Dereek khn
Kor Kowmor
The vast, distant ocean of storm clouds flickered with a wyrding crimson light. The whole of the southern sky was painted the color of ruin.
The rain was leagues to the south. Jastar knew that, but the distance wasn’t what mattered.
No. What matters is that it looks far, far too much like Westsong.
Still, the activity at Kor Kowmor offered him some comfort. Fyken Presh had, it seemed, been ready for anything. Not long after the first Wickish feet had set foot on Kowmor’s cobbles, he’d limped his way into First Ward and taken control.
“Bachsel Morric? Give the horses to Jasidor. Take everyone to Second Ward.” Morric’s acknowledgment was still exiting his mouth when the Katxsel turned to address an orcish man. “Hangash? The other half of third lance may arrive with trouble nipping at their heels. If that happens, I want the rest of the two-two here and at the ready. Denythis and Sevasti Vah-een should both be in the barracks. Have them muster their lances and bring them here. Now. Once they’re on the move, get you to higher ground. Questions?” He’d given them barely a beat to reply. “Go!”
They went, and Jastar couldn’t help but smile.
That flared sense of well-being didn’t last long. He’d found it difficult to watch the men bearing Kaith … or what may as well have been Kaith’s effigy.
A few of the non-marshal members of Kowmor’s staff stepped in to help. While everyone seemed both concerned and even outright disturbed by the sight, nobody appeared confused by it. The idea that they’d seen such before produced a wave of outright horror in him. Turning a man to stone? And back again? If it saved Kaith’s life, then Jastar could hardly complain. But it was one more example of how magic could shift the balance of power for good or ill.
Once they’d disappeared into Second Ward, and Kaith could no longer be a distraction, that sense of unreality began to fade. Jastar allowed his head to hang for a moment as he began trying to make sense of all he’d seen. The weight and import of his commission had never been clearer to him. He needed to either bring Dereek khn on side or find a way to defend against its wrath.
He’d no idea how he was meant to do either of those things, but that was another matter.
The exodus from Wick continued as best it could. The Old Man’s training cadre kept the new arrivals moving northward. Food, water, blankets, and bandages were all being distributed in Second Ward. Everything had been organized in short order. Kor Kowmor’s staff was, it seemed, a model of efficiency even in such a situation as this.
The rest of the two-two wasn’t long in coming. They’d stayed out of the way, arraying themselves in a line beside the arrival point. They held their shields and their slender war hammers in readiness as the refugees came on, although they were careful not to project menace in their direction.
After a protracted period wherein no more of the Wickish arrived, Ibhroth appeared, followed by Apiné and red-maned Ghenys. The two hammers held a quiet conference with the Old Man and the leaders of the other lances.
Ibhroth came to stand next to Jastar. “S’rough, Sir Jast. Wish we could’ve saved more.” He sighed, shaking his head. “Still, s’pose saving some’s better than saving none, ain’t it?” His tone made it clear this was more a statement than a question.
Jastar nodded, though he kept his eyes on the arrival spot. “The folk we did save—be it here with us now or racing toward Rockvale—aren’t likely to complain. They expected to die. Instead, they live to tell the tale. Better not to have lived that tale, I grant you, but given the circumstances?” He shrugged.
“Aye, fair. S’pose it’s just down to waiting, now.”
Perhaps two minutes passed before Pallith appeared with an orcish man—Kaith’s herald, if Jast had heard rightly. The orc cast about, doing an almost comical double take at his new surroundings, then growled something Jastar couldn’t quite make out. Several hands raised to point northward, toward Second Ward. The orc headed that way with a shallow nod that served as thanks.
“Lanbachsel…” Pallith’s skin had turned the color of old milk. “Rakshasa. There was a rakshasa. The lord commanded us to return.”
Apiné offered a slow, considering nod. “Not just stories, then.” She paused for a beat, then nodded again. “I take it he’s just behind you?”
Pallith shook his head. “He said he’d face it alone.” He sounded as if he were going to be ill—that, or as if he were on the brink of tears.
Apiné sucked her teeth, then nodded. “Then we must trust that he knows what he’s about.”
Jastar was astonished to see that everyone was either nodding at this or wearing a look of grim acceptance. He raised his chin to project his voice.
“Whom or what is a rakshasa?”
“Rak-sha-sa, Jast. A demon of the old world. They… they are flesh eaters… shapeshifters.”
Jastar blanched, then bowed his head. Well, Jast, you wanted a way to bring them on side.
He made to step forward, but Ibhroth laid a hand on his shoulder to gainsay him.
“Sir Jastar, don’t. They’ve got the right of it.”
Jastar turned his head to shoot a withering glance first to Ibhroth’s oak-colored eyes, then to the hand that gripped his pauldron. Ibhroth got the message and removed his hand, but he seemed more frustrated than cowed. No matter.
Jast stepped toward the line of Ban’ze Ruun, speaking as he went. “We cannot leave him there to face this thing alone.”
“We can,” said Apiné, “and we will. It’s as I said, Sir Jastar. The Lord knows what he’s about. If he’s commanded us to leave him—if he intends to fight this battle alone, he has good reason.”
Jastar forced his face to remain calm, his voice to remain reasonable. “And Tharus? Where is he?”
Apiné frowned, turning to Pallith.
“He … refused to follow. He said… he said he arrived with Methias, and he would leave the same way. We’re the same rank, he and I. I couldn’t order him to return with me…” Pallith shrugged, clearly frustrated at his own impotence.
Apiné sighed, nodding. She opened her mouth to speak, but Jastar overrode her.
“You lot do as you like.” He began to walk toward the arrival spot. “I’m going back.”
“We have our orders, Jast,” said Pallith.
“You must trust that Methias knows his business,” Apiné said.
Jastar’s next step would take him onto the… the… whatever its right name was—the thing that would take him back to Wick. He stopped, turning to face the assembled Dereek khnderathii soldiers.
“No, Apiné. I mustn’t. I still haven’t gotten the Old Man’s approval to join the Yebu Ke. As of this moment, I don’t answer to any of you. Even if I did… Tharus has the right of it.” With that, he stepped backward.
Next he knew, he was assaulted by the sights, sounds, and smells of the Wickish battlefield. He heard a dull ringing noise as something metal impacted something much, much softer. Turning, he saw Tharus and his hound standing over a trio of felled goblins. The hound turned toward him and gave a brief bark of greeting.
Tharus glanced back over his shoulder and grinned. “Thal ter nier buedh, Sir Jastar. If I’d known you were coming back, I might’ve saved you some.”
So he’s Treaedish after all. Thal ter nier buedh. That’s… I offer you peace, I think.
He gave the man a lopsided grin as he stepped over. “Can’t offer you peace in return, Tharus. We’ve too much killing to do. Methias is facing a damned demon… alone. That hardly seems fair to me. Is he always this selfish?” He kept his voice light, but there was no hiding the sharp edge beneath the surface.
Tharus stiffened. “He is.”
Did I misjudge you, Tharus? Are you going to stand idly by like the rest of them?
No sooner had these thoughts formed in Jast’s head than the hammer and his hound stepped toward the postern gate they’d worked so hard to clear. Jastar grinned to himself, readied both sword and shield … and followed.