Heartsteal
That guy who's not around much right now
Minke, Leaving the Port City of Uskortai
As was so typical of any morning, Minke seemed to be prepared to spend it hung over, or to be more accurate, would inevitably spend the morning as such. Casting the thin woolen blanket off of herself, which had apparently found its way over her shoulder in the middle of the night, Minke swung both feet over the edge of the bed, one settling on old oaken floorboards, the other on Kearg, still snoring softly.
"Same ol' frog-muncher," the red-haired woman croaked with a smile. Tip-toeing around the big man on the floor, Minke carefully picked up her things, pulled on her boots, and put her hand to the door's loop. Glancing over her shoulder, something inside the guardswoman wouldn't let her leave things as they were, and so she turned back, and haphazardly tossed the blanket over him, she could only assume he'd done her the same courtesy the night before, and as crudely as she often behaved, she knew where a debt was due.
Downstairs Alvar was waiting at the same table he'd occupied the night before, a scowl written deep on his features, a dark shadow over his face as Minke reached the bottom of the stairs, tugging at the kinks in her hair with nothing more than her fingertips.
"Oi, whassat, ye feelin' yer drinks Alvar?" she asked, dropping heavily into her chair, which creaked lightly at the rough treatment.
"Ow th' fook do ye not?" he asked, voice as aggravated as his expression, casting his gaze downward, counting the grain in the tabletop one could assume.
"Course ah do, tisn't so bad seein' ye so mis'rable though," Minke replied, laughing a little, which drew the baleful glare of more than just Alvar, several other patrons nursing the same ailment.
Alvar opened his mouth to say more, but at just that moment their Dylenor companions came down, looking worse than they did on arrival, which wasn't saying much for the little lordling, but his manservant?
The foothill clansman took a moment to choose his words, but Minke wasn't so tactful.
"Ye two look like ye've been rollin' th' pigpen," she said, no hesitation or remorse in her voice, and the stormy expression of the lordling somehow managed to grow worse, though with the driver it was impossible to tell, his face still swollen and purple like an eggplant had been stuck to his cheekbone while he slept.
"Like you're one to talk broodsow, have you no shame?" Driskoll replied in answer, scratching at the stubble beginning to form on his face, incongruous to his tone.
"Whaasat 'bout?" Minke replied, turning her seat to more openly face their companions, though her hand strayed a little too close to the knife at her belt for the others to be comfortable.
"Drinking yourself silly and going upstairs with the first man you see? Any woman in Kwovat with such behaviour would be called harlot, but here you call them guardswoman, or do I have that wrong?" the lordling said, expression not so much as budging as his forehead slowly grew red, his anger palpable.
"Now-" Alvar began, though Minke drowned him out with a sudden outburst.
"Ha! Y'know tis sweetat yer balls've finally dropped m'lady, but ah knowsat ye didn' jes call me a tumblin' gal," she barked, unruly hair seeming to raise around her like a fiery halo as her hand not only strayed to the knife at her belt, but fully grasped it.
"Now ye'd best be 'pologizin' lest ye be findin' a length o' steel in yer guts," she continued, voice growing quieter as violence was threatened. The other patrons of the bar scooted a little further from the small woman, though they may not have been entirely sure why. An old Sharian seemed to be perplexed by the situation, seated at the bar in silence as he watched, though none payed him notice, regardless of the stares he'd received earlier. Even Alvar backed away, he'd guttered Minke's fits of anger plenty of times, but never ones involving steel, he'd seen the cruelty the small woman had with the metal firsthand, and he certainly didn't want to be on the receiving end.
Driskoll unsheathed half his rapier at the threat, not wanting to be caught before the blade could clear its scabbard.
"I'll do no su-" and that was the end of his reply as Minke's knife flickered out, tip inches above his belt, razor edge catching the morning light like it would cut the sun itself, at least from Driskoll's point of view.
"My sincerest apologies madam, I'm new at use of your tongue, and have misspoken," he said, stumbling over his words like roots on a dark forest's trail. Both hands came up over his head, letting the sword snik back into its scabbard.
"At's what ah thought," the red-haired woman replied, her knife vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. As the foreigner began to relax, releasing a sigh at his avoided disembowellment, Minke's boot rocketed from the floor into his groin, enough force in it to lift the manchild from oaken boards for a moment, where he collapsed with a wordless groan, drool spilling over his lip in a frothy white wave.
"An' lookit 'at, gone right back up 'eyave," she spat, tempted to spit literally into the lordling's face.
The manservant stepped forward, struggling to force his jaw open past the swelling when Alvar intercepted the notion with words of his own.
"Believe me driver, 'at's good as 'e'd've got it," he said, hating that he had to stand up for his watch partner, but the poor lad just kept walking right into it; they were tasked with escorting the pair, they had little responsibility however as the lad should've provided his own guard.
Breakfast passed slowly, with furious glances exchanged like the blows of steel in the training yard between Minke and Driskoll. The rest of this trip would be an especially long one it seemed, and there was still another city between them and Hjatland, Undaw, a place neither soldier was overfamiliar with. Alvar quietly contented himself with eating his breakfast, as did the driver, but the less mature of the group sparred the air with naught but expressions, eating in hurried mouthfuls in the short breaks between staredowns.
"Iss'll be a long, long trip," Alvar muttered, brushing a bit of egg from his mustache as all four rose from their seats.
Sure enough, the next three days roadside were especially strenuous, Driskoll ending up with a mouthful of frosty grass one morning, and Minke woke with manure in her hair the next. On the third day things were silent, and more tense than the two days before combined. But at the end of it, when the city came into view, a squat dark outline while the sun set behind it, a wordless agreement was formed, and the four travellers hurried along, making the city near midnight.
Being allowed through after a short discussion with the gate guards, they were allowed in, though when they were, another argument struck. To spare the details, it was agreed that Minke sleep elsewhere, and she meet the group again come dawn. Seeing as the diplomat and his servant couldn't be left unguarded, one of the Bolos guards needed to stay with them, but Minke and Driskoll needed the night apart lest one not wake come the morn.
"Fookin' five-forker," Minke muttered to herself in the dark, walking sober through the city streets past midnight, something she scarcely remembered doing at all in recent years. The moon was full, hanging heavy and bronze in the night sky, a harvest moon if she'd ever seen one, a good omen, though it didn't match with the sense of dread that had hounded them since Bolos, whatever that was. But for the sound of the occasional hound, the city was still, silent in the gentle evening breeze.
Minke walked with nothing but her own displeased thoughts, though she heard the echo of her footsteps creeping up behind her, almost like two sets of feet on the cobbled roads. Ceasing her muttering, Minke listened to the footsteps, and heard a gently click click slowly approaching from behind. No doubt it was a stray dog, looking for scraps, but when she turned to shoo the mongrel, the guardswoman came face to face with an enormous cloaked figure, creeping quiet as a shadow up behind her, still several paces off. For a moment, both stood there, silent, staring at one another, the night air frozen between them as both remained unmoving. At the shadow's hip, Minke could see the silhouette of an axe, barely more than a hatchet to their grip, though it was bearded, so intended for combat rather than hewing wood. Whoever it was, they'd obviously gotten a good look at her own blade, still strapped across her back as tightly as ever. A dog howled somewhere in the distance, and both in the street burst into motion, as if the cry had thawed the time that stood frozen between them.
It was plain now that his hood had blown back, this was a Sharian, tiger's stripes catching the moonlight, turning his snarling face into a half-seen visage. While he charged, the Sharian drew twin axes from each hip, the second hidden behind his cloak, and whistled. While she didn't immediately understand why he'd whistled, the moonlight bouncing in her direction from Minke's right suddenly made her understand, this was an ambush.
"Whassa matter lilylivers!? C'mere an' dance wit' me!" she cried, freeing the cleaver from its housing atop her shoulder for the first time in months, the steel gleaming like the ice on a midwinter's pond, and with that familiar rasp of steel on leather, Minke smiled, wider than a woman's face should probably allow, and her eyes widened, the better to see all things around her. Then, with a shrill cackle, just before she was beset upon, the guardswoman's blade whirled to life, diving to the cobbles to deflect the twin axes coming her way, then sweeping high and to her right, toward the other light, both motions delighting her with the sound of metal striking metal, the second also carrying the warm spray of heart's blood, a wide gash opening in the tiger's thigh, leather covering peeled away like the skin off a ripened pear.
A pained cry escaped the tiger's throat, more a snarl than anything else, but Minke didn't pause, whirling toward her second attacker, who wielded a curved blade she didn't know the name of. Little did it matter as her cleaver swept around her, catching him in the collar before he could recover, the rewarding sound of bone being pulverized greeting Minke's ears. While she spun, an elbow met the tiger's ear, knocking him sidelong, and the guardswoman caught sight of a third assailant, a broadly-whiskered cat wielding some halberd or another, and with a quick step onto the tiger's knee, she was over the head, steel glittering as it thrust by. Landing with her back to the halberdier, Minke trapped the weapon's haft between her thighs, swinging with all her might at head level behind her, whirling as she did, twisting the weapon from his hands as the sword tore half his face away, little left of his muzzle but a bloody stump.
The entire time, Minke laughed, a high, ululating sound, while the Sharians surrounding her made little more than quiet snarls, trying to finish the job with as little outside awareness as possible, though there was fat chance of it now, the Mjulnir woman going on as she did. Turning on the tiger once more, within a breath of killing her last opponent, Minke swung again, striking out for his chest, though his axes met the blade with a shower of sparks and a grunt. Whirling in the opposite direction, her boot swept into the tiger-man's thigh, striking his injury, which drew a hiss of pain from him, then the blade followed again, striking at the opposite side, which were stopped again. One axe lashed out afterward, coming in toward Minke's arm. The axe whipped by where the guardswoman had been but a moment before. Shifting back, Minke's sword whirled around behind her, then it came back to the fore again, biting deeply into his side, striking into hip and sticking by the leather. The tiger then coughed up a lot more blood than ought to be coming from his mouth, and slumped to one knee, the fingers of his right hand falling dead, and the axe falling from it.
Finally Minke drew another breath, and with it, while she rose above her opponent, lifting the sword over her head, no longer cackling.
"Las' words?" she asked, giving the Sharian a moment to share anything he needed to say, hands too weak to keep his axes, life-threatening injury in his side, they both knew he'd die that night, it was a mercy to end it.
The Sharian had no words though, he spat blood on her boots, then struggled to rise, baring fangs; he didn't understand the local tongue perhaps, and the cleaver struck him atop the head, slicing halfway through his skull to come to a stop between his eyes, spurting ichor out the top of his head.
While she started to work the blade free of her last foe's head, Minke looked up, she didn't know why, to see another of their number watching from down the road where she'd come from, though that one turned and fled into the night.
"Fookin' great," Minke muttered, flushed red from within, and soaked that way from without. Breathing came heavy, and she looked around at the destruction she'd wrought.
"Ah did allat?" she asked herself, not entirely realizing what it was that she'd done exactly.
The body before her, skull cleft nearly in twain, bore markings similar to the last catman Minke had killed, on that chill night in Bolos. Examining all of the bodies more closely revealed the same strange markings scattered across leathers and weapons alike.
The rest of the night, including her flight from the scene were as hazy a memory as the fight itself had been. When dawn broke however, Minke groggily woke, huddled beneath an unknown wagon, backed to the very end of an alleyway. The blood that had once soaked, now crusted and flaked, chafing at the skin where it touched; apparently she'd not had time to clean herself before falling asleep.
Stumbling stiffly from beneath the wagon, the night's rest had done her no good, Minke slowly made her way toward the inn that her companions had stayed at. Scratching at the dried blood, hoping to pass it off as mud to other early risers, Minke irritably grumbled to herself over another sober morning. The night's events seemed almost lost on the short woman, but the feline eyes that followed her had not forgotten.
When Minke finally neared the inn, Alvar was standing outside, leaning against the doorframe as though he did such every day. While he was certainly a friendly face, it wasn't one that Minke found herself relishing to see.
"What 'appened te ye?" the inked man asked in the familiar bass rumble of his voice.
"Nothin," she replied in a mutter, picking a particularly large flake of dried cats' blood from her cheek as she did so.
Thankfully the Dylenor were both prepared to travel but moments after Minke's arrival, and they managed to hastily leave the city without incident. Alvar hadn't dropped the conversation the way Minke did earlier, but he knew better than to press it. Whatever had happened, she'd come to him in her own time.
Driskoll however was less lenient on the case, and insisted that she walk far ahead of the carriage lest they be mistaken as accomplices. Come noon there was finally time enough to stop by a farmer's field, where Minke took a dip in the cattlepond, rinsing the blood from her skin and scrubbing it from her clothes during their break for lunch. Come end of the day, the group had finally reached the wooded space of the lowlands, now outside the influence of Minke's own clan, though here the people knew of the foothill clans, and Alvar was treated with reverent honour to his face, and whispered trembling at his back.
Ten days in the wooded lowlands, and then the four passed through a series of foothill holdfasts, small villages with more than half the houses abandoned at any one time, where the locals spoke a dialect all their own, nigh indecipherable even to Minke, though Alvar managed to fetch them spare provisions for the journey North into the mountains on nothing more than his word, and a contest of strength. Driskoll whined for the hour it took Alvar and his new friend to prepare, saying that no favour could compensate for the time they were losing, but after their time wrestling in the frozen mud, Alvar walked away with a basket of wicker filled with smoked goat strips, and warm clothing enough for all four; so long as they promised to return the basket and clothes.
"What, by Ridsk's good truth, was all of that?" the lordling asked when Alvar returned to the wagon, scraped raw, sweat streaming down his chest and back, and flushed red the whole body over, his breath still coming fast.
"Atsa fight fer favour," Alvar began to explain, putting hands to his hips while he leaned back, eliciting a series of sharp pops from his back.
"An outsider asks fer favour, an' 'e fights wit' th' strongest 'ere. If'n 'e fights well, 'e's granted favour, win er lose," he continued. As if on cue, when Alvar finished explaining the small tradition, two women, and the man that Alvar had been brawling with came forth, arms laden in the small gifts they could offer. The two men went into a jovial conversation, laughing as they punched at one another again, trading words and blows as though both were a normal part of any exchange. The women who had helped carry the coats, and basket of meat smiled pleasantly, and left as casually as they'd arrived, without so much as a word.
The trip up the mountain was rather uneventful besides the Dylenors' whining, no avalanches thankfully, and the road was too cold, and too seldom used for bandits to lie in wait upon it. Twelve days spent struggling up mountain roads barely wide enough to admit their carriage, and while Driskoll refused to walk, both his escorts walked far ahead of the carriage, not by his request, but because of the delay the wooden vehicle caused. Twelve nights were spent camping on the mountain roadside, huddled around small fires that flickered and guttered in the razor-sharp wind. On the second night, the diplomat and his entourage camped outside the city's gates, as they refused to open in the middle of the night during a howling storm.
On that thirteenth morning however, when the gates opened in the golden light of early sunrise, the entire mountain shone like gold, ice bouncing the rays in all directions, turning the entire city to a golden jewel nestled into the mountaintops. While the outsiders gawked at how beautiful the morning sun was from so high above the world below, locals of Hjatland hurried about their own business, opening shop doors, setting up stalls, and moving to training yards in a silently choreographed show.
"So where must we go to speak to your king?" the driver asked, his jaw having healed over the journey North, though there was still a savage bruise below his ear, and a slight whistle when he spoke.
"We've no king, but Warchief Hjortur, Stag o' th' Mountain, is who ye've come te speak te," Alvar explained, not bothering to look over his shoulder as he did so.
"Stag of the Mountain?" Driskoll asked, mocking in his tone.
"Aye, Stag o' th' Mountain, the title 'e's earned through Huren's favour," Alvar answered, turning to face the lordling.
Driskoll paled at that. Huren wasn't as widely renowned outside Mjanmir, but an Aeon's favour still carried a lot of weight, regardless of popularity.
It took the better part of the day, navigating a maze of bureaucracy to schedule a meeting with the warchief, but come the following evening, they would be granted audience in the hall, after which would come a great feast; the day would be the brewmeisters' revealing day, the day after every brewer in the city finished a cask, and would present their drink to the warchief in his hall to celebrate. This was better known by the brewmeisters as the feast of favourites, when the warchief would select his favourite brew to be delivered to him for the remainder of the year, an honour, and excellent opportunity for business.
When the news reached Driskoll he muttered something under his breath about being early, though Minke and Alvar payed little mind to it.
A day in the capital was rather dull, besides finding a place to lay their heads, nothing in particular happened. Minke started a fight of out boredom, liquor was being held this day, to be binged on for the morrow. A full day in the city went by, and little was done. Driskoll and his servant both locked away in their rooms at the inn, Minke wandered in search of trouble, and finding plenty by the training yard, while Alvar hadn't a clue what to do with himself.
The next day however, was different, and much more lively. With dawn, a horn blared out across the city, loud enough that the mountains rumbled in response. With great cheer, brewmeisters revealed their newest casks of ale, stout, and whatever else they'd deemed to mix. Barrels taller than men lined the quarter, and drinks ran cheaply, a mere iron shim to a mug. Minke didn't even bother with a solid meal that day, running through every sliver of coin she had through the day, leaving her thoroughly rocked by the time the horn rung again, signalling the feast's beginning.
When that horn blared, Alvar, Minke, and the Dylenor alike made their way to the chief's hall, where the envoy would be granted his audience.
In the hall, as they entered, the group of four see the many others that have come before the warchief on this occasion, and know that they'll not be the first to speak with him, not by any order. Driskoll however, sends his driver off to fetch the kegs they'd brought along, assuring his guards that they'd be seen earlier should they bring drinks of their own on this occasion.
"Really though, a new beverage will be welcome change after suffering through so much of the slop your folk brew," the young lord insisted with a sort of crooked grin he hadn't worn before in all of the time they'd known him. Once the rune-marked barrels were brought in, Driskoll stepped forward from the masses, holding one over his head with both hands, and proclaimed:
"I've come from distant lands for this day Stag of the Mountain! My king wishes for talks of peace," he continued, the last almost an afterthought after how loudly he'd spoken the first. Now suspicion began to foster in Alvar's mind. Talks of peace should've been the first thing Driskoll mentioned, but now that he was being welcomed to the table, it was too late to do anything about it.
Hjortur had a broad grin beneath the beard that graced his face, one like iron wire, all in dark and prickly grey. He called to the Dylenor lordling, begging him sit at his table, feast on his food, and drink of his ale, the proper courtesy of him, welcoming a guest. Driskoll smiled, popping the cork from the small cask, and the sickly sweet smell of berry wine suddenly permeated the air, a fine sweet drink it would seem. Alvar tried to push forward, past the crowd of other folk, shouting not to drink, but his voice was overpowered, and there were simply too many for him to reach the warchief in time to warn of possible poison.
Just as the flagon reached full however, Driskoll slammed forward, like he'd been tackled from his seat, to land facedown on the table, a quarrel sticking from his back. With the festivities all around, someone had managed to fire a crossbow, killing the young Dylenor instantly, and just as swiftly, vanished.
A side door swung shut, while realization slowly dawned on all present. Without so much as a word, the Bolos guards were in action, Alvar moving to the warchief, bolstering the guard he already had, and speaking on Minke's behalf, while she sprinted out the door, slamming into it with her shoulder just before it latched.
Out into the cool air, festivities were starting to wind down, and stalls were being taken down for the evening, the sun just beginning to settle in for night as well. A glance left, nothing, right, a cloaked figure sprinting for all they were worth away from the hall.
"Oi!!" Minke bellowed, giving chase.
The assassin dropped a crossbow at her shout, a small thing, easily stowed within one's cloak if they weren't to be searched thoroughly. They continued to run however, and as Minke passed, she saw the light grain of the wood, the thin limbs of foreign steel, a Duender weapon; but what did they have to do with Driskoll?
Quick as a whip, the cloaked runner leapt atop a merchant's shoulders while he lifted the canopy of his stall, and sprung off, clambering up a vast keg of stout nearby, with obvious intent to take to the rooftops. Minke however pulled the knife from her belt, and threw it harder than ever she had before, though the shot was low, and barely nicked the lace of her target's boot, doing no harm at all. While they took to the roof, Minke tried to scramble up the cask as well, grasping her knife firmly, stuck halfway up the massive wooden barrel, and from there she clumsily made her way to the top.
The chase continued, Minke falling further and further behind at every twist or turn, her target just far more nimble than herself, and eventually, in the military district, she lost track of them, vanished around a corner, and by the time she reached it, they'd disappeared. Pouring sweat, and with hands scraped bloody and raw, Minke was forced to turn back the way she'd come, the sun nearly hidden beyond the horizon now. Scarcely able to hold a breath in her lungs, the lowland woman turned to the street she'd just been on, and couldn't remember for the life of her where she'd come from, nor ended up. Only once or twice in the chase had she seen a local guard, but none had been even half quick enough to join the pursuit.
Some time later, back in the warchief's hall, Alvar remained by Hjortur's side, struggling to contain the proud man's anger at the nerve of an assassin attacking him on such a joyous day. The city's soldiers were scrambled throughout the city by his orders, to search for the culprit, though they had no leads on them, and weren't likely to find them.
It was only after the hall had been locked down that Minke returned, and night had already fallen some time before. All she had for the chase was the crossbow, which Alvar and her both, doubted meant the culprit were Duender. More likely it would seem that the culprit be either a rival Dylenor, or a Sharian, possibly affiliated with the Shadowguard.
"Ah lost 'im," the crimson tressed woman said, exhaustion plain on her face, as to the best of their knowledge, she'd been on the chase for nigh on two hours if the time of her return could be any indication. More likely Alvar knew, she'd gotten lost, and it took about an hour to find her way back, though that still meant a long run.
"So it was the Duender that have deigned to assault my guests this day? They must realize this is an act of war!" the warchief boomed, louder than Alvar, even enraged, and by a wide margin. The man had earned the title of warchief though, he'd proven himself as the strongest not only before the eyes of men, but before Huren's as well, and been applauded by the Keeper.
"Apologies my chieftain," Alvar said quietly, bowing his head as he did so,
"I can't be sure 'at this was an attack o' Duender design."
"What do you mean boy?" Hjortur asked, and while the conversation was entirely serious, Minke couldn't help but snicker at the thought of Alvar being a boy, humour unaffected by her fatigue.
"I mean 'at young lord Driskoll 'as run afoul o' th' Sharian Shadowguard, and like to've made enemies o' 'is 'omeland as well. I think 'e came te ye in attemp' te escape 'em. Th' other possibility..." he said, looking to the cask as he said such.
"So you're saying that this could've been anyone? That there's no one enemy here," the warchief said the last more as statement than question.
"Indeed," Alvar replied in confirmation.
"Same ol' frog-muncher," the red-haired woman croaked with a smile. Tip-toeing around the big man on the floor, Minke carefully picked up her things, pulled on her boots, and put her hand to the door's loop. Glancing over her shoulder, something inside the guardswoman wouldn't let her leave things as they were, and so she turned back, and haphazardly tossed the blanket over him, she could only assume he'd done her the same courtesy the night before, and as crudely as she often behaved, she knew where a debt was due.
Downstairs Alvar was waiting at the same table he'd occupied the night before, a scowl written deep on his features, a dark shadow over his face as Minke reached the bottom of the stairs, tugging at the kinks in her hair with nothing more than her fingertips.
"Oi, whassat, ye feelin' yer drinks Alvar?" she asked, dropping heavily into her chair, which creaked lightly at the rough treatment.
"Ow th' fook do ye not?" he asked, voice as aggravated as his expression, casting his gaze downward, counting the grain in the tabletop one could assume.
"Course ah do, tisn't so bad seein' ye so mis'rable though," Minke replied, laughing a little, which drew the baleful glare of more than just Alvar, several other patrons nursing the same ailment.
Alvar opened his mouth to say more, but at just that moment their Dylenor companions came down, looking worse than they did on arrival, which wasn't saying much for the little lordling, but his manservant?
The foothill clansman took a moment to choose his words, but Minke wasn't so tactful.
"Ye two look like ye've been rollin' th' pigpen," she said, no hesitation or remorse in her voice, and the stormy expression of the lordling somehow managed to grow worse, though with the driver it was impossible to tell, his face still swollen and purple like an eggplant had been stuck to his cheekbone while he slept.
"Like you're one to talk broodsow, have you no shame?" Driskoll replied in answer, scratching at the stubble beginning to form on his face, incongruous to his tone.
"Whaasat 'bout?" Minke replied, turning her seat to more openly face their companions, though her hand strayed a little too close to the knife at her belt for the others to be comfortable.
"Drinking yourself silly and going upstairs with the first man you see? Any woman in Kwovat with such behaviour would be called harlot, but here you call them guardswoman, or do I have that wrong?" the lordling said, expression not so much as budging as his forehead slowly grew red, his anger palpable.
"Now-" Alvar began, though Minke drowned him out with a sudden outburst.
"Ha! Y'know tis sweetat yer balls've finally dropped m'lady, but ah knowsat ye didn' jes call me a tumblin' gal," she barked, unruly hair seeming to raise around her like a fiery halo as her hand not only strayed to the knife at her belt, but fully grasped it.
"Now ye'd best be 'pologizin' lest ye be findin' a length o' steel in yer guts," she continued, voice growing quieter as violence was threatened. The other patrons of the bar scooted a little further from the small woman, though they may not have been entirely sure why. An old Sharian seemed to be perplexed by the situation, seated at the bar in silence as he watched, though none payed him notice, regardless of the stares he'd received earlier. Even Alvar backed away, he'd guttered Minke's fits of anger plenty of times, but never ones involving steel, he'd seen the cruelty the small woman had with the metal firsthand, and he certainly didn't want to be on the receiving end.
Driskoll unsheathed half his rapier at the threat, not wanting to be caught before the blade could clear its scabbard.
"I'll do no su-" and that was the end of his reply as Minke's knife flickered out, tip inches above his belt, razor edge catching the morning light like it would cut the sun itself, at least from Driskoll's point of view.
"My sincerest apologies madam, I'm new at use of your tongue, and have misspoken," he said, stumbling over his words like roots on a dark forest's trail. Both hands came up over his head, letting the sword snik back into its scabbard.
"At's what ah thought," the red-haired woman replied, her knife vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. As the foreigner began to relax, releasing a sigh at his avoided disembowellment, Minke's boot rocketed from the floor into his groin, enough force in it to lift the manchild from oaken boards for a moment, where he collapsed with a wordless groan, drool spilling over his lip in a frothy white wave.
"An' lookit 'at, gone right back up 'eyave," she spat, tempted to spit literally into the lordling's face.
The manservant stepped forward, struggling to force his jaw open past the swelling when Alvar intercepted the notion with words of his own.
"Believe me driver, 'at's good as 'e'd've got it," he said, hating that he had to stand up for his watch partner, but the poor lad just kept walking right into it; they were tasked with escorting the pair, they had little responsibility however as the lad should've provided his own guard.
Breakfast passed slowly, with furious glances exchanged like the blows of steel in the training yard between Minke and Driskoll. The rest of this trip would be an especially long one it seemed, and there was still another city between them and Hjatland, Undaw, a place neither soldier was overfamiliar with. Alvar quietly contented himself with eating his breakfast, as did the driver, but the less mature of the group sparred the air with naught but expressions, eating in hurried mouthfuls in the short breaks between staredowns.
"Iss'll be a long, long trip," Alvar muttered, brushing a bit of egg from his mustache as all four rose from their seats.
Sure enough, the next three days roadside were especially strenuous, Driskoll ending up with a mouthful of frosty grass one morning, and Minke woke with manure in her hair the next. On the third day things were silent, and more tense than the two days before combined. But at the end of it, when the city came into view, a squat dark outline while the sun set behind it, a wordless agreement was formed, and the four travellers hurried along, making the city near midnight.
Being allowed through after a short discussion with the gate guards, they were allowed in, though when they were, another argument struck. To spare the details, it was agreed that Minke sleep elsewhere, and she meet the group again come dawn. Seeing as the diplomat and his servant couldn't be left unguarded, one of the Bolos guards needed to stay with them, but Minke and Driskoll needed the night apart lest one not wake come the morn.
"Fookin' five-forker," Minke muttered to herself in the dark, walking sober through the city streets past midnight, something she scarcely remembered doing at all in recent years. The moon was full, hanging heavy and bronze in the night sky, a harvest moon if she'd ever seen one, a good omen, though it didn't match with the sense of dread that had hounded them since Bolos, whatever that was. But for the sound of the occasional hound, the city was still, silent in the gentle evening breeze.
Minke walked with nothing but her own displeased thoughts, though she heard the echo of her footsteps creeping up behind her, almost like two sets of feet on the cobbled roads. Ceasing her muttering, Minke listened to the footsteps, and heard a gently click click slowly approaching from behind. No doubt it was a stray dog, looking for scraps, but when she turned to shoo the mongrel, the guardswoman came face to face with an enormous cloaked figure, creeping quiet as a shadow up behind her, still several paces off. For a moment, both stood there, silent, staring at one another, the night air frozen between them as both remained unmoving. At the shadow's hip, Minke could see the silhouette of an axe, barely more than a hatchet to their grip, though it was bearded, so intended for combat rather than hewing wood. Whoever it was, they'd obviously gotten a good look at her own blade, still strapped across her back as tightly as ever. A dog howled somewhere in the distance, and both in the street burst into motion, as if the cry had thawed the time that stood frozen between them.
It was plain now that his hood had blown back, this was a Sharian, tiger's stripes catching the moonlight, turning his snarling face into a half-seen visage. While he charged, the Sharian drew twin axes from each hip, the second hidden behind his cloak, and whistled. While she didn't immediately understand why he'd whistled, the moonlight bouncing in her direction from Minke's right suddenly made her understand, this was an ambush.
"Whassa matter lilylivers!? C'mere an' dance wit' me!" she cried, freeing the cleaver from its housing atop her shoulder for the first time in months, the steel gleaming like the ice on a midwinter's pond, and with that familiar rasp of steel on leather, Minke smiled, wider than a woman's face should probably allow, and her eyes widened, the better to see all things around her. Then, with a shrill cackle, just before she was beset upon, the guardswoman's blade whirled to life, diving to the cobbles to deflect the twin axes coming her way, then sweeping high and to her right, toward the other light, both motions delighting her with the sound of metal striking metal, the second also carrying the warm spray of heart's blood, a wide gash opening in the tiger's thigh, leather covering peeled away like the skin off a ripened pear.
A pained cry escaped the tiger's throat, more a snarl than anything else, but Minke didn't pause, whirling toward her second attacker, who wielded a curved blade she didn't know the name of. Little did it matter as her cleaver swept around her, catching him in the collar before he could recover, the rewarding sound of bone being pulverized greeting Minke's ears. While she spun, an elbow met the tiger's ear, knocking him sidelong, and the guardswoman caught sight of a third assailant, a broadly-whiskered cat wielding some halberd or another, and with a quick step onto the tiger's knee, she was over the head, steel glittering as it thrust by. Landing with her back to the halberdier, Minke trapped the weapon's haft between her thighs, swinging with all her might at head level behind her, whirling as she did, twisting the weapon from his hands as the sword tore half his face away, little left of his muzzle but a bloody stump.
The entire time, Minke laughed, a high, ululating sound, while the Sharians surrounding her made little more than quiet snarls, trying to finish the job with as little outside awareness as possible, though there was fat chance of it now, the Mjulnir woman going on as she did. Turning on the tiger once more, within a breath of killing her last opponent, Minke swung again, striking out for his chest, though his axes met the blade with a shower of sparks and a grunt. Whirling in the opposite direction, her boot swept into the tiger-man's thigh, striking his injury, which drew a hiss of pain from him, then the blade followed again, striking at the opposite side, which were stopped again. One axe lashed out afterward, coming in toward Minke's arm. The axe whipped by where the guardswoman had been but a moment before. Shifting back, Minke's sword whirled around behind her, then it came back to the fore again, biting deeply into his side, striking into hip and sticking by the leather. The tiger then coughed up a lot more blood than ought to be coming from his mouth, and slumped to one knee, the fingers of his right hand falling dead, and the axe falling from it.
Finally Minke drew another breath, and with it, while she rose above her opponent, lifting the sword over her head, no longer cackling.
"Las' words?" she asked, giving the Sharian a moment to share anything he needed to say, hands too weak to keep his axes, life-threatening injury in his side, they both knew he'd die that night, it was a mercy to end it.
The Sharian had no words though, he spat blood on her boots, then struggled to rise, baring fangs; he didn't understand the local tongue perhaps, and the cleaver struck him atop the head, slicing halfway through his skull to come to a stop between his eyes, spurting ichor out the top of his head.
While she started to work the blade free of her last foe's head, Minke looked up, she didn't know why, to see another of their number watching from down the road where she'd come from, though that one turned and fled into the night.
"Fookin' great," Minke muttered, flushed red from within, and soaked that way from without. Breathing came heavy, and she looked around at the destruction she'd wrought.
"Ah did allat?" she asked herself, not entirely realizing what it was that she'd done exactly.
The body before her, skull cleft nearly in twain, bore markings similar to the last catman Minke had killed, on that chill night in Bolos. Examining all of the bodies more closely revealed the same strange markings scattered across leathers and weapons alike.
The rest of the night, including her flight from the scene were as hazy a memory as the fight itself had been. When dawn broke however, Minke groggily woke, huddled beneath an unknown wagon, backed to the very end of an alleyway. The blood that had once soaked, now crusted and flaked, chafing at the skin where it touched; apparently she'd not had time to clean herself before falling asleep.
Stumbling stiffly from beneath the wagon, the night's rest had done her no good, Minke slowly made her way toward the inn that her companions had stayed at. Scratching at the dried blood, hoping to pass it off as mud to other early risers, Minke irritably grumbled to herself over another sober morning. The night's events seemed almost lost on the short woman, but the feline eyes that followed her had not forgotten.
When Minke finally neared the inn, Alvar was standing outside, leaning against the doorframe as though he did such every day. While he was certainly a friendly face, it wasn't one that Minke found herself relishing to see.
"What 'appened te ye?" the inked man asked in the familiar bass rumble of his voice.
"Nothin," she replied in a mutter, picking a particularly large flake of dried cats' blood from her cheek as she did so.
Thankfully the Dylenor were both prepared to travel but moments after Minke's arrival, and they managed to hastily leave the city without incident. Alvar hadn't dropped the conversation the way Minke did earlier, but he knew better than to press it. Whatever had happened, she'd come to him in her own time.
Driskoll however was less lenient on the case, and insisted that she walk far ahead of the carriage lest they be mistaken as accomplices. Come noon there was finally time enough to stop by a farmer's field, where Minke took a dip in the cattlepond, rinsing the blood from her skin and scrubbing it from her clothes during their break for lunch. Come end of the day, the group had finally reached the wooded space of the lowlands, now outside the influence of Minke's own clan, though here the people knew of the foothill clans, and Alvar was treated with reverent honour to his face, and whispered trembling at his back.
Ten days in the wooded lowlands, and then the four passed through a series of foothill holdfasts, small villages with more than half the houses abandoned at any one time, where the locals spoke a dialect all their own, nigh indecipherable even to Minke, though Alvar managed to fetch them spare provisions for the journey North into the mountains on nothing more than his word, and a contest of strength. Driskoll whined for the hour it took Alvar and his new friend to prepare, saying that no favour could compensate for the time they were losing, but after their time wrestling in the frozen mud, Alvar walked away with a basket of wicker filled with smoked goat strips, and warm clothing enough for all four; so long as they promised to return the basket and clothes.
"What, by Ridsk's good truth, was all of that?" the lordling asked when Alvar returned to the wagon, scraped raw, sweat streaming down his chest and back, and flushed red the whole body over, his breath still coming fast.
"Atsa fight fer favour," Alvar began to explain, putting hands to his hips while he leaned back, eliciting a series of sharp pops from his back.
"An outsider asks fer favour, an' 'e fights wit' th' strongest 'ere. If'n 'e fights well, 'e's granted favour, win er lose," he continued. As if on cue, when Alvar finished explaining the small tradition, two women, and the man that Alvar had been brawling with came forth, arms laden in the small gifts they could offer. The two men went into a jovial conversation, laughing as they punched at one another again, trading words and blows as though both were a normal part of any exchange. The women who had helped carry the coats, and basket of meat smiled pleasantly, and left as casually as they'd arrived, without so much as a word.
The trip up the mountain was rather uneventful besides the Dylenors' whining, no avalanches thankfully, and the road was too cold, and too seldom used for bandits to lie in wait upon it. Twelve days spent struggling up mountain roads barely wide enough to admit their carriage, and while Driskoll refused to walk, both his escorts walked far ahead of the carriage, not by his request, but because of the delay the wooden vehicle caused. Twelve nights were spent camping on the mountain roadside, huddled around small fires that flickered and guttered in the razor-sharp wind. On the second night, the diplomat and his entourage camped outside the city's gates, as they refused to open in the middle of the night during a howling storm.
On that thirteenth morning however, when the gates opened in the golden light of early sunrise, the entire mountain shone like gold, ice bouncing the rays in all directions, turning the entire city to a golden jewel nestled into the mountaintops. While the outsiders gawked at how beautiful the morning sun was from so high above the world below, locals of Hjatland hurried about their own business, opening shop doors, setting up stalls, and moving to training yards in a silently choreographed show.
"So where must we go to speak to your king?" the driver asked, his jaw having healed over the journey North, though there was still a savage bruise below his ear, and a slight whistle when he spoke.
"We've no king, but Warchief Hjortur, Stag o' th' Mountain, is who ye've come te speak te," Alvar explained, not bothering to look over his shoulder as he did so.
"Stag of the Mountain?" Driskoll asked, mocking in his tone.
"Aye, Stag o' th' Mountain, the title 'e's earned through Huren's favour," Alvar answered, turning to face the lordling.
Driskoll paled at that. Huren wasn't as widely renowned outside Mjanmir, but an Aeon's favour still carried a lot of weight, regardless of popularity.
It took the better part of the day, navigating a maze of bureaucracy to schedule a meeting with the warchief, but come the following evening, they would be granted audience in the hall, after which would come a great feast; the day would be the brewmeisters' revealing day, the day after every brewer in the city finished a cask, and would present their drink to the warchief in his hall to celebrate. This was better known by the brewmeisters as the feast of favourites, when the warchief would select his favourite brew to be delivered to him for the remainder of the year, an honour, and excellent opportunity for business.
When the news reached Driskoll he muttered something under his breath about being early, though Minke and Alvar payed little mind to it.
A day in the capital was rather dull, besides finding a place to lay their heads, nothing in particular happened. Minke started a fight of out boredom, liquor was being held this day, to be binged on for the morrow. A full day in the city went by, and little was done. Driskoll and his servant both locked away in their rooms at the inn, Minke wandered in search of trouble, and finding plenty by the training yard, while Alvar hadn't a clue what to do with himself.
The next day however, was different, and much more lively. With dawn, a horn blared out across the city, loud enough that the mountains rumbled in response. With great cheer, brewmeisters revealed their newest casks of ale, stout, and whatever else they'd deemed to mix. Barrels taller than men lined the quarter, and drinks ran cheaply, a mere iron shim to a mug. Minke didn't even bother with a solid meal that day, running through every sliver of coin she had through the day, leaving her thoroughly rocked by the time the horn rung again, signalling the feast's beginning.
When that horn blared, Alvar, Minke, and the Dylenor alike made their way to the chief's hall, where the envoy would be granted his audience.
In the hall, as they entered, the group of four see the many others that have come before the warchief on this occasion, and know that they'll not be the first to speak with him, not by any order. Driskoll however, sends his driver off to fetch the kegs they'd brought along, assuring his guards that they'd be seen earlier should they bring drinks of their own on this occasion.
"Really though, a new beverage will be welcome change after suffering through so much of the slop your folk brew," the young lord insisted with a sort of crooked grin he hadn't worn before in all of the time they'd known him. Once the rune-marked barrels were brought in, Driskoll stepped forward from the masses, holding one over his head with both hands, and proclaimed:
"I've come from distant lands for this day Stag of the Mountain! My king wishes for talks of peace," he continued, the last almost an afterthought after how loudly he'd spoken the first. Now suspicion began to foster in Alvar's mind. Talks of peace should've been the first thing Driskoll mentioned, but now that he was being welcomed to the table, it was too late to do anything about it.
Hjortur had a broad grin beneath the beard that graced his face, one like iron wire, all in dark and prickly grey. He called to the Dylenor lordling, begging him sit at his table, feast on his food, and drink of his ale, the proper courtesy of him, welcoming a guest. Driskoll smiled, popping the cork from the small cask, and the sickly sweet smell of berry wine suddenly permeated the air, a fine sweet drink it would seem. Alvar tried to push forward, past the crowd of other folk, shouting not to drink, but his voice was overpowered, and there were simply too many for him to reach the warchief in time to warn of possible poison.
Just as the flagon reached full however, Driskoll slammed forward, like he'd been tackled from his seat, to land facedown on the table, a quarrel sticking from his back. With the festivities all around, someone had managed to fire a crossbow, killing the young Dylenor instantly, and just as swiftly, vanished.
A side door swung shut, while realization slowly dawned on all present. Without so much as a word, the Bolos guards were in action, Alvar moving to the warchief, bolstering the guard he already had, and speaking on Minke's behalf, while she sprinted out the door, slamming into it with her shoulder just before it latched.
Out into the cool air, festivities were starting to wind down, and stalls were being taken down for the evening, the sun just beginning to settle in for night as well. A glance left, nothing, right, a cloaked figure sprinting for all they were worth away from the hall.
"Oi!!" Minke bellowed, giving chase.
The assassin dropped a crossbow at her shout, a small thing, easily stowed within one's cloak if they weren't to be searched thoroughly. They continued to run however, and as Minke passed, she saw the light grain of the wood, the thin limbs of foreign steel, a Duender weapon; but what did they have to do with Driskoll?
Quick as a whip, the cloaked runner leapt atop a merchant's shoulders while he lifted the canopy of his stall, and sprung off, clambering up a vast keg of stout nearby, with obvious intent to take to the rooftops. Minke however pulled the knife from her belt, and threw it harder than ever she had before, though the shot was low, and barely nicked the lace of her target's boot, doing no harm at all. While they took to the roof, Minke tried to scramble up the cask as well, grasping her knife firmly, stuck halfway up the massive wooden barrel, and from there she clumsily made her way to the top.
The chase continued, Minke falling further and further behind at every twist or turn, her target just far more nimble than herself, and eventually, in the military district, she lost track of them, vanished around a corner, and by the time she reached it, they'd disappeared. Pouring sweat, and with hands scraped bloody and raw, Minke was forced to turn back the way she'd come, the sun nearly hidden beyond the horizon now. Scarcely able to hold a breath in her lungs, the lowland woman turned to the street she'd just been on, and couldn't remember for the life of her where she'd come from, nor ended up. Only once or twice in the chase had she seen a local guard, but none had been even half quick enough to join the pursuit.
Some time later, back in the warchief's hall, Alvar remained by Hjortur's side, struggling to contain the proud man's anger at the nerve of an assassin attacking him on such a joyous day. The city's soldiers were scrambled throughout the city by his orders, to search for the culprit, though they had no leads on them, and weren't likely to find them.
It was only after the hall had been locked down that Minke returned, and night had already fallen some time before. All she had for the chase was the crossbow, which Alvar and her both, doubted meant the culprit were Duender. More likely it would seem that the culprit be either a rival Dylenor, or a Sharian, possibly affiliated with the Shadowguard.
"Ah lost 'im," the crimson tressed woman said, exhaustion plain on her face, as to the best of their knowledge, she'd been on the chase for nigh on two hours if the time of her return could be any indication. More likely Alvar knew, she'd gotten lost, and it took about an hour to find her way back, though that still meant a long run.
"So it was the Duender that have deigned to assault my guests this day? They must realize this is an act of war!" the warchief boomed, louder than Alvar, even enraged, and by a wide margin. The man had earned the title of warchief though, he'd proven himself as the strongest not only before the eyes of men, but before Huren's as well, and been applauded by the Keeper.
"Apologies my chieftain," Alvar said quietly, bowing his head as he did so,
"I can't be sure 'at this was an attack o' Duender design."
"What do you mean boy?" Hjortur asked, and while the conversation was entirely serious, Minke couldn't help but snicker at the thought of Alvar being a boy, humour unaffected by her fatigue.
"I mean 'at young lord Driskoll 'as run afoul o' th' Sharian Shadowguard, and like to've made enemies o' 'is 'omeland as well. I think 'e came te ye in attemp' te escape 'em. Th' other possibility..." he said, looking to the cask as he said such.
"So you're saying that this could've been anyone? That there's no one enemy here," the warchief said the last more as statement than question.
"Indeed," Alvar replied in confirmation.
Last edited by a moderator:
