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The Eastern Reaches, Durandelle



The season of Shan, Marcelle decided, was far too hot for his liking. Even at the night. Being an ambassador of the Arch Administration had its privileges such as being able to partake in exotic foreign pleasures such as drinking chilled mead atop the Far Edges of Skof or riding on one of the towering dromaderies of Chamchir. However, the weather of his homeland had welcomed him with all the grace of a tavern in the Southern Reaches. He had sweated non-stop. His beloved had given him pickled mustard stew as a means of relieving his ailments but all that had managed to do was imprison him in his privy for the last couple of days.

Darkness already shrouded the eastern reaches of Durandelle and was chasing the sun towards the south. The curtain of night was falling fast. From his window, he could see the sun desperately fading into the west past the Rive Red and into the emerald cradle of the Yonder Timber. Smoky fingers of cloud wildly grasped after it but kept their distance as if they were afraid to be burnt by it.

He dwelled on the sunset through the solar before returning to the brown, flaxen piece of parchment on his desk with contempt and boredom. It was the fourth message from the capital of Beningrad, sealed with the purple waxen fencefish of the royal court. He bended the scroll gently, the seal cracking apart as chips of wax scattered across the lacquered oak table. He didn’t bother looking at the decree. It had been the same one ever since he arrived at his hold a week ago. Dipping his goose feather into an inkpot, he and signed a messy scrawl before tossing it over his shoulder. The scroll fell into a heap that had accumulated over the past few weeks, paper mites crawling all over it.
All because of the damned Line of Lucroy.

The work had doubled – no, thriced – since Duke Devereaux had taken Saryonne from the hands of Estelle Lucroy like a fox in a hen house. Well, not directly. It was all seen as a normal succession crisis within a clan but even a blind man could read between the lines and see what had occurred. It was not an oddity for a noble family to be wiped from the face of the earth but it was odd for the Arch Administration to be this decisive about it. A common Durandelle saying was that people would die of starvation at the gallows long before the Arch Administration sent the headsman to chop their heads off. Now, a thousand owls had flown across the blue skies of Durandelle with proclamations of heresy, execution and revocation of rights in their claws. The retribution was so swift and unforgiving that Marcelle briefly pitied the former head of Lucroy.

As the sun set over yonder past the forest brush and Marcelle dipped his feather again in the inkpot, he cursed the duke for both lengthening his days and shortening the time he had on this earth to spend with his family.

---

The Yondertimber, Durandelle


“ I dare say, good sir, that you have been leading us in circles! Why, I tell you, if I must bear one more hour in the presence of these dirt hovelling peasants ”

“ Oi, headsman. Can ya slice the head of this gold-head farker!”

“ I wannnnnnt ma mmooomaaa!”

Ogar’s grip on his axe trembled. Oh by the Morning how he wanted to slice their heads off and bring blessed silence to the forest. The implacable control that had been drilled into him as the headsman of the Arch Administration had faltered for the first time today. That had not been the only reason though. They had been walking through the Western YonderTimber for almost five days now and the endless green planes of ash and hornbeam made his eyes ache.

“ All of you, quiet. Quiet.” Ogar’s voice was like a stone dropped in the middle of a placid lake. The clamor of nearly three dozen men, women and children stopped behind him. He turned on to regard the troop behind them. They were like an lead anchor on his leg. The closest to him were his fellow rebels from the capital guard. Turriere was behind him, the lieutenant of the bunch and the most experienced. Her red hair was cropped short to the root and her left eye was patched thanks to a crossbow that nearly went through her entire eye. There were three others: Alain, a wall pikesman, Orgyle the warren watcher who had freed the other captives and Bernadolle, a soldier who had been arrested and sent to the Pits for alleged theft.

The others were a motley crew of peasants and royal men who had been rounded up in the Warrens. When Orgyle had freed the lot of them from their cells, they were little more than skeletons in rags. The time spent fleeing and looting the countryside had sent fat and meat back into their bones and more. Hunger and survival had, to Ogar’s relief, destroyed any semblance of grudge or past errs between the prisoners but it had returned.

At first, it was just an argument or two about who deserved the bigger leg of rabbit or who needed to wash their clothes first. Then, it had escalated. The nobles had reclaimed their ballooned sense of self importance whilst the peasants had regained their superstition and distrust of the nobles that had wracked Durandelle into war. The camp had nearly broken out into fights several times and it was only with the threat of his longaxe that made their mouths gum up.

“ We stop here. It’s getting dark. You all set up camp now.” The unlikely troop behind him shifted and heaved off their packs, beginning to unfurl out sleeping furs and their assorted belongings. Ogar gave a second glance of the clearing they had stopped in. The grass was low and no high enough to hide vipers or men. The trunks of the trees were neck to neck with each other. It wasn’t enough to stop any army but even a dedicated horde of Chamchir whistlers would have trouble attacking them. The sun was already setting and the soft yellow light fled to herald the indigo dawn of sunset.

Once they had settled in, Ogar nodded to the remnants of the capital guard that had followed him.

“ I’ll go scout ahead. We should be near the River Red now. Turriere, watch over them. Have them quarter the moose. Start hunting for small game. Our provisions have nearly run out.”

“ Aye, God.”

Ogar bristled, biting back. “ I told you all not to call me that.” Only jeers and laughter greeted him and he signed as he watched his three – well, last three companions in the entire world bully and cajole the peasants into setting him camp for the night. He strode into the forest, his axe on his back, gathering his loose thoughts into his mind.

Even after a fortnight on the run from Beningrad, he still had no idea of where he was going or what he was doing, other than keeping his prisoners alive. He was pulling them from place to place like a shepard except if the sheep were all wild cats who kept clawing at him at every opportunity. It was all because of what he had chosen to do at that morning, at that time. Ogar tried to figure out what had made him attack the guard captain in the first place. He had sliced plenty of children’s heads off before. A holy man of the Blessing Path would find him irredeemable beyond salvation. So, why now? Why had his soul twisted when he saw her? The question wracked his head as he heard the sound of rushing water to his east and followed it.

He broke through a gooseberry brush and was relieved to find a slow-moving stream. The water was clear and the moonlight glittered off the black surface of the water. He kneeled down and dipped his hands through the water, splashing it through his hair. He brushed his short cropped red hair and took a moment to observe his face in the water. He was gaunter than before and the bruise that had blackened his sharp nose had faded into a splotchy purple. He pulled up his upper lip with his finger and winced at how one of his front teeth was chipped, a scar of his escape from Beningrad. His tongue licked it and the pain made his eyes water.

He sat still in the water, taking in the sights of the River Red and its silt and how it curved and cut through the wild green ravages of the YonderTimber. The air here was still and clear and free of anyone but himself.

He then speared his hand through the water and the pike that had been swimming near him wriggled in his sausage like fingers.
Moments later, it was staring at him with an open maw – perhaps in betrayal – over a blazing orange fire. With one hand on the axe, Ogar signed and leaned back against one of the great dagger trees that the region was famous for. The stars were out against the black tapestry of the night sky. Ogar didn’t get how the astrolancers could figure out the time of season and weather. To him, it just looked like grains of sand scattered over a great banner.

The executioner closed his eyes and signed. He would rest here for a few hours and return back to the camp. Hopefully, no soul would bother him here.

One foot in front of the other. Keep going.

Estelle Lucroy staggered through the forest, well aware that she was lost. She liked to think that she had a good sense of direction, but the sun had gone down and the trees of the YonderTimber had done much to conceal it even before then. Regardless, she didn't even know where she was trying to get to. For now, simply getting away from the hungry blades of the Duke's men would be enough.

They were relentless, ever since they'd failed to spill her blood at the family estate. That was what, a week ago now? It was hard to say, given the way the days and nights had blended together in one nightmare of flight and survival since then. I should've stayed, she thought, stayed and fought with Roland. Better to die defending my home than out here, hunted like some wild game. And die she would have, for there had been a small army of the Duke's thugs sent to squash any resistance. She didn't want to think about what likely happened to Roland, and what was left of the household guard.

Estelle had remained on the move since then, her pack growing lighter every day. She'd been forced to abandon nearly half her supplies on the second night, believing she was safe enough to light a fire and cook, only to draw half a dozen of the Duke's faithful to ambush her. She hadn't slept much since then.

Yesterday she'd grown bold enough, or desperate enough, to enter a small village. She stood out plain as day, as even though her cloak and clothes were filthy from days of woodland travel, they were finely made and tailored, and the lowborn didn't walk around with swords sheathed at their hips. She got the sense that news had traveled of what had occurred in Saryonne, as she found many doors closed to her. Fear was draped over that place like a blanket.

An old widow had taken pity on her, though. Sylvie, she'd called herself, and Estelle accepted her offer of hospitality, filling her belly with a soup that was somehow more disgusting and more delicious than anything she'd ever tasted. Sylvie didn't ask questions, for which Estelle was thankful, instead sharing her own story of the village's woes, bemoaning how their fear had let evil take root in the forest, how the young only ever thought of themselves now. Estelle found it hard to disagree.

She gained precious little rest there, as the Duke's men rode through that night, forcing Estelle to make a quick and quiet escape back into the woods. They no doubt learned that she'd been there from the terrified villagers, and they soon picked up her trail, which Estelle had no great skill at concealing. A few small rivers and streams helped her shake them, but the entire next day she refused to stop.

The heat was oppressive. Estelle's deep brown hair was matted around her face where it was left loose, her long braid in sore need of repair. Her clothes stuck uncomfortably to her skin, and she'd long since taken off the cloak and shoved it in her pack, as there was plenty of space for it. She dared not remove what little armor she had, knowing she might need to fight at any moment. Her stomach rumbled, unsatisfied with a bit of soup the day before. The sun's daily demise was welcome in that it cooled her off, but the darkness settling in was unnerving. So many things came to life at night in the woods, and she couldn't seem to shake that feeling of eyes upon her.

A snap of a twig made her stop in her tracks, frozen, adrenaline suddenly forcing her wide awake, as alert as ever. Her bright green eyes widened, trying to search through the dying light to find the threat. Her hand found her sword hilt, loosening the blade in the sheath. Another noise, a rustling of a bush, from another side. Her heart pounded, making it difficult to hear, and the fear started to take over. Instinct won out, and she ran.

She didn't know how far she went sprinting through the trees. Estelle swatted branches out of her path, going and going until her legs ached, her lungs burned for air, and still her mind told her she needed to put more distance between her and whatever was nipping at her heels.

She saw it too late to react: a fire burning somewhere on the other side of dense brush. Estelle tumbled through, spilling forward into a clearing and falling face down at the side of a stream. She scrambled to right herself, pushing herself up with a grunt of effort, laying eyes on a large man, a large axe, and a fish over the fire. Jumping back with a start, Estelle ended up on her rear, face half-speckled with mud, her hand back on her sword hilt.

"Who are you?" she asked, her voice unexpectedly hoarse. She cleared her throat. "What are you doing out here?" He didn't wear the uniform of the Duke's men, or her uncle's. In fact, he seemed somehow vaguely familiar, but Estelle couldn't place why. All she cared to determine for the moment was: friend or foe.

---

It was a good night to hunt.

Barabas knew it in his bones. The portents were already there. The sky glimmered with the Spear of Calesvol and he could see the head pointing to the Herd of Stars through the dense thicket of trees that the YonderTimber was famous for. He spurred his wylderhog forward. The beast dwelled in the north of Skof up in the high mountains. It was squat and was no substitute for a fine destrier or steed but the YonderTimber was inhospitable to all forms of cavalry. The brown-furred beast between his leg was akin to Durandal boars if they had bred with bears and had horns longer than most men.

Barabas blew a three-tone whistle – two high and one low. A shuffle of hooves and crumpled leaves indicated that they had all stopped behind him. He stepped off his horse and unslung his spear. It was carved from cinnamon wood and the tip held a barbed tongue of blue steel. He brushed the edge through a bush and narrowed his eyes upon meeting resistance. He pulled it out. The tip had stabbed into a torn piece of white fabric, stained brown and red. Barabas took off the tip and sniffed deeply. He turned around to regard the pack of mercenaries behind him.

“ What do you smell?,” He tossed the ragged piece of leather to one of his huntsman. His name trickled into his mind a moment later. Yuren. A new fusilier. He was from – Barabas pursed his lips – Chamchir. No, not Chamchir. A border town between Durandal and Chamchir. It was the olive skin and the slick black hair that would have him confused for one of the desert wanderers. The young mercenary took several sniffs and then, spoke in a measured tone.

“ Burnt tea wheat from Saryonne.”

“ What do you feel?,” Barabas asked again. Without a word, Yuren passed it to the next fusilier standing to his right. She was Orago of the Laughing Bell. Her family worked as bell tenders in the churches of the Holy Hundred. It was said that years of tolling the bells had rendered her mad and that the only sound that would make the bells go away in her mind was the symphony of screams.

“ Fine linen.” Orago closely rubbed it in between the pad of her thumb and ring finger with a giggle. “ Not woven. Needle-sewn by seamstresses.”

“ What do you taste?” The next fusilier was a obscenely large man from the alpines of Skof. In Barabas’s opinion, Skof men had the physique for a good hunt but were never shrewd or high-minded enough to make use of it. The Skoffian took the fabric and stuck into his mouth, slowly sucking on it like toffee.

“ Blood. Noble blood.”

“ The Lady of Lucroy -is cunning but not so cunning to outfox the likes of us.” Barabas crushed the fabric in between his fingers and signed in mock sadness. “ Ah, to think this hunt is so close already! I must applaud her for entertaining us so. I would not be so cruel to take out my rage on such a fearsome quarry such as her.” He smiled at his pack, his pack to command. “ A swift death would agree with her, wouldn’t it, boys?”

The mercenary crew cackled and laughed in chorus. Barabas mounted his wylderbeast and waved his spear in the direction of the densest thicket of the forest, where the fabric had been found.

“ She can run as far as she likes. It is no matter. Our wylderbeasts will ride her into the sun until she is blinded by its light.” His voice then became low. “She remains mine, though. A Lucroy is a rare quarry enough and Lucroys – lucroys will not go without a fight.”
Barabas took off the scarf covering his throat and his men flinched. A long mottled collar of white scar and pale pink flesh circled his neck. “I learnt that myself.”

---

Ogar was just about to reach over to take a bite of his fish when the stranger burst forward from the bush. His instincts took over, hand reaching for the comfort of his axe handle. He had brought up his axe and raised it just above his head, the fire illuminating his figure in ghastly orange light. His mind had been worn and weathered from the countless ambushes by Devereaux’s soldiers. The thought of killing, chopping off her head, came easy to him as offering a handshake. They had tried talking and negotiations first but after the second or third ambush, chopping off heads was a more effective way of communication. Why shouldn’t he? That was all he was good for. Chopping heads and forgetting.

He was about to swing down when the questions unmanned him. His arms trembled and then, he dropped his arms down. Her armor was soiled by mud, her long locks of brown hair had been marred by the YonderTimber and those brown eyes were full of desperation. She was alone. Ogar had always longed for solitude but he wasn’t so sure of it now after looking at this stranger who had disturbed his dinner.

“Oh, the Duke must be truly desperate now if he’s sending the likes of you to finish me off,” He whispered quietly. Slowly but surely, he tilted the head of the axe downwards, the blade cutting a thin groove in the wet river loam. Scratching the back of his head, he walked to the fire and tore off a hunk of pike, the skin charred black and brown. It was hot but his hands could handle it. He walked back to the stranger. Awkwardly, he kneeled down on his knees, hands parted out. His axe was set on the mud nearby, just within reach.

“ I’m –“ He nearly said his name but decided against it. “– I’m lost in this damn fucking forest is what it feels like. I was just about to have that nice big pike over there.” He nodded to the chunk of roasted fish in his hand and then, stared back at her with some modicum of sympathy. “ Look. I’ve been fighting constantly for the last ten moons and tonight’s the night I finally get some rest. Now, you can either keep treating me as though I’m going to stab a knife in your back or you can sit by the fireside to share that nice juicy pike with me.”

---

Glossary

[1] – Shan – One of the ten Arch-Lords who was responsible for the end of the Old Aeon. Shan is frequently both reviled and worshipped in Durandal for his witch hunts that ravaged entire villages out of fear and superstition.
[2] – Beningrad – The capital of Durandal.
[3] – Astrolancer – Astrolancers, practitioners of an obscure branch of thaumaturgy, receive generous stipends and offers from noble contractors to act as their personal wayfarers.
[4] – Colonial Fusiliers – A famous mercenary group hailing from beyond the Black Tide. Currently under the employ of the Arch-Administration.
[5] – Wylderbeasts – Chimeric fusions of regular animals. Believed to have been the results of magical experiments conducted by ancient Lutin.

Almost everything in Estelle told her to get on her feet again and keep running. The fire is a death sentence. That is, if he doesn't kill me himself first. Why didn't he give his name? I can't trust him. And yet... the smell of a cooked fish was like a siren's call. Once he'd lowered his axe, the stranger's mannerisms were gentle enough. If I'm going to die, might as well die with a full belly.

She took her hand away from her sword hilt, cautiously plucking the hunk of fish that was offered to her. "...Thank you," she said at last, sampling the bit of pike. Maybe she was just starving, but it was better than any fish she could remember. Slowly, she got back up and made her way to the nearby running water, keeping the stranger in sight. She knelt down, undoing her bracers and pulling off her gloves, tucking them beneath her sword belt.

The water was cool as she dipped her hands into it, and Estelle briefly worked to clean the mud from her face and hair. "My name is Estelle," she offered, wondering if perhaps being the first to do so would prompt the man to return the favor. "I'm... well I suppose I'm lost in this forest too." She still didn't know what to say to strangers. She was plainly highborn by her accent, so there was no hiding that, but it seemed ill-advised to tell others she was being pursued. Hunted. It invited others to either abandon her to save their own skins, or otherwise try to offer her up to the hunters.

There was no making herself look respectable in the current conditions, but once she was done with the stream she stood tall all the same, finding some measure of composure. She joined the stranger at the fire.

"There are... bandits in this forest, no? And worse? Is a fire not a risk?"