Chapter 10: Chapter 9: Strong Words

When people think of the Faulk, they think of hairy brutes with more hair than clothing. They think of numerous villages assaulted by raids, of sacked riches, and of fast, two-hulled ships fading to and from impenetrable fog. Everybody has a story about how someone they know got robbed, maimed, or killed during a Faulk raid. The Faulk have been stealing from their neighbors for over seven hundred years, and no sane man would ever try to ask them about themselves.

My teacher, Deraj Carbonne, always did say the line between madness and genius is defined by the success of one’s endeavors. I have opted to not stop in Sima with the other students. Rather than write a study on a well-known culture, their magic, or their technologies, I managed to successfully navigate Faulk customs to understand more about them, all to make this report.

I will not deny that they are raiders. However, they are more than that. They are a hardy people who have survived in the harsh western swamps before even the dragons found us. They are traders, farmers, hunters, craftsmen, mages, artists, and some of my colleagues may even claim them philosophical peers. They are not lawless savages. In fact, they follow a strict set of rules referred to as the ‘laws of hospitality’. These laws of hospitality can be summed up with a few key rules.

First: Your word is tied to you. Liars, schemers, and cheats are only tolerated in war. Should you cheat a Faulk, they will remember who you are and spread your name though their ‘grapevine’. (Author’s note: I’m not completely sure what it is, but I can account for its efficiency.) The grapevine allows the Faulk to communicate with each other over vast distances instantly, maintained by a spiritual magecraft-focused elite: the shamans.

Second: Debts are honored above silver and blood. The Faulk prize silver above gold due to its lighter weight and rarity, but debts are honored more so than any silver. These debts are not strictly measured, more maintained through a complicated network of relationships that can best be described as merit. If one provides for the community, they engender a debt from the community to them and are treated as such. An individual with high merit can expect to be provided for by the community so long as they continue to provide in turn. As a result, communities are small and close knit, rarely numbering more than a hundred people. Furthermore, killing an innocent (even a foreigner) is seen as dishonorable and invites a debt from those close to the victim. This explains why Faulk typically do not kill or maim children and the infirm.

Finally: One’s home is sacred. A Faulk will never poison you in your own home, or in theirs. If they invite you in, act as they do. For them, a shared hearth is a shared heart.

Of course, these rules have a plethora of smaller rules and quirks, which can make things confusing. Which is why they have shamans and jarls to mediate disputes. And if they cannot reach a conclusion, the matter is taken up with the High Jarl, who may be in a hightown (wherever they are hosted by a subordinate jarl) or within the Stone Circle, where shamans train.

The longer I’ve stayed, the more fascinating facets of their culture I discover. How they make their drakkars, special two-prow boats to navigate the swamps. How they farm in the dark and musky swamp using chinampas. How they spread knowledge through skalds and word of mouth rather than written language due to the difficulty of using slate or paper. Their food, sumptuous and filling.

I will send more information to the College when I am able. Praise Emperor Lyon, and may he add our insight to his tremendous wisdom.

         Exactly Yours,

Scholar Apprentice Remi Chauffier

A letter recovered by scholars fleeing the purge of Bergin.

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Rael had never liked bards. Maybe it was because Tulip’s hold was a small town where no talented bard would bother traveling to. Far away from the major trade city of Nize meant that there were no major trade routes. The village was nearly a hundred kilometers from a branching trade route from the countries of Paralu and Hu leading to Ganor, the capital. The first bard they’d met was a lecherous old man who tried to cop a feel from every woman that passed him by. The next was the idiot with the bagpipes. And the last was a beautiful young woman who sang and danced tales of sorrow and betrayal, bemoaning lost love and fortune. She stayed long enough to marry a young man ten years her junior, disappearing the morning after with all his valuables. Rael and the rest of Tulip’s Hold were somewhat…cold to whatever other minstrel came into town after that.

 

“On the eve of the skies torn,

Drifted a wreck born of scorn.

Within lay a child and his ward,

Hung by naught but a cord.”

 

In sum, Rael had only met charlatans and philanderers claiming to be bards. Maybe that’s why Rael felt so uncomfortable as they sat at the front row of Feldon’s personal drakkar, listening to the trio of skalds play a song that Feldon had commissioned about Rael and Azmond.

 

“‘Drink my lifeblood if you must survive,

I promise I will keep you alive!’

From flesh the Ward called to drink,

Even as their wounds began to stink.”

 

         Was Rael supposed to applaud after this? Correct them? Feldon’s warriors sat behind them, slamming their feet to the beat. Rael could feel the prickle on the back of their neck. They were watching Rael. The singer was putting his heart out into the song as the drummer accentuated the beats softly, the twang of the tanbur growing in intensity and speed.

 

“Weaning off water and rott’d shellfish,

A lone captain granted their wish!

Brought ashore, given aid, ale and hearty stew,

Who knew what the pair would do!”

 

         They began playing faster and louder, the music hitting a crescendo.

 

“Oh, they travelled side by side,

With some mighty Faulk indeed!

They were in for a mighty ride

From the fae hidden within the reed!”

 

         The three skalds sang in tandem for the chorus.

 

“Child of Dragons pulled within

Pray to escape with your skin!

Dragonward claim your name,

Victory in fae’s game!”

 

         And they played, whooping and hollering as the Faulk on the drakkar joined in for the chorus again. Rael held their head in their hands as they struggled to keep their composure. With a final note, the band of skalds stopped playing and bowed as the crewmen cheered. Drinks were poured, several crew members patting Real heartily on the back. The skalds were herded around until they made their way to Ulric, Derrol, Kip, and Feldon. Rael watched the skalds bow and share a mug with the high-ranking Faulk. They talked, Rael clasping their hands together and squinting, trying to read their lips through the thick beards and the hubbub on the boat. Kip laughed hard enough to spit out his drink and pointed towards Rael.

         “Oh hells.” Rael groaned, standing up straight and trying to walk through the crowd.

         They had sidestepped three spilled drinks, two pairs either wrestling or on the prelude to some very public lovemaking, and someone singing off key when they felt a hand grab their shoulder.

         “Rael!” Kip’s face was flushed, and his breath reeked of ale. “Dontcha wanna meet the skalds who gave us such a fan-fan-GREAT song?”

         Rael did not spare a glance to the three behind Kip, casually brushing Kip’s hand from their shoulder.

         “No.”

         “Ach, what?!” Kip stumbled back in exaggerated shock. “They made a song about you! I’ve been tryin’ to get some’n to sing my praises for years!”

         “I’m not you.” Rael huffed, trying to walk away. Kip teetered forwards and swung an arm over Rael’s shoulders.

         “Maybe, maybe. But…at some point, yer gonna hafta accept that you are no longer alone.” The drunk captain wiped some drool from the side of his mouth, throat rumbling in a restrained belch. “Strength in unity ‘n all that.” He leaned in close enough to talk into Rael’s ear, almost yelling over the raucous partying on the boat. “N’ they went through the effort of writing all that stuff ‘bout you and lil’ Az. Do you know how hard it is to do that?” Kip careened backwards, almost tripping over a pair that were definitely not wrestling. “I can’t even get my bagpipe working without sounding like the caterwauling of a mangy swamp cat trying to make love to a capricorn!”

         Rael threw their arms in the air and waved the three skalds over, hoping that the thoroughly inebriated youth would leave them alone. Kip smiled, only for someone to punch him in the gut. Wheezing, he turned around and jumped into a steadily growing brawl. The skalds practically danced through the chaos as the fight began to spread. They sat down on a bench, Rael picking up a plate of fruit and red meat from a raider who’d fallen asleep centimeters from her meal. The three skalds bowed and introduced themselves.

         “Honored Dragonward, my name is Skald Meayetti, and behind me are Skald Yvon and Skald Pequit, brother and sister.” Meayetti still held onto her drum as her neatly combed red hair cascaded down her shoulders. Yvon and Pequit shared a similarly angular nose and fair hair, but otherwise didn’t look related. “Greetings onto you.”

         Rael gave a curt nod but said nothing.

         “Forgive me for being so forward,” Pequit gave the smile of someone who was used to charming their way into the hearts and pants of anybody he desired. “But I’m sure you noticed how…sparse our song was.” Yvon elbowed him discreetly in the side. Pequit flinched and threw a glare at his sister, fumbling over his words for a moment. “Er, that is…not a slight on how much or how little you’ve done, we just seem to be missing some information.”

         Meayetti held up a hand to stop him before he risked saying more.

         “Pequit did not mean offense, Dragonward.” As she talked, Pequit poked Yvon in the side, who responded with an angry poke of her own. Meayetti turned around to glare at them.

         ‘They’re definitely siblings.’

         “No need to walk on eggshells around me, I’m not Faulk. I don’t care about all that, I know how little I’ve done.” Rael threw a raspberry in their mouth, leaning forwards to avoid two people pushing each other around. They took another berry and threw it higher in the air to catch.

         “So can you tell us about the demon attack?” Pequit asked, ducking under a thrown plate.

         “What?” The berry bounced off Rael’s forehead.

         “There have been rumors…” Yvon sidled by Rael, fingers dancing across her worn tanbur.

         “Normally the stories people from Bergin tell are so boring.” Pequit continued as his sister pushed away a glassy-eyed brawler. “Emperor Lyon this, Emperor Lyon that. Maybe they mention the Sons of the Empire, but it’s so repetitive!” Pequit rolled his eyes and sat in front of Rael. “Until recently. Tales, practically rumors, of a Bergin galleon and a sloop destroyed by demons.”

         “Rumors.” Yvon sat next to him, prodding him in the side again. “We’ve yet to meet anybody from the supposed wreck.”

         “Ah, but!” Pequit leaned closer to Rael. “The rumors all agree on one thing: there was a Child of Dragons aboard the sloop. And the eastern winds blow strong this time of year. Strong enough to bring the remains of a wreck all the way to Faulk.”

         Rael gritted their teeth and turned their head. “I don’t know what you’re implying.”

         “Come on, please?” Pequit whined, clasping his hands together. “If the rumor is true, then that’d make your song sooooo much better!” He gasped when Yvon pinched his ear and twisted. “Owowowowow! Stop!”

         “The last time you tried to get someone to fess up to some grand story, we were mocked for months!” Yvon hissed. “I do not want to be scolded by the shamans again!”

         “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.” Rael said firmly, standing up and making towards the gangplank. They were pulled back by a meaty hand.

         “You can’t leave just yet.” A gruff voice spoke from behind them.

         Feldon had grabbed Rael’s arm. Not hard enough to hurt, but strong enough that Rael knew they wouldn’t be able to slip out of grip. He was short enough to get lost in the bunch of brawling Faulk, but his presence was strong enough that the shifting tides of the crowd broke and moved around him like a boulder in a stream.

         “Jarl Feldon.” Rael inclined their head. “I’m not exactly a party person. I don’t see why I need to stay.”

         “I am not fond of this revelry, either.” Jarl Feldon nodded but made a point to pull Rael closer. “But it is customary for the Jarl’s entourage to remain on the Jarl’s ship.”

         “This isn’t exactly a good place for Az.” Rael nodded in the direction of some Faulk who were not far from undressing each other in public.

         “Laundun berry wine does that to people.” The Jarl shrugged. “I don’t like it either, but I let my crew celebrate however they like, so long as they aren’t hurting each other.” There was a cheer as a woman knocked out somebody with a spectacular uppercut. “Permanently, I mean. But it isn’t Azmond you need to worry about, he left an hour ago. It is the Dragonward that is accompanying me.”

         “You guys and your traditions.” Rael rolled their eyes.

         “They are strange, aren’t they?” Jarl Feldon hummed and let go of Rael’s arm. “Follow me.”

         Rael did not have to weave through the throngs of drunk Faulk as they did earlier. Everybody seemed to make way for Feldon, moving to make room for the Jarl as he approached casually. Rael could see the skalds struggle through the closing crowd as they kept their distance. Feldon climbed a set of steep stairs to the aft section, where there was nothing but a ship wheel, some lines, and a great log of wood coming from near the front of the ship that settled into a sort of two-pronged fork on top of the wheel. Rael leaned against the log, looking down into the square pit formed between the two hulls and the raised aft. There was little room to move around, with rows of parallel benches leading through the pit, divided into two columns separated by the log that was two meters overhead. Yet, the people danced, wrestled, ate, and cheered where they could. A vessel had become host to a raucous party and its captain stood silently by Rael’s side.

         “Have you ever shaken someone’s hand, Rael?”

         “Yeah?” Rael cocked their head curiously.

         “Odd that we associate shaking hands with trust.” Jarl Feldon noted. “Long ago, warriors would clasp each other by the arms and shake before meeting to dislodge hidden weapons. There was something sacred about two warriors meeting one another without weapons.”

         “Understandable.” The youth said slowly, prompting Feldon to keep talking.

         “Traditions are like that. Long ago, they were tasks undertaken to secure trust, prove worth, or ensure survival. The methods that survive and continue to exist are the ones that worked. The echoes of these original actions remain, even if they no longer hold the weight they once did.” Feldon motioned to the party below. “Just as we once shook hands to dislodge weapons, the Faulk once sent a Jarl with their mightiest warriors to the Stone Circle to choose a new High Jarl through ritual combat. Knowing they might be sailing to their deaths, the crews would have a glorious feast, to celebrate the lives they’d lived. It would either be their last feast, or the first among many more should they achieve victory.”

         “I’m hoping you don’t do that anymore.” Rael crossed their arms.

         “No need to worry.” Jarl Feldon chuckled. “These are echoes of darker times. Times before Dragonborn Fenris.”

         “Dragonward, Dragonneedle, and now Dragonborn.” Rael smirked. “You guys really like the dragons.”

         “Maybe if there were people willing to help you understand.” Jarl Feldon shrugged in an overexaggerated, sarcastic manner. “It’s not as if there are three people who are all too eager to talk to you that have studied all our stories.” He ignored the three skalds at the bottom of the ladder as he jumped back down into the pit. Pequit stared pleadingly at Rael until they broke.

         “Fine,” they waved them up. “Let’s talk.”

         Pequit rushed up the stairs, scrambling to get close to Rael. The other two skalds followed in a more refined manner.

         “Oh, thank you thank you thank—”

         “Not about how I got in the shipwreck.” Rael held a hand up in Pequit’s face.

         “But, I, um…gah!” Pequit blubbered, throwing his hands in the air. Meayetti put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

         “That’s fine. We probably know more than you do.” She said softly, leaning against the log by Rael. “What would you like to know?”

         Rael thought of the flashes of emotion and images that sprung into their mind whenever they were distracted. The dreams of things that had happened to someone else. Glimpses of sensations that were not their own. It was partly the reason they hadn’t slept since their encounter with the fae. They could feel foreign memories stirring beneath the surface, lurking like a hungry crocodile. Rael didn’t want to admit it, but they were afraid. Rael hated being afraid. They hated it when they were young, hiding from their father when he was drunk, hiding from other kids when they wanted an easy target. And they hated it now. If Rael could figure out what they had brought back with them from the fae realm when they adopted the title Dragonward, they would be able to overcome whatever these memories were. Just as they overcame their father. Just as they overcame the other children.

         “Can you three tell me about the Dragonward?”

         “Oh, we could do that, easy.” Pequit nodded rapidly. He turned to Yvon. “Why didn’t we do that? We could have worked Rael with the other two songs, hinted at their life becoming the next in a trilogy.”

         “Jarl Feldon said ‘short and sweet’.” Yvon noted. “And it’s hardly a trilogy with all the songs about them. Even singing about Dragonward Bjorn would last us until past midnight.”

         “I’ve got time.” Rael pulled themselves up to sit on the log. The skalds looked at them with raised eyebrows. Until Pequit took a deep breath and began to sing.

         “There was once a man as hairy as he was big,

         Who could snap your spine like it was a tiny twig.

         He met a fair maiden ‘neath a great big rock.

         That’s when he showed her his spectacular—”

         “I meant time to talk!” Rael interrupted, slapping a hand on the log. “I don’t want to dance around metaphors and rhymes when it comes to knowing this kind of stuff.”

         “I didn’t even get to the chorus.” Pequit whined.

You are reading story Dragon’s Legacy at novel35.com

         “Rael isn’t as artistically minded as you, Pequit.” Meayetti comforted him. “They want history, not entertainment, because they’ve got big boots to fill. Why don’t you and Yvon be dears and bring us some drinks.”

         “That makes sense.” The singer admitted. He quickly turned about, pointing dramatically to the barrels piled high at the bow. “Onward! To adventure!”

         “Yeah, yeah.” Yvon said, following her excitable brother.

         “He’s not all that bright.” Meayetti smiled sheepishly. “But he’s a true artist that finds joy in whatever he does. Maybe that’s why I love him.”

         “Really?” Rael rose an eyebrow. “Him?”

         “The heart wants what the heart wants.” The skald climbed the log to sit besides Rael. “Haven’t you ever fallen in love?”

         “Once.” Rael said before they could stop themselves. They frowned as Meayetti smiled slyly. “The way kids do. In the stupid, blind way without really knowing their crush.”

         “That sounds like it ended badly.” Meayetti remarked.

         “In Gulass, we have a joke.” Rael lay down on the log, staring into the foggy nothingness above. “It’s called a crush because it’s the feeling in your heart when it’s over.”

         “That doesn’t sound funny.”

         “Yeah, we have a terrible sense of humor.” Rael chortled. “I find it funny because it’s what I did to his nose when he turned out to be a jerk.”

         Meayetti’s giggles grew into peals of laughter.

         “I thought you had a terrible sense of humor?”

         “We have an expression to go with our awful jokes. ‘He who laughs hardest at your jokes either loves you or wants something from you.’” Rael’s smile was hollow. “And considering you opened up to a stranger with a confession of love for a friend, I might just think that Pequit is not the one who finds information about your muses.”

         The two were silent, listening to the hubbub below.

         “Anyone ever tell you you’re incredibly paranoid?” Meayetti’s voice was without mirth.

         “Get your crush to sing about it. At least then, you’ll have something.” Rael said coldly.

         “Is it wise to be antagonizing those who write songs of you?”

         “Only if they write about childhood crushes and events I don’t want to talk about.”

         Meayetti shrugged.

         “Who would you like to hear about first, then? Bjorn or Ruen?”

         “I think I’ve heard enough about Bjorn for now. What could you tell me about Ruen?”

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         The man slinked onto shore from the murky water, the darkness of the moonless night shrouding his form. His long strides left barely a mark in the hot sand, the acrid sulfur smell reaching deep down his throat. Carefully, the nude man approached a stone wall, avoiding the light of the torches above. Hugging the wall, the man sidled along it until he found what he was looking for: a small section of the wall jutting out near the top, with a hole on the bottom. The latrines.

         The man smirked despite the stink of the volcanic island mixing with some guard’s well-digested dinner. A small Tome-warrior appeared behind him, mouthing a spell silently.

         ‘[Spider Walk]’

         The Faulk man smirked, placing a hand on the smooth stone, and sticking to it. His child-sized Tome-warrior held onto his back, the added weight negligible to the man’s wiry physique. Slowly, he pulled himself up the wall, inching closer and closer to the latrine. The light of a torch atop the wall got closer and closer as the man climbed. Sweat flowed down his back to mix with grimy seawater. A helmed head poked over the side of the rampart; the flickering torch’s light reflected in the soldier’s eyes. The Faulk man hunkered down underneath the latrine, trusting in the shadows to keep him hidden. He could hear the guard clear his throat. Heart beating hard against his ribcage, the intruder stood still. For a few seconds, the guard made sounds that one would compare to an elephant seal with pneumonia. And with a strangled choke, the guard spat a ball of phlegm into the darkness below. With a satisfied sniff, he turned around and walked away. The Faulk’s shoulder’s relaxed, but not even a peep escaped him. He moved up, staring into the dark hole above. Normally, it’d be too small for anyone to get through.

Putting both hands through the hole to hang from the latrine, he released his spell and began another one.

‘[Enlarge Gap]’

Flexing his arms, the stone shifted under his fingertips like clay, widening the hole enough for him to fit through. Once he’d pulled himself through, he let the magic fade, shrinking the hole back into its normal size. He finally allowed himself a sigh of relief. He’d penetrated the fortress. He ran his fingers across his puckered scalp, frowning as he went over the next steps. He needed a uniform, but it would be risky to go out without knowing where exactly he was in the castle. The doorknob jiggled. He tensed. A panicked guard backed into the latrine, cursing and fidgeting as he struggled to unbuckle his armor. He stumbled around in circles until he finally managed to remove the tassets around his waist. With a manic giggle, the guard relaxed enough to see the man in the latrine.

His eyes shrunk into pinpricks and his jaw dropped. Ruen could see his own reflection in the guard’s reflective iron breastplate. A pale man with more scar tissue than skin. His lips and nose were puckered and torn to shreds, only a few pieces of skin acting as shadows of once was there. What was left of his lips could not fully cover his mouth, revealing cracked and missing teeth. The rest of his body was no better, layers upon layers of torturous memories were displayed; burn scars, lacerations, and twisted scars adorned his body, his genitals were torn out, and he was missing three fingers and all but one of his fingernails. A scream threatened to tear from his throat, but Ruen lunged forwards. With a deft strike to the man’s face, Ruen had caved his nose into his brain with practiced ease.

The guard did not even gasp. Ruen caught the man and let him down gently onto the floor. The armor was soiled, but it was better than nothing. Unstrapping everything, Ruen put on the dead man’s armor, wiping down the dirtier parts with the latrine towel. Thanking his luck, Ruen picked up the corpse and left on the latrine, avoiding looking into its eyes. Grimacing, he closed them and whispered a prayer to the Dragons to help him find his way to the afterlife. He summoned his Tome-warrior, a child he had long outgrown, and commanded it to lock the door behind him. Leaving the latrine, he picked up the helm and spear the unfortunate guard had left outside and picked a direction.

Ruen walked through the dark hallways within the rampart walls, a dead man’s sword at his side. To his left, arrow slits opened into the yawning darkness from whence he came. His Captain was waiting for him on the drakkar out there, a few hundred meters from shore. All he needed to do was sabotage one door and open another. A bit difficult with his face, but it wasn’t his first time. He paused to look out from a window on his left, a large, slumbering city sprawled out beneath a hill. Unlike the sea, the city was alive even at night. The barking of dogs, the flickering of lights, and the drunken singing of a few late-night drinkers were just a few of the muted sounds reaching his torn ears. At sea, all one could hear outside the ship was rain and waves. It made approaching the island in silence tense. Any sound they made would carry far across the water and towards the fortress-city.

Ruen’s eyes trailed through the city, focusing on the lavish castle on the hill, nestled beneath a looming active volcano. The larger entrance of Magdale was closer to the volcano slope itself, which made attacking it risky. It was well barricaded, armed, guarded, and had a clear sight into the fields and beaches below. A quick assault from the smaller, secondary entrance was more difficult since the walls were thicker and doors smaller. It was nothing more than a port entrance, a terrible place for an army to stage an offensive. But the Faulk did not come to attack and claim the fortress as their own, only raid. Why go through the effort of raising a city and focusing on tax management while maintaining the inhabitants, when one could simply take from the fat of others?

Ruen hid his smile as he walked down a flight of stairs into the street, planning his route through the city. He could cut through the central street, across the plaza, and reach the entrance of the second set of walls. The noble quarter was even more well protected, but it was smaller and offered far more rewards. No self-respecting Faulk would raid some slums when the merchants and nobles practically showed off their wealth.

He walked through the cobblestone streets, shady silhouettes shirking away when he approached. Stores were shuttered closed, iron bars guarding windows. Anywhere else, those steel bars would have been reserved for prisons or weapons, but Magdale was rich with iron. Ruen was used to acting like he belonged, and so long as nobody was close enough to see his face, he’d be safe. Which is why he avoided the more nocturnal districts, spotting drunks and prostitutes leaning on flaking walls. He ignored the catcalls of a brave or desperate few, choosing instead to continue acting on patrol. He passed dark alleyways, some as silent as graves, others with their own little stories. A painted caricature of a richly dressed woman performing illicit acts. An alley of vagrants sharing moldy bread as they eyed him warily. A half-rotten corpse. Children fighting each other and running when they spotted him. A fresh corpse, straddled by a woman wearing a yellow bandanna as she rifled through the victim’s pockets, a bloody knife in hand. When Ruen cleared his throat, she turned around and threw him a bag of coins. Ruen caught his unexpected loot, shrugged, and let the woman be, navigating through the city and memorizing the layout as he made his way towards the hill. As he approached the hill, the buildings grew larger, and more guards crossed his path. He nodded towards them, making sure to stay on the other side of the street. As the ground slanted upwards, the city quieted again. Fewer people were on the streets. A couple in ornate cloaks hurried downhill, towards the port entrance. A fat cat strolled on the street, running in the opposite direction when it got close enough to see Ruen’s face. It tried to jump atop a wall but got caught in the gut and fell back down. It mewled loudly and skittered away.

He stumbled across his first problem as he began reaching the top of the hill. The road curved around the hill to meet a set of iron gates, with four guards flanking them. He wouldn’t be able to go through as he was. What he needed was a distraction. Ruen pushed down a grunt of agitation, his about-face that of a veteran guard turning around to patrol back the way he came. He’d need to change his plan somewhat. Ruen usually started a fire in the granaries to kick the ant’s nest… but he couldn’t start a fire, that was the signal for his crew to follow him. Sabotage the port entrance, start a fire as a distraction and signal, then rush over to sabotage the iron gates? Too risky, and he needed to be there to guide the crew through the streets.

He had a couple hours before dawn, but no real way forwards. Ruen did what he always did. He followed the scent of alcohol and found a bar, a wooden building leaning against a dilapidated stone one. The Faulk spy summoned his Tome-warrior and took it by the hand. He pushed open the door, the hubbub dying down as he walked in. When people saw his face, they looked away and flinched, a stifling silence spreading throughout the bar as he walked towards the bartender. The owner met Ruen’s eyes in fear, blubbering something about having already paid the tax.

“I’m not here about that.” Ruen hated the sound of his own voice. Raspy and deep, it made the hair stand on the back of the necks of all who heard him. Ruen pointed to his Tome-warrior. “I found this lost child near here. I was hoping to see if anybody knew him.”

The owner and the rest of the patrons finally saw his Tome-warrior. It looked like a young boy, no more than twelve, with short-cropped black hair and a bumpy nose.

‘[Keen Senses.]’

The spell amplified everything. The smell of watered-down ale, the sweat bubbling from the bartender’s pores, and the whispers of the patrons spread from the edges of the room.

“Whew, what an ugly…”

“Do you recognize the kid?”

“No, but he could be one of Erica’s…”

“Doesn’t seem the type to care.”

“A hilltopper’s kid?”

“Nah, kid looks half-starved.”

“Maybe he killed the parents and wants to have somebody take care of the kid?”

“Wouldn’t he just kill the kid too?”

“Smells like a plot from the hilltoppers…”

 Magdale was a city divided. The iron gate should have made it clear, but there was a clear line between the people who lived at the top of the hill and everybody else. It was a juicy target, then. A city piled high with the kindling of resentment, anguish, and crime. All that was needed was a spark.

“Maybe we can get a bit of gold from the kid…”

That one whisper was enough to drive a spike of rage not Ruen’s heart. He did not react, even as his old scars ached. Someone tapped him on the shoulder. Turning around, he was greeted with three sickly sweet grins. The man was handsome in the dim light of the tavern, though his two compatriots flanking him were significantly less so. Ruen’s own face made them look like gorgeous in comparison, though. They each wore yellow armbands, like the mugger he’d run into earlier. It seemed as though these people had their own hierarchies and jarldoms within their city.

“Can I help you?”

“Yessir!” The ringleader’s smile gleamed in the torchlight. “That there’s Jessup, my brother’s neighbor’s kid. Took me a while to figure out where I’d seen him from.”

“You can escort me to them.”

“I’m sure you’re busy…”

“Then you understand that I’m not in the mood for delays.”

“But—” The bigger man to his right put his hand on his shoulder. Maybe Ruen was mistaken about who the ringleader was. He mentally reassigned the big man as the ringleader, the handsome one as the face, and the one always checking his concealed knife as the coward. “Fine.”

Ruen followed the three outside, ruminating the beginnings of a plan. He released his sensory spell and silently cast a specialized spell that was all but useless to most people.

‘[Locate Similar Objects]’

The Faulk was not one of the lucky people who received a spell slot for every solstice, equinox, and birthday. Those blessed few could learn up to five spells for every year they were alive. Nevertheless, he’d chosen to ‘waste’ a spell slot on such a particular spell because of a tendency he’d noticed among most peoples he’d disguised himself among. The necessity for there to be a ‘standard’, a ‘uniform’.  In this case, the spell helped him locate where others with similar uniforms would be within a large radius.

“What’s a guard doing all by his lonesome, anyways?” Face asked as they crept closer to the darker part of the city.  The man’s tone was melodious brightened Ruen’s mood despite his aversion to the man. A sure sign of a more subtle spell at work. Not talking would be more suspicious, so Ruen responded as his eyes darted across the man’s body, looking for a Tome…

“Training exercise by the main gates…I didn’t feel the need to teach rookies fighting with wooden swords.” Ruen shrugged as he let out a false bit of information, finally spotting the scroll clutched beneath the face’s tunic. The coward began lagging behind, placing himself behind Ruen. The Faulk spy was carefully counting in his head the time it would take for them to come across the next patrol.

“I see. You must be very experienced. And for you to care so much about a random child…”

“Children should be protected from the harshness of the world.” Ruen asserted firmly, letting his real feelings envelop his words. Perhaps the face’s spell was stronger than he’d thought.

“You sound like Erica!” The face barked in laughter, the coward snickering behind them as well. “The harlot really did care for children.”

“Best not to joke.” The ringleader’s whispers were as sharp and silent as knives. “Who knows what deal she reached with the fair folk? Even the word of a hanged whore has value to them.”

To think that these folk hated the fae! Ruen could appreciate the irony of people who thought of Faulk as backwards savages because they couldn’t read, but did not even know how to deal with fae. It didn’t make what he was about to do any easier. Just as he felt a patrol was about to turn the corner, Ruen dispelled his Tome. The group stopped in astonishment as the little boy disappeared.

“Wha—”

The ringleader had no time to react as Ruen unsheathed his stolen gladius and cut off his head with a mighty swing. The blood splattered over Ruen’s face as the panicked coward rushed forwards to stab him in the back. Just as the patrol of guards rounded the corner to witness the mess, Ruen dodged to the side, slashing at the coward’s arm as he went. The coward dropped the knife as the cut began to bleed profusely. Ruen tackled to him to the ground and pinned him. The face, who’d backed away in confusion, gaped as his compatriots fell to the ground within a single moment.

“Get him!” Ruen yelled in the patrol’s direction.

The face turned around and blanched at the sight of five armed guards rushing towards him. He stumbled on some loose cobblestone but disappeared into a dark alleyway as a couple guards chased after him. It was unlikely they’d catch him. The coward was yelling obscenities, struggling beneath Ruen as the three remaining guards ran over.

“I overheard these three talking as I was taking a piss.” Ruen growled before the three had any chance to ask questions. “Apparently, there’s talk that our cut is too big. There are plans of attacking the front gate as they burn one of the granaries as a distraction. When I asked them to follow me quietly, they refused to cooperate.”

 It was a risky gamble, but the worst that could happen is Ruen being forced to kill them all and hide the bodies. The coward stopped ranting and blubbered a series of confused denials. He was silenced with two quick blows to the face.

“The yellowjackets can’t be that bold!” One of the guards exclaimed.

“Then you haven’t met the yellowjackets.” An older one scoffed.

“I’ll go check on the granaries, you three bring him to a dungeon and tell the higher ups to prepare for some action at the main gate.” Ruen pulled the dazed man to his feet and pushed him to the guards before rushing in the direction of the granaries he’d spotted on his initial exploration of the town.

“Wait!” One of the called. Ruen paused. One of them threw something towards him. Catching it in his hand, Ruen found a wadded-up handkerchief. “You may want to clean the blood off your face, Sergeant, else people think you to be just some madman wearing guard’s uniform.”

Ruen faced them and smiled. He didn’t know he was wearing a higher-ranking guard’s armor. “Right you are. Wouldn’t want anyone thinking that.” He turned around to wipe his face and waved. “If the granaries do burn, know that I tried my best.”

They saluted as Ruen ran off, struggling not to release his hoarse laughter. He was going to try his best. To burn the granary, that is. Especially with what may be a developing standoff between the yellowjackets and the guard. Then he could open the back entrance for his crew so they could all rush towards the iron gates.

When Ruen turned the corner, he found the granaries looming behind the shops of the quiet square. In the middle of the square hung the body of a woman from the gallows. In life, she must have been a beauty. Her sallow cheeks and sunken eyes made it all to clear she’d been dead for a few days at least. No bloated tongue or blue lips; she was lucky enough to have her neck snap when the lever was pulled. Ruen grimaced. There was no honor in this death, no glorious battle or chance of redemption. Even still, it was bad luck to look away from a body. Ruen crept around the square, murmuring a small prayer under his breath for whoever she was.

When he made it the granary, Ruen walked up to the guards as they gave lazy salutes, scarcely looking up from their card game.

“Random inspection.” He said as he pulled open the doors.

“Again?” One grunted.

“If it was predictable, it wouldn’t be random.” His compatriot responded with a smile. “All royals, I win.”

Ruen entered, ignoring the sacks upon sacks of wheat, and let out a loud gasp. “What in the hells…What did you two do?!”

The two stood ramrod straight, dropping their cards.  They peeked inside, trying to get a look.

“What do you mean?”

“Over there, look!” Ruen pointed at the deepest, darkest part of the massive room. When they stepped in to take a better look, Ruen let them walk past him, squinting in the dark.

“I don’t see what you—”

Ruen was quick enough with a blade that only one of them had enough time to be surprised. Two slashes, two heads rolled. A perfect ambush, except…There was a shrill squeak. Ruen slowly turned around to find two young boys staring at him from the entrance. They stood, frozen, eyes wide open. In the arms of the bigger child, was a gently squirming bundle. Ruen slowly approached the witnesses, until he stood over them, the taller one barely reaching up to his chest. The two boys trembled, but the swaddled baby cooed as she laid her eyes on Ruen’s face. She giggled and reached up to him with tiny arms, pushing the cloth off her face. Ruen stepped back. She had horns.

<><><> 

Rael woke up. Ever since their talks with Meayetti and the other scribes began, the violent and confusing dreams began to make more sense. Rael could now ascribe context to the visions within their dreams. What they just experienced was a memory of Ruen’s, more precisely, when he first met the Dragonborn he would eventually swear to protect.

It was difficult at first. In some dreams, Rael was rutting women, cutting through men with a mighty battleaxe, or lead from the prow on a sea ship. Other times, they’d slink in the dark with a knife, snap some necks, or be tortured for hours on end. The pain was never real, but the memories wore on Rael. They eventually realized those were memories associated with Bjorn and Ruen. When they first became aware of them, Rael realized they picked up bad habits. One particularly annoying one was practically a reflex, when they’d slap the butts of passing women. Thankfully, Rael could easily explain that it wasn’t intentional, but the result of fae memory shenanigans. An excuse that would normally be repaid with a slap was accepted easily, though with a few notable disappointed expressions. Skald Yvon took some perverse pleasure from slowly striding past Rael anytime they could walk around on the ship.

Rael took a few deep breaths in the total darkness of the ‘quarters’. Drakkars had very little space within the boats themselves. Underneath the benches there was enough crawl space for a laying Faulk and their loot chest. Sitting up too quickly would net you a bruise on the front of your face and rolling anywhere would put you in someone else’s space. Rael had heard from their bench mates that there were some boats that didn’t have a separating floor between the balloons in the hulls and where the crew rested. It was more comfortable, yes, but more than a few had slid down into the sides of the hull and gotten stuck, or worse, popped the balloons accidentally. Rael frowned and pushed open their hatch, crawling from underneath their bench and stretching as they basked in the morning sun.

Wind filled the sails, the spinnaker spread taut ahead of the bow. They’d been making good heading over the past week, and never needed to bring out the wind oars. From what Rael picked up from dreams and working on the ship, the Faulk relied on three different types of crewmen. There were the rowers, who were the muscle, aided by their Tome-warriors casting a spell to push air through the wind oars, pushing the ship forwards no matter the wind conditions. These crewmen were usually the bigger ones, relying more on axes and shields when it came to battle. Then there were the riggers, like Rael. These lithe crewmen had the most dangerous job, climbing around the ship to tie down lines, ensure the sails were properly attached, and tossing out the spinnaker. When the ship got damaged, it would be up to Rael and the other riggers to repair it. Rael noticed most of them were armed with either bows or short swords. Finally, there were the heads. Navigators, helmsmen, and whoever else was directly under the captain. There was only one pecking order on the ship. Everyone followed the captain’s word. Even if it was the captain’s Jarl.

In this case, the Jarl was captain of his ship, busy ringing the morning bell. A call to wakefulness for all those still sleeping, and a welcome change in shifts from the night crew to the day crew. Rael smiled as they patted Mala’s back, the tired rigger sluggishly eager to roll into the spot Rael was sleeping not ten minutes ago.

“Dragonward Rael!” Jarl Feldon called from the back of the ship.

Rael suppressed a grimace, having quickly learned to suppress their dislike of being called like a dog. Feldon had more than enough time to demonstrate how a quick ship was one based on rapid orders and capable hands. There was no space for ego on this cramped ship. Rael rushed to the call. Standing straight, with arms clasped behind their back, Rael looked forwards, over Feldon’s head.

“Jarl Bellast.” Rael winced. Bellast was Ruen’s Jarl.

“Dreamed of Ruen, I see.” Feldon nodded. Rael didn’t feel comfortable talking about their memories with others, but Feldon insisted after they’d slipped up enough times for the crew to notice more than just Bjorn’s curious hands and Ruen’s unblinking stare. Rael’s eyes darted to the three skalds at the bow of the boat. “No need to worry. I’ve told them to not bother you until you start asking your own questions.”

Feldon had this uncanny ability to read people. Not born from magic, but from years as a leader. Too many times this past week, Rael found themselves on the receiving end of a knowing look in his eye as his wife leaned against a wall with a smug smile of satisfaction.

“What is it you wish, Jarl?” Rael found the words spilling from their mouth. Loyal Ruen’s words seemed to find their way into Rael’s mouth. Rael found it easier to let them rather than their own borderline insubordinate responses.

“A small town is flying a red flag. I’m sending you, Edith, and Captains Derrol and Kip down with some of their men to take a look.”

Ruen and Bjorn’s memories were helpful. Rael didn’t need to ask to know what a red flag meant.

Danger, help.

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