Alkara sighs into the tavern’s counter. Minutes creep by. Nearly an hour has passed with no sign of Eryl. She worries the wooden countertop with one hand, rubbing the grain with calloused fingers. Nearly a week had passed since she’d seen him.
Where is he?
Someone claps her shoulder and she fidgets. She smiles at the man, not really seeing him. The whole “Aberrant-Bane” thing grows every day and bringing with it unwanted attention.
The contents of two mugs disappear with no sign of Alkara’s drinking companion. She nurses the third, letting the first two dull her thoughts. A drift of heavy pressure pulls on her arms and legs.
Alkara’s mood sours as her drink warms. Her posture slacks, shifting her body to lean against the counter. The last gulps of ale force the mug to mirror her insides. Empty.
Alkara stares at a bowl of dull brown stew. Small morsels of meat swim in the broth. What might pass for a potato chunk pokes up through the surface. Glin must have placed it there during her last drink.
She drags a pair of Silver Wreaths from her pouch and places them next to the plate. It’s overpaying, but she avoids asking Glin for a total.
Alkara shambles out of the Melted Griffin and into the cold night. Guen pads along without comment, her only constant companion. Alkara pulls her cloak tight against her body, trying to block her thoughts with it.
Soft sobs peal from an alleyway. Alkara looks around, no one else is on the street. She sways a little as she makes her way to the alley’s entrance. With one eye closed Alkara peers down the corridor, past debris and excrement.
A woman, hunched over, shields something in her lap. Her shoulders rock with each sob. Bedraggled brown hair covers the woman’s cheeks.
“Um. Hey lady. Are you okay?” Alkara calls out. She turns her ear to the woman and narrows her eyes. The darkened alley gives no help for the inspection.
The woman stiffens, but doesn’t turn. She shakes her head.
Alkara shares a glance with Guen. Air catches in Alkara’s chest. Her muscles awake to anything new. “What’s wrong?” She steps sideways into the alley, peering back at the street a moment. “Do you need help?”
The woman weeps, each sob throws her hair forward to stick more strands to her tears. She throws her head left and right. “It’s too late,” the words come in choked pauses.
Sharp thoughts dig at Alkara. A familiarity gnaws at her. Guen growls, the warning sits low under the woman’s sobs. Alkara steps closer, “Too late?” She blinks at the woman, wishing away the blurry ale she’d drank, “Too late for what? What happened?”
The woman shifts and Alkara freezes. The sobs cease. Her heart thumps a steady background to Guen’s growls.
The crying woman turns, and pulls her hair from her face. Alkara steps back, reeling. Her eyes open up, taking in the woman with sudden clarity.
Alkara stares at herself.
She blinks the woman away but still she sits in the alley. Some dull ache starts in the back of her head. Is this a nightmare? Had she fallen asleep at the Griffin? “What- what’s going on? Who are you?”
The other Alkara snaps up, then advances. Each step pounds with ferocity. Guen snarls and the woman stops. She grits her teeth, “Why didn’t you stop?” She jabs a finger at Alkara. “This is your fault! They’re all dead because of you!”
Alkara stumbles back. “N-no. What?” She feels for the alley’s wall and trips, falling on her butt. “Who? I didn’t—”
“You could have stopped. They warned you!” The other Alkara flings the long wooden thing in her hands toward the real Alkara.
The other Alkara flings a long wooden thing, “You could have stopped. They warned us!” The wooden thing clatters against the wall next to Alkara.
She shields herself with one arm but the thing lands in the dirt. Guen steps in front of her, baring her teeth. Alkara shakes her head. Everything crumbles in her head. Thoughts zoom through without sticking. She looks at the flung object.
With a cry, Alkara flinches and flings an arm up to shield herself as the thing clatters against the wall and lands next to her in the dirt. Guen steps in front of her, baring her teeth. Alkara shakes her head. Everything crumbles in her head. Thoughts zoom through without sticking. She looks at the flung object.
The wood is straight and thin. A scabbard. Inlaid with darkwood and tied with blue cord, the scabbard looks just like Unle Iro’s.
Alkara’s heart clenches. “No. No!” She grabs at the scabbard. She looks back up at the other woman, but she’s gone. The street is empty. Alkara whips her head around, searching, trying to listen for footsteps, but she hears none. She collapses to the ground with a sob, clutching the scabbard to her chest.
Guen pushes into Alkara with a shoulder. The panther nuzzles Alkara’s face. One grating lick pulls Alkara’s attention. She swipes her face, sopping the tears with a sleeve. “Thanks Guen.” She sniffs.
She stumbles from the alley and toward the house. The scabbard digs into her hands. Leaden steps drag her onward.
He’ll be home. Has to be. That woman was a phantom. Too much to drink. Never shoulda brought him to the trainings. And Chiron… Dre…
Cold clings to her insides. Facing her companions, the challenge of explaining what happened, the thoughts tumble through her. Everything she tries brings ruin and misery. She’ll just leave—
She pushes through the door home and a powdery, tan substance explodes in her face. She coughs and growls. Her heart pounds in her ears as she slams the door. She swipes at the substance caking her face, mixed with tears. “CHIRON!” The substance blurs her vision, leaving vague shapes.
Chiron chuckles, “It’s not my fault you went out drinking.” He leans back on his bed, putting his hands behind his head. “You’d catch them if you paid attention.”
Clutching the scabbard, Alkara crumples. She thuds to her knees and throws her hands out to keep from faceplanting. The chill she’s been feeling freezes over, gripping her.
One more mistake. I can’t do anything right.
Thoughts assault her. Accusations pile up, burying her under their weight. What can Alkara do against their number? With too many to fix it’s only a matter of time before she surrenders.
Alkara’s breath catches in her throat. She gags and tries to suck in air but nothing fills her lungs. She coughs, trying to force the powder out.
“Here.”
Dre’s soft voice startles Alkara. She flinches from the sound before stilling. Dre offers a cloth.
Alkara stares at it and her mind blanks. A knot tangles in her stomach. She takes the damp cloth and wipes the caked powder from her face.
Dre looks on with softened expression. No hint of judgment crosses her face, “Do you want to talk about what’s wrong?”
Alkara hangs her head. She works the cloth against her face longer than needed. More tears flow. Dre always asks what’s wrong, not if Alkara wants to talk about it. She smushes the cloth against her face, welcoming the irritation. Even in moments like this Sengmar’s death changes their relationships.
“What’s this?” Dre gestures to the scabbard.
Alkara squeezes the scabbard, her voice comes out as a whisper, “It’s a— it’s—” Alkara sniffs and tries to stand but her legs won’t cooperate. “Where’s Uncle Iro?”
“Here, Alkara,” Uncle Iro stands in the doorway to his room. His brow creases, “Now what’s wrong? You’re worrying Dre.”
Alkara stares at him, her eyes watering. After the first wave of relief, she starts to notice the cuts and bruises. The conspicuously clean tunic, not yet belted down. The deep gash along his forearm that the tunic doesn’t cover. The leg that he’s not quite putting all his weight on.
Alkara sags. “What happened?” She mumbles with a cry in her voice.
Uncle Iro watches her for a moment before he shrugs, “Ah well, you know what they say about trying to milk an owl bear.”
“You were attacked! They could have killed you,” Alkara chokes out.
Iroshi bobs his head side to side, “Unlikely. They offered to take me to their benefactor.” He cocks his head with a grin, “But then didn’t know who that was.” He clicks his tongue while shaking his head.
Alkara blinks at her tears, but they keep flowing. She wipes her face. Desire to fling herself into Uncle Iro’s arms builds in her. She snivels, looking around at the flour she’s sitting in. She lets the cloth fall from her hand and her shoulders slump.
“Here,” Dre says, reaching for the cloth. Alkara hands it over and Dre heads to the basin to rinse it, handing Uncle Iro the scabbard with a significant look on the way. When she returns, Alkara notices the cloth is freshly stained with blood. Uncle Iro had been wounded enough for Dre to help. It’s getting difficult for Alkara to see through her tears as she continues to wipe the flour off.
Uncle Iro turns the sheath in his hands, peering over the filigree. He raises his eyebrows, “Aww for me?” He gives Alkara a lopsided grin, “You shouldn’t have—”
Alkara pushes at a clumpy bit of flour under her eye, “Someone… gave it to me.” Slight pauses eat at her sentences. “She looked just like me. It— I don’t know how.” She hangs her head, staring at the flour outlining her legs. “She threw that at me.” With one hand she wipes at some flour, but the clumps dig under her sleeve. “The woman said you were all dead.”
Uncle Iro nods. “I see.” He compares his scabbard with the doppelganger. “They’re cousins at best. This one isn’t my style.” He tosses the fake to Chiron. “Our adversary knows illusory magicks. Not an enjoyable secret to unveil. We’ll need be more careful.”
Alkara nods. She stares at the flour surrounding her. It would be stupid to try to clean like this. She’d just track more flour into the house.
Chiron sighs with a heavy exhale. He places the fake scabbard down and grabs a broom, “Finish cleaning up. I’ll get the floor.”
Alkara sniffs and nods, unable to say anything. She pushes herself to her feet before turning to head outside.
“Stop,” Chiron waves to the basin, “I’ll clean whatever you track inside.”
After washing and cleaning, they gather together. Uncle Iro sits at the table with furrowed brow. “Cato the Younger confirmed our suspicions.” Steel ropes tighten in Alkara’s chest as Iroshi continues, “More than expected. The Dorsey Home is keeping a tight grip on it though, so infiltration is unlikely.” He leans back in the chair, “I don’t think we should try to infiltrate, not with our fame. Cato will check around.”
Alkara stares at the ceiling from her cot. Her muscles relax. The ale dulls her awareness further, making her sleepy. She dreads what waits for her. Images of her family laying dead swim toward her. She turns on her side and blinks herself awake, but is dragged toward sleep nonetheless. There is no rest. There is no escape. There is the fight during the day. And the fight at night. And as much as Alkara enjoys fighting, she’s just… so… tired.
Just a few hours before sunset the next day, the Waste Walkers cross the river from the Wastes back into the city proper. And Alkara wonders if she’ll ever feel normal again. Outside of fighting. During fights she feels alive. Whole. Compleat.
Dre’s chatter chisels into Alkara’s thoughts. She blinks at her sister. Dre waves her hands and motions with her fingers, “Did you see the size of its venom gland? It induces a convulsive response, so I should be able to distill it into an antiepileptic!” She frowns, “The other one was destroyed by your arrow.” She falls silent for a precious moment. “To think these creatures engender uncontrollable spasms.” She sighs, “Extraordinary.”
“I hope we find another fungal-infected aberrant. It’s a shame this one wasn’t.” She counts on her fingers, pointing to each with her dominant, “I really expected that one to have it in the brain stem at least. But its brain wasn’t developed. Just a nerve cluster.” She stops, eyes wide, “Do you think its brain was located somewhere else?”
“Maybe its butt,” Chiron offers.
Dre turns to him with a half-smile, but Chiron’s laugh strips that from her. She sighs and walks on, “Ileta and I have been ruminating on the fungus, how it spreads and its lifecycle. She postulates they reproduce through spores. But to grow so long in the brain before dispersement…”
Dre continues, ignorant of any attention either Alkara or Chiron pay her. Chiron oos and ahs with a smile. Every few sentences spawns a question from him. He winks at Alkara or raises his eyebrows too high at each. Alkara shakes her head and chuckles. Dre rattles off more qualities and characteristics of the venom gland she’d removed without apparent notice.
The words drift into the background for Alkara. Even on a good day she finds Dre difficult to understand. But with the nightmares comes a murky mind. They come unbidden most nights, a more frequent companion than any she’s had save Guen. And with the events of the previous night there were plenty nightmares to manifest.
The trio take the ferry across from the ruins and pass through the small islet. The south road strains with people. The old city gate stands open, the gates themselves wait for another day they might be needed.
Chiron raps Dre on her collarbone while looking at a poster. “Hey—”
“Ow,” Dre rubs at her collar. “What did you—”
“Do you think that looks like Uncle Iro?” Chiron jabs his thumb at the poster with a smirk.
Alkara taps her fingers against her lips. The image from so far away portrays a greyish person, certainly. She pushes through the a few people to get closer.
It doesn’t really look like him, not really. It’s close though. The name is a dead giveaway.
“Wanted Alive – 500 Gold Crowns. Forsaken elf. Name: Iroshi. Bring to keep.”
Alkara stares, frost spreads down her arms and into her fingertips. Her heart catches in her chest. Five hundred crowns would bring every mercenary down on him. Sweat beads down Alkara’s back.
“It’s like the artist has never had to color someone with dark skin before,” Chiron laments.
“And the facial structure isn’t right either. His cheekbones aren’t that high. And his eyes are much too close together.” Dre muses.
Alkara turns, mouth slack. She rips the poster from the plaster and takes off at a jog. Dre and Chiron stop their chatter and follow. Alkara has to get home fast. She needs to warn him. To leave town. Whatever it takes. Five Hundred gold begs for a killer to come looking no matter what the poster says about being taken alive.
They find an empty home. Alkara whimpers, “It’s too late.” Spots drift through her vision. “They got him already. What are we— what am I— It’s all my fault—”
“Shhh,” Dre cuts off Alkara’s rambling, “That’s not likely. Even if every sellsword decided take up the hunt, he’s not easy to find.” Dre reaches out but stops before committing and places her hand on Alkara’s shoulder.
Alkara shakes her head, “What if he wasn’t? What if he didn’t know and they got him first?” Her voice rises with the questions, “For five hundred crowns any number of people would come after him. What if you’re wrong? He’ll—” Alkara’s voice catches in her throat. “I have to find him.” She turns and runs out the door, Guen sprints behind her.
More posters mock her at the Melted Griffin, the Scriveners, and some market stalls. She tears each down. With no sign at the market her thoughts darken. They got him. She goes back to the river and docks. Anywhere Uncle Iro might be.
She hustles through the city to a candy shop, a crafty woodworker who sometimes makes odd contraptions Uncle Iro turns into traps, and the city gates. She stays at the gates for a time. Alkara jogs to the keep and asks about the posters. No one has redeemed the bounty yet, but the guards laugh and tell her she could try for it.
Alkara stalks through the old town markets and stares daggers at anyone that might be involved. People begin to give her a wide berth, fleeing from her wild strides and demeanor. Fruitless hours pass.
She leans up against a wall, trembling with the effort of holding back the tears, knowing that the worst has happened. The weight of it all. She can’t take this much longer.
“Alkara.” A smooth, familiar voice. She opens her eyes. Chiron stands in front of her, the corners of his eyebrows tight. “Uncle Iro will be okay. You know that, right?”
Alkara’s face twists up. The tears she’s been holding at bay flow. She shakes her head. “I don’t— he was so hurt. What if—”
“Come on,” the command forces past Alkara’s questions. Chiron extends his hand, “Let’s go home. I bet you a coronal he’s waiting.”
Alkara let’s Chiron take her hand and lead her home. “How long have you been following me?” She mumbles.
“Since you left the house. Dre’s worried about you Alkara. We all are.” Chiron smiles but it doesn’t reach past his mouth. “You never laugh anymore. Or talk to us. Your sleep—” he trails off. “I don’t think you really sleep anymore. And you insist on taking the most dangerous assignments alone.” Chiron stops and turns to her, “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”
Alkara looks down at Chiron’s feet, “I told you… I can—” She swallows. “I can handle myself. I have to—”
“To keep us safe?” He cocks an eyebrow. “Are you paying attention? You’re trying to solve this problem the same way, and it’s not working. When are you going to try something else?”
Alkara sighs. Her mind struggles to keep up with all she’s been doing, “I don’t know what else to do.”
“Well, you could let us have some fun, if we’re going to be targets anyway.” Chiron says with a grin in his voice. “You’re not the only one who likes a challenge.” He chuckles, “Come on, we’re almost home.” Alkara says nothing but follows him.
Uncle Iro sits next to a smoldering fire. The light dances across his face. “Now where in the world have you two been?” He sniffs with an exaggerated expression, “Running around hasn’t done you a kindness.”
Alkara droops, stumbling to her bed before collapsing into it.
“Alkara insisted on looking for you Uncle.” Chiron flops onto his own cot, “We tried to tell her.”
Uncle Iro smirks, “Mmm. sounds about right.” He whistles a low, jaunty few notes. “She doesn’t listen to me these days either.”
Alkara scowls, “There’s a five-hundred crown bounty on your head!” She throws her pillow across the room. It lands near Iroshi’s feet.
Uncle Iroshi chuckles. “I’m not throwing it back.” He shakes his head, “Five hundred. There’s a bounty twice as great in Kimbal.”
Alkara stares at her adoptive uncle. Her heart quiets, the hair on the back of her neck pricks up, “What did you do?”
He barks out a laugh. “For once, not a damn thing. Minding my own business, wearing one of my favorite tunics. Just happened to be the wrong color.” He pauses and gets a wistful look in his eyes, “I miss that tunic.”
Chiron snorts, “What’s so special about a tunic?”
The wistful gaze turns dark. Uncle Iro turns to Chiron with a sparkle in his eye, “You’ll understand once you settle in to a commitment.”
Chiron’s expression falls away, his mouth agape.
Alkara furrows her brow as she laughs, “Chiron’s probably the least likely of us to ever settle down Uncle.”
Uncle Iro holds Chiron’s gaze for a little longer before turning back to Alkara and shrugs. “Maybe. In any case, I’m heading out of town in the morning.” He nods at a satchel next to the door. “I’ve been prepping since I saw the posters. Gonna see what I can find out about the Earl. He seems to be pretty involved with whoever is after our family, if he’s not the one himself.”
Dre furrow her brow, “Isn’t he originally from Westbriar?”
Uncle Iro nods, “As far as I’ve been able to find.”
He’s going to Westbriar.
The heavy weigh pulling on Alkara lessens. A few tears drip down her face. She stifles a yawn, “How long do you think you’ll be gone?”
Uncle Iro shakes his head, “Not sure. As long as it takes. It’s our first solid lead. I’ll follow it as far as I can.”
Alkara nods, already drifting off to sleep.
“Promise me you’ll take care of each other while I’m gone.” Uncle Iro says, looking around at the three of them.
Alkara’s eyes fly open and she glares at Uncle Iro, who turns and holds her gaze steadily.
“We promise.” Dre and Chiron say together.
Uncle Iro looks at each of them and nods, then turns back to Alkara, simply waiting.
Alkara’s jaw tightens as she clenches her teeth. Is he trying to make her feel worse? He might as well have slapped her in the face. “I promise,” she says with a growl as she rolls onto her side to face the wall. Her cot creaks and shifts as Guen hops on and stretches out next to her.
“Good.” Satisfaction in his voice.
But Alkara’s stomach roils. The last time she’d made that promise, she’d gotten Sengmar killed. How is she supposed to keep Dre and Chiron safe when the Earl is involved?
She curls up into a ball and squeezes her eyes shut, willing the nightmares to stay away.
Yeah. Good luck with that.
Sweet cherry aromas cloy at the barrel’s insides. Blindfolded, Iroshi jostles along inside along some uneven road. Probably not in the city anymore. He smiles to himself.
Cooped up.
Iroshi pitches into the barrel’s side. No ruts line this road. The rocking and bumps showcase an untraveled path. Except for this lot.
Uneven knots in the dirt discomfort the journey. Their presence means the trackless path leads through the wastes. And so this is one of danger. Without a way to defend himself, Iroshi-in-a-barrel sits easy for aberrant predators.
Iroshi grows accustomed to the smell. The pervasive perfume drills into his nostrils until nothing else remains. The wagon slows.
And stops. Iroshi pushes his ear to one of the barrel’s gaps. Shifting weight shifts the wagon back and forth. Muffled voices. A greeting. Another shift as someone else climbs aboard. Iroshi strains to make sense of it, unsure if his assessment is accurate.
Iroshi settles back as best he can. The barrel provides an inhospitable inside. The change in driver means they’ll be traveling awhile. Iroshi sighs, and closes his eyes despite the blindforld.