A Call to War: C01S01

The midday sun did little to warm the cool air around the young knight on the road. It was just as well, though, was his heavy woolen cloak kept the chill from reaching him. He was used to far colder climes in any event, having spent the first part of his life in the southern reaches of the Count, only a few weeks travel from the frigid Southplains. He was returning home now, having been absent for several years.

He was Marcus, son of Athos, from the line of Marcus the Savage, and heir to the small manor of Delrin. For the past three days, he'd traveled alone by foot from the city of Eliberin, having been knighted into the service of the Count of Elibe. In less than a week's time, he'd be back home, enjoying the company of his family, and resting fully from the four years of squiredom he'd endured.

The thought brought a smile to his lips, a testament to his youth more than anything. It was one of the things his master had tried to break him of, but had never succeeded. Marcus had taken the first step in reclaiming the honor his family had lost, raising himself and his future descendants to county gentry. The very thought of it sparked his pride.

He raised his head from the road, turning his blue eyes to the golden wheat fields to his right. It was nearly Last Harvest and the winter grain looked inviting. Marcus thought briefly of snatching a handful of the grain, but decided against it. He still had a block of cheese and cured meat in his travel pack, after all.

As his thoughts drifted from home and rest, he heard a distant, but sharp, sound coming from the field to his left, followed by rustling in the tall grass. He stopped and scanned the field, trying to pick out the source. A low growl followed soon after. Marcus shot a glance back down the road.

“What do you suppose that was Khreios?” he asked, a mixture of excitement and weariness in his voice.

“Probably just a hare and a dog, master.” I returned to writing.

He watched the field a bit longer, seeing nothing, but hearing the sounds draw closer. “I don't know, Khreios. Sounds like trouble.” He seemed to want permission to do as he would regardless. Marcus unbuckled the large sack on his shoulder and set it on the ground before stepping toward the side of the road, still searching for the origin of the sounds.

“Hello?” he called to the field, hoping for an answer. Nothing came for a moment, even the sounds dying to nothing. He bit his bottom lip and ran his hand through his long black hair, waiting for another moment. Still, nothing came. Shaking his head, he stepped back to his pack and began to pick it up as a shrill cry cut through the silence.

Marcus's reaction was swift. His right hand unfastened his cloak, allowing it to fall to the ground over his bag; while his left pulled the hunting knife from its sheath on his belt. He spun on his heels, standing to his full height as he did, facing the road ahead. His knife was firmly in hand, ready to defend himself.

There was another brief silence before the source of the higher pitched noises came into view, several wheels down the road. It was a danura, rat men of a short stature and unpopular with the commoners of Ruon. It was covered in short, fallow fur, and wearing rags that had been torn from its flight. Its wide, black eyes locked onto Marcus quickly, and it turned itself to charge him.

Marcus began to drop into a ready stance, then another form emerged from the field, crashing into the road. It was the color of manure and the size of a large wolf, with a flattened face and and sparse, coarse hair. Marcus had hunted many of them with his master, having had to learn how to deal with the horrid beast of the Southern Worlds. It was an asal, a hound-like creature the Asageth used to hunt.

Many had expanded past the Southplains and into the lower reaches of the kingdom in the time since the Southern Worlds had come into existence. It stared for a moment at Marcus, watching as the danura disappeared between his legs. It snarled, and began bounding down the road to its new prey. Marcus lowered himself before rushing, hoping to throw the beast off and slay it quickly.

The danura slid under the cloak on the road as the knight and the asal clashed. Marcus drew first blood, sidestepping the pounce of the beast and sliding his blade down the right flank. The asal howled in pain from the first blow, hitting the ground and sliding to a stop. It turned and charged once more, catching Marcus by surprise. Its claws sunk into the young man's forearm before it was kicked away.

“You don't want to lay down and die, I suppose,” Marcus mused to himself, ignoring the obvious pain in his left arm. The asal snarled in response, gnashing its teeth at him. The young man raised his knife and locked eyes with the beast. It would be over in a matter of seconds, he'd decided. He lowered himself once again and began sprinting toward the creature.

The asal responded in kind, rushing at the knight with deathly intent. The more experienced of the two, however, won their clash, his blade sinking into the flesh on the beast's ribs. It shrieked in pain, and tried to get away, but its punctured lung gave it trouble breathing. It was still able to fight, but it could no longer win. Marcus stood and watched it limp away from him.

It barked and howled as he took a step to it. It could do nothing to save its life at this point, but it attempted to deny the knight his as well. Unfortunately for it, the knight was prepared, kicking it's claws away. It turned to bite, but a sharp blow from Marcus's boot caught it on the jaw and rolled it onto its back. The asal was panicked then, trying to get away.

Marcus simply stood over it, taking a step to the side. It was pitiful, but it was a beast of the Southern Worlds. Marcus knew the only thing he could do was give it a swift death. He dropped on top of it, straddling its back, and pressing his knees into its forelegs. The muscles in his right arm strained as he pushed its frantic head hard into the ground. It yelped at its helplessness, making a high pitched whine to beg for itself.

Marcus was merciful, driving his knife into the base of the asal's skull. Its body struggled for a moment longer before going limp. He pressed down on it for a bit more, though, having learned the virtue of caution. He pulled his knife from the asal, hearing the last breath exit from it's nose. Feeling his strength exhausted, he pulled himself to his feet. The blood and sinew dripped from the blade before he wiped it on his legging.

He walked back to his cloak, only the making noise as his foot touched the road. The brown fabric trembled slightly as he grabbed it and pulled it away. The danura gasped, crouching on the ground with its hands held over its head. It slowly opened its eyes and looked up to Marcus. It relaxed in an instant, then looked past the young man to the dead beast in the road.

“Are you all right, little one?” Marcus asked through his heavy breathing. He squatted down without haste, resting his forearms on his knees.

The danura stood and took a step toward the asal's corpse, shaking his raised fist. “Who's running now you, cretinous bastard-” The corpse jerked at little, sending the danura scrambling back.

“Don't worry, little one. It's dead,” Marcus said, his voice reassuring and calm. He stretched out his hand, extending two fingers to his small beneficiary. “I'm Sir Marcus Delrinne. I thank you, little one, for the midday exercise. Who are you?”

The danura stood to its full height, taking Marcus's fingers in his bony hand. “I am Sir Bartholomew Underroot, servant to King Elijah Uponbranch.” Though still high, Bartholomew's voice was now colored with bravado rather than fear. “I thank you for your timely assistance, lassa.”

Marcus smiled, deciding to not put Bartholomew in his place. “Such a twist of the threads to bring two knights together on this day, no?” He stood back up, looking over his shoulder to the asal. “I must admit, I'm surprised you were able to handle the other's in that one's pack.”

Bartholomew's face fell, as the short whiskers on his face began twitching. “One? There should be four...” His voice fell off as he counted the number of dead asal on the road. Without warning, he turned from the road and ran in the direction he had come. His expression said all Marcus needed to hear. “Kira!” he shouted as he disappeared into the field.

Marcus sprinted after him, not even pausing to grab his gear. He followed Bartholomew by the sounds of disturbed grain as the danura moved with abandon. There was trouble, Marcus was sure. No man, be he a real man or a danura, moved with such intent unless there was trouble. The tall grains, nearly ready for harvest, slapped at his chest as he pressed forward.

The pair moved with incredible speed, rushing toward whatever it was that had Bartholomew so worried. After several minutes, far from the road, they came to a clearing near a tree and a creek. Marcus, already winded from his fight with the asal, was now panting, trying to suck as much air into his lungs as he could.

He saw what worried Bartholomew so. In the clearing, there were two bodies. One had its head bitten clean off and the other torn in half, danura the both of them. Three asals tore at the tree, one digging at the roots and exposing Bartholomew's home; and the others snarling at the four other danura in the branches.

Marcus didn't think, reaching for his sword before realizing he left it with his gear on the road. His eyes widened and fell back, then he snatched the sword from the air and tossed its leather scabbard to the ground, muttering “Many thanks, Khreios.” This time, it was not a game, nor a simple hunt. There were three asals, and Marcus was already injured.

By the time Marcus had prepared himself for the battle, one of the beasts was already charging him. He swung his sword with all his might as it lunged, and removed its head. He stepped to the side, letting the body crash next to him, but withdrawing his attention from the second one.

He had no time to react, only wincing as its teeth sank into his left shoulder. He braced himself so he would not fall to the ground, feeling the asal's claws scratch at his unarmored torso. The pain seemed overwhelming, but he endured, driving the blade of his sword through the side of his attacker's chest, piercing its heart. It struggled bare seconds longer before falling lax against him. Using his now severely damaged left arm, he threw the corpse from him.

It hit the ground as Bartholomew sprinted to the last one, a different creature than he had been. Rage flowed from him, giving him the courage to leap onto the beast's back. He dug into its thickened hide with his claws, trying to bite it. It was too much for him to hope for to kill it, but he was determined to try.

Marcus approached, feeling a smoldering hatred of the creatures of the Southern Worlds fanned by this incident. His shirt was thoroughly soaked with his own blood, and the blood of the other two asals dripped from his blade. Bartholomew regained his presence of mind just as Marcus stabbed through the back of the beast's neck, severing its spine. He twisted the blade, while his face took a bitter expression.

The asal slumped, dead. Marcus withdrew his sword from it, letting it fall to the ground. The pain of his injuries came to him as Bartholomew scurried up the tree. “Kira!” he called again, reaching the branch with a gray danura somewhat smaller than he. The young knight used the opportunity to collapse against the tree.

The five danura in the tree climbed down with speed, gathering around their savior. Bartholomew stepped nearest to Marcus as he slid down the tree, sitting on the ground. Marcus's gear bag landed near the group. Marcus looked up from the danura. “Many thanks once more, Khreios,” he said through his harsh breathing. With that, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “There are bandages and medicinal salves in the bag,” he told the little people gathered. “These wounds must be tended before they become fatal.”

Four of the danura, all smaller than Bartholomew rushed to the bag and began to dig through it. Bartholomew, stayed near Marcus, climbing onto his legs and putting his hand on the man's chest. “That was awe inspiring, lassa.” He looked to the others. “You saved my family, and for that I owe you more than can be repaid.”

Marcus opened his eyes and looked down. “It was nothing more than a kindness any knight would do for another, little one.” He breathed out slowly, clutching at his shoulder. The other danura came running, having found the wooden tube of salve and the long rolled bandages. Marcus removed his hand from his shoulder long enough to tear his shirt off.

The damage was grisly, but the danura set about patching him up. They spread the salve on all the bleeding wounds and wrapped his upper body tightly with the bandages. Bartholomew watched, having jumped away from Marcus so that his family could work. He paced around as the others went about their business, his small face showing concern for Marcus.

After a short time, though still depleted from fighting and losing much of his blood, Marcus stood. The salve numbed his injuries, allowing him at least the dignity to return to his feet. He was in no shape to continue traveling, though, and he knew that full well. Looking about the scattered makeshift belongings in the clearing, he leaned back against the tree.

Bartholomew tugged at his legging and looked up to him. Marcus returned his gaze. “Your family seems to be in more than me for the moment, little one. I'll rest here while you attend to them.” He gave the danura a faint smile before closing his eyes. Bartholomew returned to his family, his head held high.

His voice was without any of the normal sounds of grief as he spoke. “We've had a bad day, my wife, my children. Two of us are no more. But we are still alive, and that is all the Old Ones will concern themselves with.” He lowered his head, seemingly in prayer for the two dead danura. “Gather your brother's remains and give them a proper treatment, Kolissa and Jerias. Berthilimew, start clearing the yard.” The three smallest moved of with his word.

“Is this what you call taking care of us, Bartholomew?” the gray one asked.

“No, Kira. This was terrible misfortune,” Bartholomew replied, dejected.

Kira placed her hand on Bartholomew's shoulder. “Antimy and Lorithas would still be alive had we stayed in the forest, husband.” Bartholomew said nothing, only placing his hand on his wife's. “Come now, koli. We have a guest.” Bartholomew lowered his head further and followed his wife to Marcus's feet. She pulled on his pants to gain his attention.

Marcus opened his eyes and looked down, seeing the pair. If they stood on each other's shoulders, they may have reached his waist. “I am Kira Underroot. I apologize for the pain my husband has brought on you, talling.” She looked over her shoulder to the broken remains of her home. “We've nothing to offer you, really, but we can feed you for the night, if you would indulge us.” Kira turned her brilliant red eyes back to Marcus.

“I humbly accept,” he began, “as I fear I won't be able to move much until the morning in any event. I'm Sir Marcus Delrinne. I'm journeying home myself, but a kind offer from folks such as yourselves shouldn't be declined.” He stood up straight again, feeling the world spin and bracing himself against it.

He was paler now than his normal tone. That didn't bother him, though the coldness he felt did. With care, he bent down and pulled another shirt from his travel bag. Pulling it on, he felt a bit warmer, however, he knew that it would be weeks before he was fully healed.

He sat down next to the tree and produced a small pouch of dried bandle leaves and an angled pipe. He didn't smoke near as much as his father, but he partook when he felt it necessary. Stuffing a small pinch into the chamber of the pipe, he brought up a flint and steel and lit it in a practiced manner. Kira and Bartholomew walked next to him and sat.

Marcus looked down to the pair, feeling much older than his short seventeen years. Taking a drag from his pipe, he asked, “What brought you from your forests to my county, little ones?” Bartholomew turned his gaze to the distance.

Kira jerked her thumb at him. “He was impatient. Weren't you, koli?” Bartholomew only crossed his arms over his chest, grumbling to himself. “His father thought he should wait another year before he married, and he couldn't wait.” She let out a high laugh. “It wouldn't have been bad for him, though. He would have been a licensed consort if he'd waited.”

Marcus chuckled at that. “I can understand youthful impatience myself.” He leaned back on his palms, his pipe sticking out of his mouth. “Part of the reason I'm rushing home is so that I may get married in before First Fall.” His thoughts turned to home and his eyes became distant.

“How old are you, lassa?” Bartholomew asked.

“I've just celebrated the seventeenth anniversary of my birth, little one.” He leaned forward once more, his black hair resting on his shoulders. “And what of you two?”

Bartholomew leaped to his feet. “I'm five years old!” he said, hitting himself in his chest with enthusiasm. “My koli is a year my junior. If we live long enough for people to forget why we left, my koju will be a year her junior.”

Kira shook her head at that. “And my koju, dear husband, will be a year your senior,” she said, playfully pulling at Bartholomew's hairless tail.

Marcus shook his head. “I'm afraid I don't know what those words mean, good Underroots.”

Bartholomew looked up to Marcus in shock. “I thought you were getting married, lassa.”

“I am.”

“And you don't know what a koli is?”

Marcus shook his head again. “I do not.”

Bartholomew threw his hands into the air. “I don't know how you tallings run this world without knowing even the basics of a society.” He put his hands on his hips and looked at Marcus. “Because you are my friend, and you saved my family, I will tell you lassa.” He pointed to Kira. “She's my koli. No matter how many other wives I collect, she will always be my koli, and I hers.”

“Simply put, kind Marcus, koli is only a term that has survived our adopting your languages,” Kira spoke, drawing a comical expression of scorn from Bartholomew. “To you, it would mean first spouse, though not quite the same. Bartholomew here is my koli because he is the first that I've born the children of. I am his because I was the first to bare his children.”

“That sounds complex,” Marcus muttered under his breath. “But no matter. The light of day has been draining as we've spoken and we have little in the way of food for your family and myself.” He reached into his pack a pulled a block of cheese and strips of dried tolce flesh. “This is all I can contribute for you supper.”

“We don't eat meat like you barbarians, lassa. But we have bread scraps and berries and grains,” Bartholomew responded. He sniffed at the cheese before turning away in disgust. “Whatever that is seems to have turned.”

Marcus broke a small piece off and popped it into his mouth, withdrawing his pipe. “It's meant to smell like that, little one.” He swallowed it in an instant as Bartholomew turned from him.

He looked up for a moment before asking, “This one is awfully quite for a talling. Why does he not speak, lassa? He just scribbles in that pad.”

“Khreios is my Chronicler. He will not speak unless I demand it of him. Isn't that right, Khreios?”

“Yes, master.” I returned to writing.

“It is part of his culture as a Paelian Chronicler. A bit disquieting, if you ask me, but you grow accustomed to it.” Marcus tapped the embers from his pipe and snuffed them out on the ground.

Bartholomew looked at Kira for a moment, then back to Marcus. “Lassa, I know we owe you more than you owe us,” he started, seeming humiliated. “Is there a chance that you know of a place that we may live for a short while?”

Marcus looked up, thinking. “I think I may know of a place. On the edge of my father's land, there was an old coupe for gillens. It was abandoned some time before my birth, but it should suit your family for a time.” He grew silent for a moment, thinking of how commoners would react to sharing their lands with danura. In the end, he decided that it didn't matter. “I must warn you, however, that it is four days from here, and you must take care to avoid the peasants.”

“Why?” Kira asked, masking the gratitude in her voice.

“Superstition. Danura are said to bring thanyon and plague out here beyond the civilized cities.” He pulled another chunk from his block of cheese before continuing. “And I'll not be there all the time to protect you from my people.” His voice grew quiet once more as his thoughts turned to the people of Delrin.

“Can you tell us of your people, Marcus?” Kira asked as Bartholomew wandered back to watch the children.

Marcus smiled. “Certainly,” he said.