy of the Espa Mehni, the Dinoranian Bible, laid open. Some pages that had been torn out littered the floor, and many corners were folded over or otherwise damaged. The Duke shifted, his robes draped and hanging low over his arms. Around his neck were two long strings of spherical and cuboidal beads reaching down to the lowest of his ribs. Their color, make and sequence, to trained eyes, were indicative of rank and birth, but, to lay Dinoranians, simply looked feminine. The beads rattled as he fiddled with them, and he made himself comfortable but alert. Askei noticed that the Duke had a ceremonial dagger held tightly under his foot by a concealed hand, masked by the draping robes. Sideri eyes are quick to see hidden arms, 'but not quick enough' thought Askei, 'to see hidden motives.'

'Rhadan Askei' the Duke addressed him with a clear, only slightly accented voice, in the Kurajed naming convention. 'I had faith you would grace us today. Word of ellurose spreads faster in this age than the worldly plagues. I need not ask why you are here, and do trust that your crossing has gone smoothly.'

Askei nodded. The Duke had his fingers pressed down on a page of the Holiest of Books, his eyes crawling enviously across the page.

'Treat your sick and your wounded as if thyself was the wounded and the sick' he read. 'On the Tragedies of Mortality, verse 16, line 2. you must have such sacred words memorized, of course, especially in your kinsman's dire situation. That is why you stoop to conversing with wretched, savage Kkuri, isn't it.'

Askei said nothing.

'Siderook's Ellurose is a terrible way to die. I do wish your cousin a most speedy relief' he said with the slightest tinge of malice.

The Duke's insensitivities were linguistic as well as tonal. To wish a 'speedy relief' to an Ellurote was, effectively, to wish them a swift and relatively painless death. The Duke knew this, and was expecting that it would come off as innocent mistongue on the part of the foreigner. Whatever the case, words never did much to damage or reassure a man of action like Askei, who knew of their cheapness. He did not so much as blink at the heavily-beaded child, who took up a bottle with childlike glee. 'All proceedings shall come in their time. Have thee lust for some wine, commander?'

The commander shook his head.

'Some words, perhaps?'

Had Kkani not been blindfolded, and restrained by a petrified courtly politeness, he would have scolded Askei bitterly. Had he not just told the miserable old Dinoraene that the Duke would yield cure only on the spoken word? His pride was going to foil this mission, or worse, get them both killed! But Askei knew very well what he was doing. At last a word was spoken.

'Cure.'

The duke muttered something under his breath, grasping the heavy necklaces with a tensed hand. There came a wheezing voice from the right side of the hall.

'Uneducated Dinoraene! The Arkkel-berries are the most sacred of fruits!' cried one of the Duke's retainers, a man of advanced age. 'Each fertile seed is worth the lives of a million men!'

It was not a secret that the Northals had struggled to cultivate their own Arkkels. The seed, it was said, wrapped tightly by a pungent yellow endocarp, would only be fertile once in every thousand batches, and even then it would scarcely be guaranteed to grow into a tree.
Askei stood up.

'I've heard enough. There is no need for this senseless mockery. Give me what I came for, son.'

The retinue was audibly indignant, gasping in shock.

'SON?!' the Duke howled, shooting up to his feet, his beads rattling.

'DARE YOU MOCK THE GRaNDSON OF THE SILVER EMPEROR?' the Duke screeched, his teenage voice breaking with the pitch as he drew his dagger from its jewel-encrusted sheath. A few old warriors in the wings stifled laughter, and the women shot each other telling glances. The boy's uncle rose out of familial obligation, drew his saber, and, with a bored expression, brought it to Askei's neck.
The duke blinked. With a motion of his hands, Askei had snapped the saber in two. 'The Karadites were never very good at forging swords' he said as the clanging of the shards echoed.

Askei heard a doglike growl from his left. A

A small sounder of dwarf pigs raced past.

The laughter of Kurajeds is somewhere between the chatter of a rainforest bird and the whinny of a donkey.

Askei took a small, spherical stone from his sleeve pocket.

'Thank you, Isai.'

The enchained commander went to the cell window.

'Thank him for what?' asked Kkani.

'Before we crossed the river, he must have slipped this little thing into my pocket.'

'What is it?'

'Ever heard the old adage, hellblazes burn from pits?' 'I do not think so.'
'Well, Kkani, my mother's folk, the Pteroais, say that the brightest burning flowers arise...' he held the sphere close. 'From the smallest of seeds.' He crushed the little red ball in his hand, showing the hints of a smile. 'Let us burn.'

---

1: a sury was a kind of semi-conical straw hat, often wrapped with cloth at the apex and topped with feathers or a kherpush, a small, cylindrical ornament indicative of its wearer's rank.
A tilat (from Sannavic tataali) is roughly equivalent to 1.4 kilometers.
* Akhine ani translates to 'my kin' in Ancient or Planetary Dinoraenic. The Prophet Deijen identified the Tertian race as made up of 'Dinoraenes, Dinoranians and Earthmen.' The Sannawi, inhabitants of the Sanna Peninsula, though not ethnically Dinoranians, were considered as such following their alliance with Deijenic Lutria.
† Asa (hei) can be compared with 'Amen.' It is indicative of a prayer or aspiration, and can be strengthened by others following an utterance of 'Asa' with 'Asa hei.'