"And this stupid cart driver pulls his wagon out right in front of me!" Drift pulled a trencher of bread into the street he'd marked out in ale on the tavern table, flanked by emptied and half-emptied tankards for buildings, and then held his hand just above the 'street' to represent himself.. "I do mean right in front of me, too- no room to swerve around either side or stop..." He paused and smiled. "So I jumped it," he said, suiting action to words by 'jumping' his hand over the bread. "Right in front of the driver, too. I could have reached out and patted him on the head as I passed."
The samoyed chuckled. "I can still picture his eyes, wide as dinner plates as he went over backward into his wagon. WAAAAUGH!" Rocking back in his chair, Drift threw his hands up on either side of his face, eyes wide and jaw slack in a comical display of shock that got the whole table laughing, and then picked up his tankard of ale and gulped down the last few swallows. Wiping his mouth and lolling his tongue in a canine laugh, he continued, "And that's how I got my best reaction to taur form." He nodded to Misha across the table. "Your turn."
Wolfram looked up from his plate of food, a pie made from turnips and potatoes and beets, as deep as a hand is wide. Jurmas the inkeeper had created it specifically for patrons who couldn't eat meat. Given that the ram was on his third helping, it seemed to be a hit. "I still say that you couldn't pay me to do that," he interjected around a mouthful of pie, then held up a hand as to ward off angered retorts. "No offense to you all, but to me it seems..." He swallowed, frowned, and scratched an itch on his chin while he tried to track down the ending for his sentence. "What's the word I'm looking for?" he mused.
"Odd?" Drift proposed with a smirk.
"That too, but more im... im..."
"Impressive?" Misha teased.
"Impractical," Charles replied. When Misha turned on him with a look of exaggerated shock, the rat continued. "It's true. In the wrong conditions, taur form is far more trouble than it's worth. Heavy, slow to maneuver-"
"Stairs," Drift interjected.
"Highly visible, large target area, long-term logistics-"
"Lo-what?"
"Food supply problems, Wolfram."
"I knew that."
"Highly unusual outside of Metamor. Certain to draw significant attention."
"Clothes. More stairs."
"Now, having said all that," Charles continued, "I can also say from personal experience that, in the right situation, taur form can be a lifesaver. Its strength and shock value can turn a fight in moments, and for transporting people or materials, it's superb. A taur can go places where a pack horse cannot, and the food supply issue can be got around by changing to a smaller form before eating. No, I don't know why that works," he added as an aside before Wolfram could ask. "Like any other tool, it needs to be used at the right time and purpose to be effective, but don't rule it out just because it's..." The rat smiled. "A little odd."
Drift looked up as a shadow fell across his emptied plate. "Welcome back, Xavier. Have an interesting discussion?"
Xavier pulled out a chair and sat down, a contemplative cast to his black-furred face. "Baron Avery has an... interesting outlook on the duties of the nobility," he said, but refused to be drawn into an explanation of the enigmatic remark. Instead, to change the subject, he leaned in to take a closer look at the only member of the group unfamiliar to him. "I know you," he said finally. "You're Charles Matthais."
Charles turned his head further toward the leopard, revealing the blackened handprint over his eye, and his whiskers lowered in a cautious moue. "I am he."
"What's a writer of your caliber doing way out here?"
The rat's cautious expression turned to one of bemusement. "'Of my caliber?'" he asked. "What do you mean by that?"
"My personal library has several of your works. The one with the three prisoners and the guard in the plague-hit town is a personal favorite. I even taught Wolfram how to read using it."
Charles's whiskers perked for a moment and his ears rocked back slightly against his head. The corners of his snout turned up in a warm smile. "I am honored that you'd use one of my stories to help your friend learn to read. It's probably the best thing that has been done with some of them. But that one I'm still fond of even after all these years."
A smile of dawning comprehension crossed both Drift and Wolfram's faces. "I knew that name sounded familiar," the samoyed said, while the ram beamed with happiness. "I preferred the story of the Phitt and the Shan," the samoyed said, smirking slightly as he gestured toward Xavier, "but I'm a bit more lowbrow than my lordly friend here."
Charles put his hand to his head and laughed. "Oh, Eli, I'd nearly forgotten about that one. I wrote that, what, three years ago? Yes, for the Vernal Festival." He shook his head and reached for his drink, taking a long sip before continuing. "Where does the time fly? I haven't written anything in nearly two years."
"Then it sounds to me like you're long overdue to get some writing done," Misha commented. "I'd love to see your trip to the south written down. An epic for the ages."
"We'll see," Charles replied, sitting back in his chair as his eyes went momentarily distant. "Perhaps in a few months or a year... right now, the memories are still a little too close for me."
A somber mood settled over the table for a few moments, but soon faded as Misha carried the conversation off into a different topic. Several hours passed in convivial comradeship before the time came to call it a night. "Well, I should be going for the evening," said the rat as he rose from the table, and he bowed his head to the three newcomers to his circle of acquaintances. "It was nice to have met you three, and I hope to see you again sometime once I'm done with my escort duties."
"Good night, Charles," Misha said, rising to shake his friend's hand in farewell. "Safe journey to you while you're escorting the Bishop." Once the rat had left, the fox turned his attention to the rest of the group. "As a matter of fact, we should all be heading to bed. We've got a long day tomorrow, and I don't want anyone hung over or too tired to stay sharp." Over Wolfram's half-hearted protests regarding the high quality of the Glenners' ale, the veteran scout turned his attention to Xavier. "You're recovered enough to join the patrol?" he asked.
"Indeed. The respite was much appreciated," the leopard replied with a nod, and then changed the subject. "I'm told there are Lorland natives in the area. I would very much like to meet them before we return to Metamor."
"All right. I'll introduce you once we get back."
The leopard nodded again by way of thanks and departed for his private room on the second floor. Wolfram drained his two mugs and headed for the room he was sharing with Drift, pausing at the doorway to wait for his friend. Misha nodded to him and made sure that wait wouldn't be a long one.
"Drift, I know you're looking for something, but I need your full focus on patrol tomorrow, all right? Can you do that?"
"Yes, Misha. I think I've got things settled now."
"Do you have a plan for what you're going to do here? If you're looking for a sign, do you have some idea of where to start?
The samoyed grimaced and stroked his chin. "To be honest, Misha... no, I don't. Aside from hoping to find the actual place where he died, and seeing if anyone here remembers anything..." He shrugged helplessly. "I'm making this up as I go along."
"Well, that's at least a start. I'll give it some thought. See
you in the morning." Misha watched all three of his charges go,
and worried. Wolfram was so eager to impress the head of the Long Scouts that he might
try something rash to do it. Misha didn't expect he'd do so, but it
was possible. The veteran scout sighed, knowing that he'd have to let
the ram down if he really did have his heart set on the Longs. George
had had an eye on him for some time now as a prospective officer's candidate
in the regular army, and had told Misha in no uncertain terms that this
one was not to be poached. Xavier could make an excellent field mage,
if he could manage to stop alternating between approachable and prickly,
or at least give a bit more warning when he decided to change moods.
His weather magic, if it lived up to its reputation, would be invaluable
to any patrol, but his attitude could get him in serious trouble in
the field. And Drift...
Drift was a keg of dragon dust waiting for a spark. It remained to be seen whether he found one.
Misha sighed again and pushed himself up from the table, pausing to gulp down the last dregs of ale from his mug. He wiped his mouth, then stretched to pop a crick in his back and turned for bed. When did I start getting old?
February 25, 708
Misha need not have worried, at least about Xavier and Wolfram. Xavier warmed up over time, especially once they found the common ground of each having a sister in the Marigund Mage Guild. Wolfram, realizing that he wasn't going to impress his way into the Long Scouts in a day, settled down into being reliably competent. Misha could see why George wanted to keep him: there was good potential in the man.
For an improvisation, Drift's plan bore fruit quite quickly as their week in Glen Avery passed. It started out (to Xavier's groan at the cliché of it all) at the Glen Avery tavern. Lars vaguely remembered Drift's father and his sudden death, and pointed them to one of the older Glen scouts, now retired due to injury. "Better be warned, though," the bartender said as he directed them to a home just outside the Glen. "He's a grumpy old cuss, and his place isn't kind to those with sensitive noses."
"Yeah, what do you want?" Lars' warning had not been idle. The former scout's home, a ramshackle wood-and-stone cabin, looked like it had survived at least five attempts at burning it, and it could be smelled from much farther away than it could be seen. This was to be expected: it was a leather tannery. Urine, dung, rotting meat, and even worse odors drove Xavier to moisten a handkerchief with several drops from a small bottle of perfume and clutch it over his nose in desperation. Meanwhile, Drift tried to persuade the hostile brown eye glaring at him through the barely-opened door to come out and talk for a few minutes. "I'm busy!" the eye snapped, but a voice from inside the cabin drew its attention away for a moment. When the eye returned, its ire seemed to have banked a little, or at least partially found another target. "All right, fine, gimme a minute," it growled, and the door shut hard.
The quartet of friends glanced at each other as a thud-clump, thud-clump resounded from inside, and then the occupant of the cabin stepped forth carrying a torn-off leg of cooked meat still hanging on a thick thigh bone. He was a short, bearish creature clad in leather and furred pelts, black-furred save for a grimy white 'V' across his shoulders and chest along the collarbone. A short, otterlike tail stood out behind him, bushed with irritation, and a wooden leg carved in crude imitation of its fellow ended his right leg from the knee down. "What do you want?" he snapped. "Hurry up. I'm missing dinner."
"I... um..."
Misha stepped in for the suddenly intimidated samoyed. "My friend would like to hire you for a job, if you're able to do it. His father was killed in the area several years ago, and we were told that you were the one who first found the body."
"I found a lot of dead bodies," the bear-otter growled, taking an enormous bite out of the shank in his hand and spraying spittle around it while he chewed. "Narrow it down or don't waste my time."
"A goat," Drift replied, and then hastily amended. "A goat-cursed Keeper, gray fur, short horns. He was found in the area with a lutin blade through his chest, six years ago."
"Ah. That one. What's in it for me?"
"This." Drift underhand tossed a small pouch, which the bear-otter caught from midair with a clink of coins. Several pieces of silver spilled out into his palm, with the glint of more inside.
"This is nearly two weeks' wages," the leathermaker said with grudging admiration, judging the quantity by weight and sound alone. He quickly hustled the surprise out of his voice and dropped it back into its rude growl. "All this supposing I can remember where-"
"And guide us to-"
"And guide you to someplace where some old goat got himself killed- ow!"
"Byron! For shame!" An old human man, gray of hair and wearing an incongruously feminine apron, stepped out of the cabin from behind the animal Keeper. His face had a pinched, nearsighted look and he squinted for a moment to take a look at the visitors. Finally, he rounded on the beastly Byron and snatched the money pouch away. "Quit acting like a child! This young man is looking for his father's death site. You will show him where it is this very evening and without any more of your lip, or I'll break a switch off on your backside like you were still two years old and just you see if I don't!" As he spoke, he drove the beast-man backward with sharp jabs of the metal ladle in his hand, the one he had earlier used for a rap between the ears. "You spent the last three days complaining about how you're sick of being stuck inside. Well, the snow's melted and the ground's dry enough for you to walk without your stump leg sticking, so go take a walk!"
"Ow! Dammit, Ma! Ow!" Byron cursed, and swiped at the swinging ladle, then tried to parry it with his half-eaten leg shank. He got smacked hard on the nose for his trouble. "All right! Fine! I'll do it! Ow! Just quit hitting me!"
"Nice pressure point strikes," Misha murmured under his breath.
Byron speared the fox with a venomous but impotent glare, and then shoved his way back into the cabin with a muttered string of curses. He returned with a wide-footed cane and stumped down from the porch, still muttering obscenities with a variety and fluency that would do credit to a full army battalion. "Come on," he snarled as he started off into the woods, ripping the last of the meat off the shank with his teeth and gripping the leg bone in a clenched fist like a primitive club. "I haven't got all day."
"What is his problem?" Drift asked, lagging behind for a moment with the old man to reclaim his money pouch.
The old man sighed, handing the small leather bag over. "His leg pains him badly, especially when a storm's coming."
"A storm? How far off?"
The old man eyed the sky through the treetops. "Hard to tell... could be a few hours, could be a few days. The stronger the storm, the farther off he feels it."
"My friend is a weather mage... he would have told me if a storm were on its way."
"Well, I can't say as I can argue with a storm mage," the old man hedged, "but my boy's not been wrong yet." He gestured with the ladle toward the departing group. "Now you hustle off after him or you'll get left behind. I hope you find what you're looking for."
Drift needn't have hurried, and soon wished he hadn't. The smell of the tannery clung to Byron with the tenacity of a lover: a putrid, stomach-churning cloud that trailed behind him when he walked, yet refused to dissipate no matter what strength of breeze Xavier called. It maintained the bear-otter's personal space quite effectively as everyone else jockeyed to stay upwind. "No, I don't bathe much," Byron snapped when he caught the leopard's incredulous sidelong glance. "It's half the reason the lutins don't bother me."
"And the other half?" Misha asked, the least affected by the stench thanks to years as a siege engineer.
Byron grinned, a twisted smile of yellowed teeth and savored malice. "Because I'm a mean bastard trapmaker with a lot of time on my hands. Don't step there." Without breaking stride, he reached out with his cane and jerked Wolfram away from an unremarkable stretch of path.
The ram paused, confused, but Misha took one glance and walked around the spot. "Booby trap. Watch your step." Continuing on once he'd made sure that his companions had made it past the booby trap without incident (and after discouraging Drift from trying to figure out how it worked), he caught up to the trapmaker. "I've heard of you. The lutins call you Slow Death."
"I know. When they piss me off, I make sure I live up to it."
"You do realize we've negotiated a truce with them now."
"Yeah, I know." Byron hawked and spat, his muzzle wrinkling in a disgusted snarl. "Like that will last. What a stupid decision."
Misha's eyes narrowed. "So you think we should just keep fighting the lutins endlessly?"
"You think we won't? We should have killed off all the little green monsters when we had the chance."
"Fighting the lutins endlessly didn't help the empire," the fox responded. "We have to at least try to end it."
"Hmmph," Byron harrumphed, unable to deny the logic of that. Not that he didn't try. "Won't last," he grumbled and stumped onward, refusing to be drawn into any further conversation aside from an occasional 'Don't step there' or 'Don't touch that'. Every so often, he stopped to renew a set of claw marks raked into a tree's bark, a broad-mouthed 'V' mimicking the distinctive pattern of white along his collarbone. The message was clear, a warning to lutin intruders and Metamor scouts alike: 'This is my territory. Stay out, or else.' Their guide's taciturn manner and the growing paranoia invoked by his numerous booby traps brought a damper down on conversation in general, and silence descended on the group until they reached their destination.
Unsurprisingly, Byron's first words were, "Don't touch anything."
Two years ago, a ferocious windstorm had descended upon Metamor Valley. To Metamor it had brought a tornado, but to the Glen it had only brought tree-flattening winds. When the Glen's timber crews ventured out afterward, they had discovered something remarkable in Byron's 'hunting territory'. An oak, one of the ancient monarchs of the forest, had toppled roots and all, ripping open the hillock upon which it had grown. This left a miniature amphitheatre, roofed by a lid of roots and drained by a small spring that burbled and bubbled near the entrance.
It was to this spot that Byron led them, and he repeated himself as he carefully stepped into the sheltered earthen cave. "I mean it," he said, his voice for once lacking its habitual snarl. In its place, it held the wary tension of someone trying to sneak up on a large, venomous, and extremely irritable snake. "Stay outside. Do not touch a damn thing. Don't even breathe in here without my say-so." Moving with the ginger care of a tightrope walker, Byron made his way across the room, visibly planning each footfall before he made it.
"What do you think this one is?" Drift quietly asked Misha, but it was Byron that answered.
"My masterpiece. Shut up and stop distracting-"
Click.
Five sets of eyes widened, and Byron dove for the ground. A storm of metal darts lacerated the air where he'd just been standing, scything at waist height across the entire alcove. Rolling to the side and pulling his legs up into a tight ball, he dodged a second hail of metal that descended from the ceiling to rip up nearly the entire floor. Only the spot where he lay remained untouched. The thigh bone he'd carried for an after-dinner snack lay shattered on the ground nearby, speared by two darts, and a third hummed like an angry wasp in the hard wooden calf of his artificial leg.
The bear-otter carefully uncoiled and shot a furious glare at the shocked faces looking in. "Dammit. It'll take -hours- to reset this damned thing," he complained as he jerked the dart from his leg, and then threw his cane at Wolfram when the ram tried to come in to help him up. "Don't step there. It's a trap that will kill you." Levering himself with difficulty to his feet, he waved them away from the door with the back of his hand. "You do whatever you need to do out there," he said to the samoyed. "Your pa was found right next to this tree before it got knocked over. I'll let you know when it's safe to come in, if you need to." Misha was just starting to draw the three of them away when Byron's voice called out again. "And if you see a cairn of rocks out there, for Sammekh's sake, DON'T TOUCH IT!"
Four sets of eyes exchanged glances, and Xavier circled one extended finger next to his ear in the universal gesture for ‘crazy’. Misha nodded. "Smart, but... yeah."
"I HEARD THAT!"
While Misha and Drift circled around to the far side of the hollowed hillock to search, Wolfram and Xavier swung wide, out into the forest where they could secure a perimeter. Every so often, Xavier pulled a metal rod from a pack Wolfram carried and stuck it into the ground, each giving a soft hum before going silent as they attuned to their surroundings. "Is he sleeping any better?" the leopard asked.
Wolfram shook his head. "He thinks he's being quiet enough to fool me, but he's still having nightmares. If his thrashings are any judge, pretty bad ones."
"I'll pick up some sleeping powders from the town healer tonight when we get back. Can you get them into one of his drinks?"
"He won't thank you for it."
"Probably not," Xavier replied with a shrug, "but it's for his own good. He needs to rest. You've seen how tired he looks. Can you do it?"
Wolfram shrugged the rapidly emptying bag further up onto his shoulder. "Yeah, I can do it," he replied, and kept the rest of his thought to himself. I can, I'm just not certain if I will. "If I see the chance to. I can't make promises."
"Fair enough."
February 26, 708
Hidden away in a secret room lit by a single candle, Alexastra winced at her reflection in the mirror. "A closer escape than I would have liked," she said to herself as she dipped a cloth in a small basin of water and dabbed at a long cut over her eye, carefully mopping the blood while it healed. Her healing wasn't as fast as an imp's regeneration, but at least it didn't sting so badly. It also didn't take enough daedric energy to disrupt her stealth and reveal her to Kyia and the Lothanasi. That alone would have made it worth the wait even if it had hurt like a week-long stay in Lord Revonos' personal torture chambers.
Still, all things considered, I would consider that a successful bit of mischief. It should keep Linafex occupied for quite some time. Implicating Linafex in a northward-bound smuggling ring had probably been enough of a distraction, but she'd decided to sweeten the pot with a little something extra. How she wished she could watch the hound Keeper try to explain, either to the Watch or to his wife, the hand-sculpted statuette of Duke Thomas she'd hidden in his workshop. A naked and quite explicit statuette of Duke Thomas.
Ah, to be a fly on the wall for that conversation. A malicious chuckle echoed into the darkness as the wound over her brow closed.
Next up... Thestilus. She dabbed once more at her fur, clearing away the last hint of crimson, then set the cloth down and examined her unmarked reflection in the mirror, smiling with satisfaction. Brushing her fur back into place with the side of a claw, she allowed herself the indulgence of anticipation, and the far wider smile that thought brought to her lips boded very ill for her former partner.
Her merriment died a sudden death as an unfamiliar noise reached her ears. From the moment she'd created her secret room in the sewers under the Jolly Collie Tavern, she'd made a point to familiarize herself with all of the usual sounds of the area. The echoing click of claws on stone was not one of those. Careful to make as little noise as possible, she emptied the washbasin into a small drain and put it away, then reached for her hand crossbow and nocked a bolt with the stealthy smoothness of a trained assassin. At the same time, she shifted shape from a fruit bat Keeper to a dark-haired human woman- it would not do to have Alexis linked to this should worse come to worst- and sank back into the shadows.
Claws on stone in a quadrupedal gait suggested an animal of some sort, but they were too spread out and too heavy a footfall for it to be a normal beast. The next most logical source would therefore be a taurform Keeper, but how would one of those fit down here? She shook her head, dismissing the useless question as the footfalls continued past her hideaway. As long as they didn't spot the secret door, she had no cause for concern-
The footfalls stopped short. Then they reversed themselves, and Alexastra silently cursed as she heard an investigative sniff at the base of the door. She reached for the door of one of her several escape tunnels, just to make sure it was unlocked and ready for a hasty exit. She also reached for a tin of powder that would numb the nose of any beast trying to track her by scent. Still, as long as they didn't start hunting for the latch-
Scratch, scrabble, scratch- click!
Damnation!
She heard the latch click as the same moment that she realized, to her professional horror, that she'd left the bloodied cloth on the nightstand! That was a trace spell just begging to happen, and she wasted a second that she couldn't afford to spare incinerating it with a mortal-style fire spell while the secret door to her hideaway swung open. The small fire distracted the intruder long enough to get a good look at him, and her brow furrowed in confusion. In the doorway stood one of the largest dire wolves she had ever seen outside of Lilith's own kennels. Where had it come from? Hadn't Drift taken all of Metamor's dire wolves off to-
The wolf's head turned and the two locked eyes. Both froze, shocked into momentary paralysis by mutual recognition. "Of all the- You?! Damn it, I do not need more distractions!" Alexastra snarled, then fired her crossbow and leaped for the shelter of a sturdy writing desk. The wolf dodged the bolt and then lunged for her, but his delay had bought her a second's head start. She made the most of it, sweeping up the chair and smashing it across his face before diving under the desk, slapping open the hidden panel, and crawling as fast as she could into the escape tunnel.
She wasn't quite fast enough, and a massive paw slapped down on her ankle. Black claws snagged on her boot, and the jolt of it jarred the crossbow out of her hand. To her frustration, it bounced just out of reach. He dragged her back, preparing to bite her in half, but she grabbed one of the tunnel braces to counter. Seizing the moment, she rolled onto her back, shapeshifted her free foot into a hawk's talons, and raked it down the wolf's paw. The talons didn't draw blood through the beast's thick fur, but they hurt and he let go with a yelp.
Alexastra scrambled deeper into the tunnel, back out of reach, and retrieved her crossbow, checking it hastily before blowing out a sigh of relief. No damage. A cavernous growl chased after her, and she whirled around to bring her weapon into line for another shot. Framed by the desk and nearly sparking with fury, a yellow eye glared at her for a moment before jerking back out of sight, taking the paw along with it before she could shoot either one.
She almost kicked out the support that would collapse the end of the tunnel, ensuring her escape, but then paused in frustration. First Malabrinium and now -him-? she raged inside. Is everyone who has ever seen through my disguises here? If she let him go, he'd expose her. There was no question, not after what she'd done to him the last time they'd met. Worse, she'd forgotten to scatter the scent-masking powder before running. All of her Metamor disguises, especially Alexis, were compromised by that damnably effective wolven nose, and again she cursed herself for her mistake with the bloodied cloth. If she killed him, she'd just have to come back at the new moon and kill him again. And then again the next month. And the next... Not exactly unappealing, given their history, but tedious in the long run. That left one other option, and her lips curled in pained distaste as she thought it. This was going to be expensive.
Shifting her hawk-taloned foot back into a boot, she settled prone on the tunnel floor and lined up her shot. It was for just such a contingency that she had made sure the 'door close' trigger to her secret room had been in line-of-sight of every single escape tunnel. She fired, hitting it square, and the stone door ground shut behind him before the wolf could stop it. Next, she opened a small compartment in the stock of the crossbow and pulled out a single, heavily enchanted bolt. It was a special one, obscenely expensive to make. This she also nocked and fired. It hit the wall with the sound of an angry hornet and, unbroken, ricocheted onward seeking someone to sting. It found something on the third bounce. Ping-ping-ping-whack! The wolf yelped, and Alexastra bared her teeth. She hoped it had hit that interfering bastard somewhere delicate. Nocking a regular bolt for the sound of it, she called out, "I have plenty more just like that one, Saelor." She lied with the forceful conviction of someone growing used to having to play outrageous bluffs, and used the old name she'd known him by back in the days of the Suielman Empire just to twist the knife. "Now shut up and listen or I'll fill you so full of them you'll think you'd been born a pincushion." Taking a deep breath, she pushed ahead before her ego could try to advocate the monthly killing again. Well, maybe as a backup plan...
"I'll make you a deal..."
Some time later, Alexastra curled up in Drift's bed. She had nowhere else to go. It felt cold and empty with him gone, but at least it smelled like him and she could imagine his arms holding her. As she drifted off, she groused a short complaint to her mistress, Nocturna: A little warning that he was coming would have been appreciated.
In her dreams, she heard Drift's voice in her ear, but with Nocturna's words. None was needed. You handled him perfectly.
The first few times Nocturna had taken over a voice in her dreams, the mental dissonance had jarred Alexastra awake. Now, she was too tired to care. Tell that to my nice, comfortable hideaway. Now the place will smell like dog... and not in a good way. If he marks territory on my furniture again, I swear I'll neuter him. Rolling over in her sleep, she pulled the covers tighter and sank into dreamless slumber.
Drift jolted awake with a gasp and clutched at his chest in the darkness, then sagged back on the bed and focused on getting his heart to stop racing.
It was a good plan, but it died stillborn when he heard the floorboard creak next to his bed. Whirlwind was swinging even before he realized he'd snatched it from under the pillow, and the intruder yelped in pain as the collapsed battle staff caught him across the arm. Something flew against the wall and shattered, and a voice grumbled, "That is the last time I try to wake you up without a ten-foot pole. Ow."
"Wolfram?" Drift asked, still trying to sort dream from reality. The room's utter darkness didn't help, deep in the caves of the Glen Avery inn. "What- are you all right?"
"I'll probably have a bruise the size of a dinner platter under my wool tomorrow, but I'll live. I think the sleeping medicine I was going to offer you is a complete loss, though. The tankard, too."
"Sorry."
The ram snorted softly, crouching down and trying by feel to find the pottery shards in the dark before he stepped on them. "So this is why you insisted on the bed against the wall: it leaves your smithing arm open to swing."
"Pretty much." Drift groped for the bedside table nearby. "Wait, let me get my-"
The door to the room swung open with a brilliant white flash, and Drift and Wolfram both flinched and shielded their eyes from the painful brightness.
"-light. Ow. Hi, Xavier."
The black leopard, clad in a nightshirt, a glowing white orb flickering and arcing in his upraised palm like a living thing, lowered his rapier when he saw Drift and Wolfram were the only two in the room. Behind him, Misha also relaxed his guard. "Are you all right? I heard a crash."
"Yeah," Wolfram answered before Drift could reply. "I just dropped a pitcher, that's all. Hold the light up so I can find the pieces without stepping on them, will you?"
Xavier flicked the white orb into the room, brightening it with an actinic flash, and Misha edged around the leopard to help with the cleanup. "Are you sure that's all that happened?" he asked, peering carefully at Drift's expression.
The samoyed didn't disappoint him, replying with an embarrassed smile. "He startled me in the dark and I took a swing at him." He held up Whirlwind for a moment, and then tucked it back under the pillow. "Sorry."
"I'll be fine," Wolfram replied before Misha could ask, flexing his wrist with only a minor wince. "At worst, I'll have a bruise for a few days. It was a glancing blow."
"If you say so," the fox replied, still not completely convinced that there wasn't more to the story, but at least mollified that no permanent damage was caused. "Let me know in the morning if you have any problems."
"Will do, boss."
A few minutes of cleanup later, Xavier and Misha headed back to bed, and Wolfram eyed Drift over the flickering glow of a lit candle. "Want to talk about it?" he asked finally, carefully plucking a sliver of ceramic from the split of his right foot-hoof and flicking it aside.
Drift's eyes slid away from Wolfram's, and his voice turned deliberately neutral. "Not particularly."
"All right. Whoever you're chasing in your nightmares better hope you don't catch them." Drift looked up, startled, and Wolfram snorted in amusement. "We’ve been sharing a room for a week, and you talk in your sleep. But that’s enough about that." Changing the subject, he grabbed the samoyed's wrist and lifted him to his feet. "C'mon. I've got a surefire get-back-to-sleep-fast method."
Drift grimaced, remembering the usual common ingredient in any of Wolfram's 'surefire cures'. "Am I going to have a hangover in the morning?"
"Only if I make it wrong."
"Why does that not fill me with confidence?"
"Oh, ye of little faith..."
February 29, 708
Drift had found a second love at Glen Avery. Thus it was that, on the morning of their departure from the village, he could be found at a table in the inn's common room, his tail threatening to batter Xavier off of the chair next to him as Kinslee Sapere, the innkeeper's very pregnant wife approached. The doe, in spite of the semi-waddle that her gravid belly forced upon her, smiled at her guest's enthusiasm.
"More biscuits, Mr. Snow?"
"Yes, please!"
Wolfram chuckled from across the table as the doe set a plate of sweet, buttery biscuits on the table, replacing the one Drift had emptied so quickly before. Xavier, intercepting the samoyed's swinging tail and seizing it to stop its assault on his backside, remarked, "You are to biscuits as Misha is to muffins."
"What?" Drift asked around a mouth full of food, then swallowed and pulled his tail out of Xavier's grip. "I'm hungry and they're good. Leggo my tail." Turning his attention to the doe, he belatedly wiped some crumbs from his muzzle and asked, "Would it be possible to get the recip-"
"Kinslee!" The innkeeper hurried over, the protectiveness of a stag for his doe mixing with the anxiety of a first-time father as he put his hands on her arms and tried to herd her back to the private areas of the inn. "What're you doing up? You're supposed to be resting- the babies could come at any time!"
Kinslee would have none of it. She shook him off and swatted him on the rump with the emptied platter. "I'm tired of resting, Jurmas- they'll get here when they get here and not a moment sooner. Now quit fussing."
Jurmas' nostrils flared for a moment as he tried to rein in his temper, and the trio at the table gave him a sympathetic smile. "We already tried," Wolfram said, holding up his hands in surrender, and the other two nodded. Kinslee gave a triumphant smile, flicked her tail once, and waddled off to see if one of the other tables wanted something. Jurmas watched her go, huffed once, and fixed Drift and Xavier with an 'I'm watching you' glare before departing.
Xavier leaned back in his chair, brow whiskers raised in a mixture of amusement and astonishment. "I almost feel as if I've been assaulted by a look alone," he said, and Drift nodded agreement.
Wolfram chuckled. "It's an instinct thing. Don't worry. I don't think he means anything by it."
Misha chose that moment to enter, breaking the train of thought. "All right, people," he said, snagging a biscuit from the tray. "We're delayed. The wagon we're to escort back to Metamor broke down on the way, and they don't expect it to be here until sometime this afternoon. So, until it arrives, we've got some free time. Don't go too far in case they get it fixed more quickly than expected."
Wolfram's face lit up like a child getting a present on Yule morning. Xavier, on the other hand, steepled his fingers in concern. "Can you send a message back to them, to ask if they can expedite the repairs?"
"Why do you ask? In a hurry to get home?"
The weather mage lowered his hands to the table and shook his head. "There's a large storm building to the north and heading this way. I expect it will be here by nightfall, and I'd rather not be caught out in it."
"Why didn't you mention this earlier?"
"I didn't think it would be necessary. If we had left on schedule, we would have been back in Metamor well before the storm arrived."
Misha frowned. "For the record, Xavier, I consider that a mistake," he said slowly, not pleased with this new development. "Never assume that things will go as planned. Still, better late than never. I will try to get a message to them. Can you get me a better approximation of when it will arrive? If necessary, Drift and I can head out in taur form to assist."
"Even with magic, predicting the weather is not exact, but I will try. I have heard that the Glen has a tall scout tower that can see above the trees- if I can get up there to study the clouds, I should be able to get a closer approximation."
"All right," Misha replied, nodding in agreement, and then broke into a smile. "If Wolfram's near-vibrating is any clue, he wants to go try a spar with Sergeant Angus." The ram chuckled, but didn't deny it. "I guess that means you're with me, Drift, unless you'd like to commune with the clouds with Xavier." Like Wolfram and Xavier, Misha had decided not to leave Drift alone in Glen Avery.
"What did you have in mind?" Drift asked.
Misha's smile deepened into an outright grin.
"Uncle Misha!"
"Taur rides!"
"I want piggybacks!"
"Yay!"
Drift had encountered hordes of children before, having delivered food to the Metamor orphanage. He had been charged and climbed on by the Maus children during the Harvest Festival. But he had never before encountered a true swarm... until now. Wryly eyeing Misha from underneath the small hands of the shoulder-riding rat that was unknowingly attempting to squish his brow down below the level of his muzzle, he asked, "You had to introduce me to your godchild and his siblings, didn't you?"
Misha looked back with two children riding on his taur body and grinned. "As a matter of fact? Yes, I did."
The Matthias children. Four kids, all the same age, all at a high-energy stage in their life, and all very excited to see their Uncle Misha and his friend. Even with their mother and their nurse to help, it was, for a time, utter chaos. And then, just when the children had started to settle down, Misha had wound them right back up again with an offer of taur rides. The foxtaur's grin widened. "Where else was I going to find another willing taur-shifter on such short notice?"
"Charge!" shouted Erick, the tan-furred boy-rat on Drift's own back. One hand extended skyward to wave an imaginary sword, he bounced his feet against the samoyedtaur's ribs like a knight spurring his charger.
Drift yelped and half-turned at the taur-waist, frowning down at the excited rat-child. "I am not a horse," he protested... or he tried to. It came out more like "I am nod a horff," when Baerle, the dark-furred daughter on his shoulders switched from patting his brow to clapping his cheeks and giggling, a sound mirrored by her siblings on Misha's back. "Hay! Qui fat!"
Even Misha couldn't suppress a chuckle (not that he tried hard), but when Drift turned a much-put-upon look on him, he shooed his smile away. "That's enough, you two. Drift is being very nice to let you ride on him. Settle down and no more playing with his face." To the dark-furred boy and light-furred girl on his own back, he said, "Charles? Bernadette? Are you ready? Then hold tight, because off we go!"
"Whee!"
The morning passed with surprising speed, and the children weren't the only ones disappointed when the wagon back to Metamor arrived just before noon, pulled by a team of Keeper horses. Kimberly and Baerle came to collect their brood and invite Misha and his companions for lunch while the wagon team rested and ate, but it had to be a short meal. Xavier brought word that they would need to leave the Glen within the hour if they wanted to outpace the coming storm. Still, Drift was in a happy mood while he, Wolfram, Misha, and Xavier helped the Polygamites load the wagon, humming tunelessly to himself as he tossed another bundle of fur up to Misha. "Catch!"
The fox caught it without trouble, snagging it by the twine with which Wolfram had tied it to keep the freshening wind from catching it and carrying it away. "Got it," he said as he stowed it and readied himself for another. "So what do you think of the Matthias family, Drift?" he asked.
"They're good folk. I'll miss those kids," Drift replied, taking another bundle from Wolfram.
"Even 'Squishyface'?" the ram teased, his eyes glittering with mirth. Drift hadn't been able to keep the story concealed, not that he'd tried hard.
Drift lofted the bundle up to Misha. "Yes, even Squishyface."
The fox barked a laugh. "Thinking, maybe, about a few of your own?"
Drift paused for a moment, his brow furrowing, while he waited for Wolfram to finish tying the next bundle. "Yeah," he said at last, his tail started to wag. "A few at least."
Work around the wagon ground to a halt as Wolfram, Misha, and Xavier's heads turned to look at Drift, and the horses then looked as well trying to figure out the reason for the pause. For a moment, the wind blowing through the trees had no competition, the gentle creak of wood against wood the only sound to be heard.
Xavier was the one to break the spell. "So you found your sign, then?"
"Yes," Drift replied. "But not where I expected it."
"Good."
Wolfram hefted another bundle of fur, freshly tied. "Definitely good." He heaved it up to Misha, bypassing Drift entirely. "Catch!"
"Oof!"
"That's the last of the loading." Xavier made one last count of the goods on the wagon, just for completeness' sake. "Is there anything else before we go?"
A glance shared itself out among the horses. "We still have one passenger unaccounted for," one of them said. By the sound of his voice, this wasn't exactly welcome news.
Misha looked up from tying down the last few bundles, his good ear flicking forward and his eyes widening in surprise. "I thought we were the only ones coming," he said.
"He was a last minute addition- he said he'd come into an unexpected windfall and wanted to take care of some business in Metamor."
"Who?"
The newcomer was heard before he was seen. Tump. Thump. Tump. Thump. Tump. Pause. "Aw, hell."
Almost unrecognizably clean compared to his prior appearance, the bear-otter Byron nevertheless gave himself away as soon as he opened his mouth. "You're coming, too?" he griped. "There goes the neighborhood." He pushed past, his cane and wooden leg the source of the distinctive sounds that had preceded him, and he growled irritably as he climbed aboard the wagon. "I'm here. You're loaded. Let's get the hell out of here before the whole town decides to come along."
Misha cursed under his breath, and Byron smirked in reply.
As he had done with everything else Byron had said, Drift mentally sanitized the trapper's comments even as he committed them to memory. He planned to mimic them to Alexis later for her entertainment. Xavier, however, was not so amused, and he promptly asked Drift and Misha if either was planning to run in taurform rather than ride. When both said yes, he then asked for a taurback ride rather than share the buckboard with 'that odious devil'.
Byron, hearing this, raised one arm to sniff his armpit. He snorted. "Shows what you know, you stupid dandy. I bathed no more than three hours ago. The girls don't like it when I show up smelly." His scowl segued into one of the most nausea-inducing leers Drift had ever seen, coupled with a swaggering little hitch of his trousers. "At least most of 'em don't. Stella thinks it's manly."
Silence descended on the group again, and again Xavier was the one to breach it. "I'm trying to think of a way for you to be cruder, I just-" The leopard shook his head. "It's not coming."
Byron started a snarling reply, but Wolfram 'accidentally' bumped the trapper as he sat down next to him. "Get your own chatting companion, city boy," the ram called down to the leopard with a sly wink, and he clapped Byron on the shoulder hard enough to nearly unseat him. Seizing the bear-otter's shoulder, he squeezed the abrasive trapper side-on against him and grinned. "Us country folk have to stick together." Farm-grown and soldier-trained, Wolfram could nearly match Byron in crudity when he put his mind to it, and he did. The bawdy banter kept the trapper busy, too distracted to start antagonizing anyone else. It was a mixed blessing, as the rest of the party soon discovered. Between the two of them, they hastened the trip back to Metamor by at least half an hour by driving the horses and taurs to run faster and so drown the two reprobates under their footfalls.
Byron was laughing, a raucous and grating guffaw, when the group crested the last rise before Metamor. Overhead, dark clouds swept in fast, flickering with internal lightning as they strangled the setting sun. The wind, rising all day, now buffeted them in earnest, carrying the cold, sharp scent of snow. In the dimming twilight, Xavier's sharp feline eyes were the first to spot something amiss- a reddish glow over the nearby town of Euper. He pointed. "What is that?"
Misha recognized it, and his fur bushed out in alarm. "Euper's on fire!" The foxtaur lunged into a gallop, and yelled for the rest of them to follow. "Come on! They'll need help!"
The party raced down the road, the lowering storm clouds in hot pursuit, as the first snowflakes started to fall.
TO BE CONTINUED...