Still Can’t Believe I’m Putting This Out

The Dark Wielder Chapters 2 & 3 (not fully edited)

The Dark Wielder, a high fantasy novel in the works by a sixteen-year-old senior student from India, continues on Medium.com! Chapters 2 & 3 here!

(once again, these are early drafts, and so an error may or may not creep into the manuscript)

Enjoy :)

(Chapter One can be found on the link below)

https://medium.com/@duggalshivraj/i-wrote-a-book-and-i-have-nowhere-to-put-it-f19ce4c2161f

Chapter 2; The Butcher

/Planet Erhin

Theren of house Rolan was a light-skinned woman with wide, brown eyes. She had long, thin eyebrows and a rather cunning nature.

She was a tall lady, somewhere around the five foot nine mark.

She walked into a great wide corridor in the home of house Rolan. The corridor just outside her chamber was vast in size. The light of Wiola — the sun of the world Erhin — shone brightly on her, like a spotlight, all non-living objects seeming dim in comparison. The sunlight entered through large windows in her corridor.

Great marble pillars were holding the ceiling up, six on each side. Each decorated with markings of ancient Corr, the native, but not commonly spoken language of Erhin. The pillars were decorated with paintings of her family’s victories and conquests in the past.

Theren walked out with a straight, confident posture. It was early in the morning — her family was asleep around this time, whereas she would wake the earliest for she had business to attend to. She walked across the great hall, her heeled footsteps on the marble floor booming loud enough for Sir Muriel to hear. She looked straight ahead and saw Muriel, the short man in his long gown, approach from quite far away. They crossed paths and stopped.

She looked down at him judging his height with a condescending stare.

‘Sir Muriel.’ She formally greeted him. She wondered how could her father have possibly knighted this man.

‘Lady Theren.’ He said in his soothingly calm voice. She never wanted to mention it, but she always thought his voice to be terribly mismatched to his appearance.

‘I was informed that an urgent matter has come up, what of it?’ She asked him. The man was not only a Knight but a cheeky spy as well, working for Theren and heading her group of spies.

‘We believe that there has been a sort of… discreet invasion, as you may call it.’ Muriel said, wearing an aghast expression on his face. He had his hands folded, and was wearing a rather long gown, which drooped over the floor. His gown was terribly wrong by measurement, sleeves tightly wrapping around his wrist, and the bottom of the gown drooping way further than it should. It sort of annoyed her at times. If a knight were to wear a gown, leastways he should wear it in a formal manner. She thought.

’Invasion?’ She laughed, ‘How so?’

‘Well we believe two-hundred vicers have arrived on the shore of Kais, just South of here.

Vicers? She thought. The last time she’d seen one in Loazer was quite a while back in fact. And that too just a ravaging prisoner who escaped. They didn’t often make their way up here.

‘Vicers? Whereof?’ She asked Muriel,

‘I assigned three of our secondary spies, namely Evan, Hvit, and the Earthian Dek, to look into the matter. In fact it was Dek who spotted it when he was doing his duty you assigned him to, by the shore. He saw two hundred vicers arrive, not one citizen questioning them.’ Muriel said.

‘You’re talking about vicers, and not humans. You are sure of it?’

‘No m’Lady, my eyes were lying to me. They have deep regret for their actions when they reflected on how I punished them afterwards.’ He batted his eyelashes sarcastically.

She ignored him. ‘He is an efficient worker, that Earthian, it must be said… I — did he follow them?’ Theren asked, doubting that the man of Earth would have. They were all cowards.

‘He may be an efficient worker, but you know the way men from Earth get scared, like little cats being chased by dogs.’ Muriel said.

‘Understandable, but why were they not questioned? Sir Muriel, as a knight, you must inform my father that you… somehow spotted them and attempted to question them, just say this lie and ask him to please assign more security on the shores where gem-boats arrive.’ Muriel’s look softened a little bit — as if in weakness — as she said this.

‘But it is not the pressing issue as of now. Is there any idea as to where they are of?’ She asked again.

‘Dek spoke of the men having large visible scars, so presumably from Layonas.’ Muriel said.

‘Layonas? But the war is taking place in that planet, why would they send so many slaved vicers to our planet at this time of peril, when they need all the men they can get?’ She said.

‘My lady, you know what a gem-boat is, I take it?’ Muriel said to Theren with a small grin. Theren rolled her eyes, she didn’t want to waste time on his nonsense but often ended up —

‘It is a boat with an enchanted diamond on the end of it, which allows one to travel through dimensions and to other planets — ’

‘Muriel, yes I am well informed of the mechanism of a gem-boat. Why are you wasting time? We know these vicers are slaves of the kingdom Kaandor, I take it?’

‘And I am sure you are well informed that Linteres’ kingdom in Layonas, started by the crazy dairy farmer, Sorman Lintere — ’

‘Muriel, stop!’ Theren screamed

‘ — began a kingdom rebelling against the founder of Kaandor, namely Layon Rathor — ‘

‘Please, we do not have the time,’

‘ — Who is the ancestor of the current head of the kingdom, namely Koralisar Rathor, engaged in war with Eswan Lintere, the current ruler of the rebelling Linteres’ Kingdom — ’

She stood there with an extremely annoyed expression on her face and her hand on her head.

‘You paint with words, sir.’ She said.

Muriel laughed slightly and then said, ‘But you understand, My Lady, my point is that they have been sent here as spies, at least according to Isolde’s inference.’

‘Everything you said before had absolutely no relation to your point!’

‘But my lady now it is you wasting time. Please let us not drift astray into the ashes of dead matters.’

‘Ah.’ She replied, rolling her eyes, as she usually did when speaking with this ill mannered knight.

‘Why does Isolde believe them to be spies?’ She asked.
She heard the click of a lock, and the large metal door at the entrance of her corridor swung open.

In walked a man, who had long dark hair, a muscular build and a stern look on his face. His hands were behind his back as he walked up to the two.

He bowed down to Theren and greeted Muriel with a hand shake. Theren enjoyed the company of Isolde; he was well mannered, the head of her spy department ,only second to Muriel’s spoken command, and he carried out all the actions and orders. She looked at Isolde and smiled at him.

‘My Lady, I believe they are spies, but poor ones. They have no commander and have been seen at various spots in Unith, after they journeyed across Kais. We have followed and spotted various scarred vicers in the er… brothels, around Unith.’ Isolde began.

‘So they have not come here as slaves, then?’

‘It would be safe to guess they are here as spies — ’

‘I do not see how they could be spies, Isolde. All two hundred just…washing ashore on their gem-boats, being spotted all around the brothels in Unith? No — this sounds more like they are here on business.’

‘Business?’ Muriel asked, ‘M’Lady, why would two hundred slaves come here on business?’

Theren shrugged her shoulders, ‘To be slaves.’

Isolde widened his eyes in disbelief.

‘You are not suggesting that someone in Unith itself is hiring them?’ He asked.

Unith was a town on the outskirts of the capital of Loazer, namely Kenneth.

‘That is exactly what you and your team must look into, Isolde. Muriel, draft up the strategic plans, I want the investigation to begin.’

Muriel bowed to her, ‘Right away, m’lady.’

Isolde smiled at her, and walked toward hero as Muriel exited the corridor.

‘M’Lady, we must look into this matter as of now, but another has arisen, of grave importance.’

She frowned, looking towards Isolde, ‘What is it?’

‘The Triad. Reports are in from Dek that they came along with the vicers.’

Theren’s eyes widened, ‘You must be kidding me.’

***

‘There, you see?’ The fat, old man said, bent over the table working on the massive beast that lay half-skinned and dead.

‘Yes father, that’s the precision of an actual butcher.’

Keran Rolan — the lord of Loazer — looked towards his son Lothar with a deep frown.

‘Heed not in calling me a butcher you foul bastard!’

His father took the pleasure in calling him a bastard, even though he wasn’t one, but was his youngest born child. ‘Before I dethroned my uncle Georgon, I was a bloody butcher, selling meat off of a poor man’s shop, abandoned by my family. Now I am the Lord of Loazer, the Great fekhin West of Erhin. The last thing I wish to be called is a bloody miserable butcher.’

‘Yes, father. You were, once, a bloody miserable butcher.’

The fat, old man slapped his son across his pale yellow cheeks. Lothar was never a favourite of Keran’s. But he did teach him obligatory lessons a father must teach a child like Keran taught his two elder brothers, and some to even his sister.

‘You’re too liberal with that bastard tongue of yours, Lothar.’ Lothar would always get terribly angered when he would be called a bastard. Keran picked up a goblet of wine kept at the corner of the rickety wooden table. Keran took a sip of his wine and relaxed. Lothar, on the other hand, was frowning with his mouth slightly opened, his left cheek now had the mark of Keran’s hand in red.

‘Son, do not let me unravel myself into such an idiot. Do not be so insolent.

‘I am teaching you how to butcher, because this, this is what I was banished to by my family. My uncle Georgon ruled Loazer as a drunk pig. Before you all came along, I lived like the beggar this one’s son probably is,’ Keran said, pointing at the local butcher who stood in the corner of the room, watching. He had a slightly distressed look in his eyes as soon as Keran said so, but did not respond in any manner.

Lothar looked towards the glass of wine kept in the corner of the table, then looked at his father’s belly. He then looked him in the eye and smiled.

‘Oh don’t call me a bloody pig,’ Keran said, with a hearty laugh, ‘Georgon was a fekhin pig. I on the other hand, was the man who unravelled him into his true form. I took everything from that son of a bastard. Everyone worshipped me like I was a bloody god. And I loved it. Do you understand, the power that even a butcher can have, with a little bit of luck?’

Lothar slowly nodded, eyes lost staring somewhere into the ground, deep in thought. He’d began to consider what his father had to say.

***

The air in the room felt melancholic. The small room felt claustrophobic as the green walls closed in on Theren and ten other men, two being Muriel and Isolde. Little light shone through a small window, each man illuminated more than the dimly lit objects.

This meeting was taking place in a house owned by one of Theren’s spies, namely Shen. It was at the break of dusk. Aside from these ten men, absolutely no one knew of Theren’s operations. Dek, the only man from Earth in all of Erhin stepped up to speak. He stood up, but his leggings were beginning to fall off so he quickly pulled those up. They were loose for him because he was very skinny and didn’t bother to buy a new pair since a long time.

‘We spotted two hundred spy vicers on the coast of Kais. They proceeded to move someplace; I did not follow but recently we located many of them, by their scar trademark, in brothels all around Unith.’ He said.

‘Should we… take care of it?’ The short Muriel asked.

‘How do you propose to kill two hundred vicers when they clearly out-strength any soldier in Kenneth?’ Theren asked, starting to get irritated by him again. The walls were starting to make her feel more and more claustrophobic. She looked at Shen in a discerned manner.

‘We know where to find them.’ He said.

She looked at the walls more and more; it felt as if the room was getting smaller and smaller.

‘In the plain sight of men in the brothels you propose we kill them? And if only the whore is a witness, you propose we kill her, an innocent, along with them in the process? Killing two hundred men is not an option.’ She said.

The room grew in on her further as she frowned. She looked at Shen again.

‘We could capture them.’ Isolde said.

‘Unith’s law system is not devised very well, er, no offence meant M’Lady, but it would not show a spec of difference if one or a hundred or two hundred were gradually kidnapped. And of course, these Kaandorian slave vicers, so vulgar and lazy, they probably don’t even know why they are here.’ Muriel cheekily said.

‘Sir Muriel, whether in Unith or Kenneth or anywhere, in fact, a mass kidnap like this is one that we can not carry forth.’

‘Muriel is not wrong My Lady. I know not much information regarding Kaandorian vicers, but they do not seem in any condition to work… A gradual capture of all these people would not be a difficult thing. In Unith especially.’ Dek said. There was a moment of silence as the talk diminished.

The walls stopped closing in on her so much as she moved back subtly while lowering her head to think about it.

‘Capture one of them first.’ Theren said.

‘What?’ Said Muriel, as if he was going to disapprove this.

‘Capture one of them first.’ She said again. She kept her stern voice and her wide eyes staring at Muriel.

Isolde also didn’t look like he wanted to approve this, but he did not contradict her command. Instead he just said, ‘Why one, M’Lady?’

‘We can capture one, question him and find out where the rest are.’

Isolde looked to the short man, and they both understood her stand on this. Jumping to the conclusion and capturing them all out in the open may not be sagacious.

‘Very well. As you say M’Lady.’ Muriel said. He nodded and walked out of the room. Isolde followed and the rest. And then Theren left the room as soon as it started to close in on her more and more.

***

Rothrin, the oldest child of Lord Keran Rolan, walked into the butcher’s room. He too was fair skinned, tallest of all, and he was thirty years old — slender, but also the most tenacious and skilled warrior by the sword. He was like a second father to his siblings.

The tiny room had strings of meat and full cows and what not hanging on the walls. At a corner of the room was a butcher, who stood in an apron and had a large flat knife in front of him, and his hands behind his back.

Rothrin had his green sheath on his belt, made out of the finest leather in Loazer. He felt like unsheathing his sword and cutting up that full cow hanging on the wall opposite to his father.

Unlike his younger brother, he did not consistently smile while trying to proving others idiotic.

He was gracious.

He saw a massive beast, a huge deer being sliced up. Lothar was standing with his hands together behind his back as his father enthusiastically explained to him the ways to cut the deer up. Firstly, skin it. Use the long, narrow but sharpest blade. Once done, precisely cut off the bones using a smaller knife. Split the dear in half and let the blood leak. Marinate it with a little bit of salt, Unithian seasoning is said to be the best, the ones found even at the general markets. Cook it over a fire half my size, and you’ve got a feast, he thought. His father had already taught him how to butcher. His father had already taught Theren and Nathanial as well, who was the second oldest brother out of the three. Lothar turned around, ‘Oh, brother, as you can see, father is teaching me his old ways.’ He said.

His father casually picked up his goblet of wine and took another sip. Lothar stood smirking. His short hair stood straight as usual. Always complemented his smirk.

‘Father?’ Rothrin said. The fat man turned around with a brow raised.

‘Yes, Rothrin?’

‘I’ve looked into the reports, and we’ve three incidents to discuss.’

‘Oh good, please for Krilin’s sake get me out of this wretched room.’

Lothar — like his brother — had a green coloured sheath on his waistbelt. He unsheathed his sword. It had the mark of a snake, unlike any other Rolan’s sword. It had the head of a snake on the tip, and the handle was green in colour. It was scaled and had jagged, burnt edges. It had seen fire, war, and blood many times before falling into the hands of Lothar.

He held it out and began to cut the bones of the deer out, as Keran and Rothrin watched in confusion.

‘What in Krilin’s sake are you doing?’ Keran asked.

‘Father, I’m deboning the deer.’ He said, with his thin eyebrows tilted upwards as if he were expecting disapproval.

‘No, Lothar. This is not the scrupulous way. You must use a shorter blade, for precision. The long blade is only used to separate the skin from the meat.’ His older brother advised him.

Keran stood with a slight eyebrow raised to see whether Lothar would listen to him or act as he usually does.

‘I use whichever bloody blade I want, brother.’ He said in an acrimonious tone of voice.

Keran just lost hope and muttered a few curses under his breath, and Rothrin walked off. He did not like being disrespected.

Rothrin and Keran were walking off out of the Butcher’s room and unto the hall just opposite Nathanial’s chamber. Odd, these Rolans were, keeping a butcher and a butcher’s room inside their home. Keran prided himself most on his second son, Nathanial, and so built his room exactly opposite to his own chamber.

Lothar could hear his father and elder brother speaking. Once he paid attention, he could only listen to a few words out of his father’s mouth. He said, ‘Either way, Rothrin, your love for him or Arabella’s, or mine, in fact, does not change the fact that he is the worst son a Lord could’a asked for,’ he said in his rough accent.

Bickering away to glory, isn’t he? Lothar thought.

Keran stopped walking, and a second later, Rothrin did the same. Lord Rolan turned around towards his younger son, ‘The feast will be served in a twenty-fourth,’ he said. A twenty-fourth meant a half hour. ‘You may come if you like, bastard.’ His father and older brother turned back around and walked towards the hall.

Lothar hopelessly stood there in the butcher’s room. He started pressing his lower teeth hard against his upper teeth and stiffened his neck. He lowered his eyebrows and began to let anger pent up inside him. He screamed in rage, his cheeks red for he stiffened his face completely in a fit of rage. His father could not care, neither did Rothrin. They were used to the boy’s sulking.

***

Chapter 3; Laughter And A Feast And A Brobdingnagian

/In Unith.

Isolde and Muriel were sitting in Isolde’s home in Unith. He had a small place and lived as a commoner in the D’Wani leagues, for it would help him to be discreet in his business.

They were sat in the topmost chamber, the one which Isolde chose to sleep in, for it had the least bit of the foul smell of D’Wani. The drainage systems of the whole of Unith passed through these leagues. It made D’Wani far too malodorous, yet it made it affordable to live in at the same time.

‘Yes, exactly.’ Muriel said to Isolde, who was sitting by the window. Wiola’s light shone brightly on Isolde, like a spotlight. ‘

These men aren’t exactly the smartest. They will not care about till when they are in brothels. That is where we must be not too discreet, but not too loud. We must behave casually.’

‘Sir Muriel?’ Isolde asked. Muriel raised an eyebrow.

‘In the brothel establishment we are visiting down the street, which three vicers did you say to go visit?’

‘Izaak, Yuron and Sajh. However, from what we’ve found out, you’re to capture Izaak, when Yuron and Sajh go to the, er, their privacy, and Izaak is alone, you must seek him out, and him only.’

Isolde frowns. ‘Why him?’

‘Heed not in business that is not yours.’ Muriel smartly said.

‘I am getting out of my chair and going to the bloody brothels to capture someone on another’s command, and so I bloody well have the right to know why him.’ Isolde said. It was very out of character for him to speak out so vindictively.

‘Calm down Isolde,’ Muriel said. Isolde hated when he said that.

‘Only Izaak because… I like his name.’

‘…What?’

‘I like the sound of his name, Isolde, what else must I say to you?’

‘What about which one is equipped with more vast knowledge? Something far less eccentric, a reason perhaps, for me to go after this, “Izaak”, do you not think so? Maybe one of them is a commander?’

‘Kaandorian vicers are not given a commander. That is how they are able to waste way their time in brothels. Even during a mission,’ Muriel said, ‘but if you are to throw such a fit, I will come with you, as a mere showing of my compensation.’

‘Sir, come, don’t come, I don’t care I just follow your orders and report back to you once I do the work according to your commands.’

Muriel rolled his eyes in frustration, ‘It is alright. We only have information about their names, capture whichever one you want, as long as at the time that you’re doing it, make sure that no one is watching. Except me of course!’ Muriel laughed.

Isolde showed Muriel his wide smile, lips going edge to edge, he always had a funny smile. Muriel bowed to Isolde and they both shared a laugh.

‘I’ll be done in a sixth.’ Isolde said. A sixth meant two hours. Loazians, for quick exchange of words, measured time in a short way by devising a system using the logic behind dividing a wall clock. So a twelfth of a wall clock became an hour. A sixth of it becomes two hours, a third becomes four, and so on. Strange folk.

Isolde turned towards the rickety wooden door that was broken on the edges. He stopped for a second to fathom how terrible his chamber was.

‘Oh, Isolde?’ Muriel said, ‘Who is the third one coming with us?’

‘Pires.’

‘Oh not him. Why is he even with us anymore?’ The knight said in his posh accent.

Isolde liked Pires, he was a sincere worker and didn’t get half as much appreciation as he deserved. Isolde always picked him above the rest of the spies in Rean, Theren’s spy group, but the rest of them would only talk nasty things behind his back. Perhaps judgementally of his enormous size. Some would even call him a white vicer, considering he was about as tall as the tallest vicers.

Isolde started to look at Muriel’s green, diamond patterned gown with a judging eye. It drooped over the floor, which was not very clean. The fat man noticed this and looked down. ‘Ah, I see.’ He said. He raised his gown by pulling his hands up. Muriel and Isolde shared another laugh.

***

Pires was walking down the markets of D’Wani. He had no real feeling about it. This market was for the dirt poor of Unith. Kenneth, the home of the Rolans, had far nicer market places. He did not hate this place, but he had no sincere affection for it. He lived a few leagues outside of Unith, in Onsroad, incognito. Pires did not love his life there. he only loved to work as a spy for Theren’s cause.

Pires felt a little tug on the back of his shirt. The incredibly tall, ugly man looked behind and saw someone not even half his height, a little child. With a hoarse voice, he attempted to say ‘please’ a few times, to which he followed with, ‘Mon-money.’

‘Oh get on out of here little rascal.’ Pires said, not willing to spare a gold coin or two to the poor boy. The boy had very scraggly hair and a little sack with holes for his arms and legs to pass through. It was a very rough yellowish-brown colour, a common sack you would find to carry any ordinary items here. The child started to shed a few tears, and in his coarse voice said please in a manner Pires had never heard before. He felt a little bit of sympathy for the boy but kept his ground stern. He was not a very well to do man.

‘Oy poor boy get out’a mah way y’little rascal!’ Pires said, using his enormous hand to slap the child on his belly. The child flew to the ground, and Pires continued to walk towards where he was to meet Isolde and Muriel outside some smithy in the marketplace. The child was lying on the floor at a slight distance away from Pires. All were staring at Pires and he started to feel a little uncomfortable. He looked around at the people staring at him and felt a little bit disheartened for the child, but at the same time obligated to pick him up and righten his wrongdoing, for he did not want to attract attention.

He went over to the boy, took out a small gold coin — a Pennicle — which had a sprinkling of inscriptions, one was that of a golden crocodile, the ren-call of the house Rolan. Another was of the eagle, the ren-call of house Tansha of Arlonar, the dead lands.

There were other smaller, unimportant inscriptions on it. He handed the coin from his rough, scarred right hand to the boy, for which he was thanked. People still looked at him with a judging eye but eventually went back to doing their own business.

***

Isolde and Muriel were standing outside the Smithy, waiting for Pires to meet them. The smithy was in the middle of the marketplace of D’Wani — the same dirt poor market the whole of Unith is accustomed to using. It was a very vast and stretched market place, which carried on for quite a few leagues, and all of Unith bought their supplies here. The smithy was not too large, but, nevertheless, the blacksmith had a wide selection of items. Isolde was looking at it; there were all sorts of weapons, from small butcher’s knives to large and sharper swords. The grated metal of the forging plate stood vast and proud among a crowd of poorer tools in the shop humbled by it. It’s shiny yet rustic look caught Isolde’s eye — as did things and people built around functionality, much like the forging table. There were defensive weapons, shields and hand-guards. Isolde bent in further to see something hung up on the wall of the smithy’s shop: a scripture. It had writings of the great war of the East of Erhin — between the Rolans and the Tanshas. The Tanshas were the rulers of Arlonar, which was a vast kingdom extending throughout the Eastern edges of Erhin. It had writings about how Georgon Rolan secretly built up an army and flanked the Tanshas from the shore, killing every citizen in the East. The memory of the war was still quite fresh in the minds of the people, and so the glory of the victory was preached among the commoners.

Isolde flinched to see a minor detail further written — something about a tremble felt in the lands during the war —

‘He’s a Brobdingnagian and still, he’s nowhere to be seen. Incredible. Isn’t it, my friend?’ The short Muriel said, ‘And yet you say he is not incompetent.’

‘Sir Muriel, he may be dilatory in his timings — ’

‘It’s probably because of the weight he has to carry,’ Muriel interrupted sarcastically. Isolde ignored him and continued to speak,

‘But he is a competent worker. You see, Muriel? This incredible mordacity of yours is how you incurred yourself to lady Theren’s detestation, as diminutive as it may be.’ Isolde said.

‘Isolde, I greatly appreciate your gratitude.’ Muriel said, taking all the glory in his mordacity!

‘You love her do you not Sir Muriel?’ Isolde said.

‘Do not try to vocalise concerns that are otherwise not of your concerns.’ Muriel said back at him.

That is possibly the worst thing he could have said, Isolde thought, staring condescendingly at his short friend. He has made his liking a little too overt to all of us.

Isolde ignored his comment and waited in the newly found awkwardness along with Muriel.

A few moments later, Muriel and Isolde spotted the Brobdingnagian looking for both of them. Pires saw them in another moment or so and smiled meekly at the both of them. Muriel grimaced at the sight of him, but Pires did not notice. When the Brobdingnagian walked over to Isolde and Muriel, he appeared to be almost double the height of Muriel. He was a few feet taller than Isolde, and about four and a half odd feet taller than Muriel. Perhaps their height difference contributed to the Knight’s hatred towards Pires.

Pires found a bench by the smithy and took a seat. After sitting he was about level with Isolde’s height.

‘I sit here, wondering how in Krilin’s grave Muriel is a knight, and yet I forget that we live in a world in which a Brobdingnagian like yourself, Pires, is a bloody spy!’ Isolde joked. All three mutually shared the laugh.

‘Well a man so white and pink as yourself would know better, would he not?’ Pires said back. Isolde laughed the most at this one. He had pale white coloured skin, and so he would get pink under the Erhinian sun, which was known as the wiola. In Loazer there was no such discrimination between different skin colours unless of course, one was a vicer, as dark as night itself, and as tall as, perhaps, Pires! It was ever so rare that a human was to be mistaken for a vicer. The social class of vicers was deeply oppressed, even though they were regarded as the inventors of Wielding, just a few thousand years ago. A “grace to mankind”

‘Well, Brobdingnagian, at least I would not make a vicer look like a child!’ Isolde joked back, and to this one, Pires laughed the most. They were rather having a session of amusement, where Muriel faked all of his laughter. He couldn’t stand being around Pires. He hated the man, and he never understood why Isolde insisted that he was to be a part of the operation. And he didn’t understand either spy’s sense of humour. Abysmal, truly cringe-worthy if no other word describes this mockery. He pretentiously thought.

Pires recognised this and looked towards Muriel with an execrable eye. He wanted to insult Muriel. They both had mutual detestation for each other. They avoided contact as often as possible. But Pires did not want to turn this into a negative outgoing, and so he smiled and turned towards Isolde and said, ‘Well, leastways I would not make a vicer look like a giant like Muriel would, now would I?’ Isolde was first to laugh, followed by the fake laughter of Muriel, followed by Pires.

‘Alright now, we have frittered away time for far too long,’ Muriel said.

‘Indeed. Let’s get on. Come on now Pires, carry your big arse along!’ Isolde said, provoking laughter.

‘Eyy ha carr gratcha!’ Pires said, in Corr.

They were supposed to be on a spy expedition but they futzed around as if they were drinking a gallon of ale at dinner, washing away all their worries like water on dirty clothes. But in a few moments, they stopped with the time-wasting, and they made their way up to the brothel.

***

A third ago

Theren was joined by the pleasant company of her family, save for her brother Lothar, who was always unpleasant to be around, and Nathanial, who was still on his expedition in the lands of Gr’Erhin — the northern shores of Erhin. They were sat by the large dining table in the common dining room downstairs in the manor. The room was of decent size to be called a Lord’s dining room. The walls were long and were in consonance with the high ceiling, which was painted with depictions of the finest war victories of the Rolans. The vast richness of Rolanian history stretched across the walls, bringing a royal presence to the room. The whole ordeal between the Tanshas and the Rolans: the taking over of the Erhinian realms — all of it — was depicted within the confinements of this very dining room. It was a sight truly worth seeing. The dining table was centrally placed in the room, with chairs and tables in the corners and the walls engraved artistically with the sigils of crocodiles. From the ceiling hung chandeliers with candles placed within them, and the brown table spread large and wide in the centre of the room. Keran sat at the Lord’s chair, on his right was his wife Arabella. On the left his eldest son Rothrin, and on the opposite side was Theren. She was twenty-four years old, six years older than her brother Lothar, who sat next to Arabella. All were slightly gloomy about how he had been absent for so long. Nathanial brought a presence of joy and spirit to the family which they missed. The family were each focused on their own meals rather than conversing with one another. There was a little bit of small talk here and there but otherwise, they did not speak much.

‘Father, an interesting circumstance developed yesterday,’ Rothrin said. His father turned towards him, his goblet of wine in his hand. He was not a drunk, leastways thus far until his fifties he had not been one.

‘Arra wo?’ Keran asked in Corr. It meant, What happened?

‘Quor el calisar, q’ar arr co koche ci def rong, burray!’ Rothrin said. A friend of mine drank a one-fourth rundlet of ale yesterday!

‘Qerra?’ Who?

‘Griffa Kora!’ Rothrin said.

‘It cannot be… Griffa Kora… but that would make him the son of Aldin and Josine! Krilin’s grave! That’s not good.’ Keran said. Aldin was the man that Keran appointed as the main commander in Werro, a city many leagues outside of Kenneth, in the opposite side of Unith. Werro was a place of true magnificence, and the region was under the management of Aldin Kora.

‘How fares he now?’ Keran asked, looking concerned.

‘Well, the bloody bloke’s gone and gotten himself poisoned for the lot of the month!’

‘Fekhin Krilin couldn’t have thought! Son, I’m going to let Aldin know to get his child under control! How did he possibly drink a fourth of a rundlet? That’s about 50 pints!’ Keran sniggered, ‘Bloody hell.’

Keran was smiling — kind of impressed at how he managed to drink so much — and looked toward his wife, who just sat there, slowly eating her food, just staring at the table. She looked around and noticed Lord Keran, watching her, so she blinked a few times and then smiled at him, but Keran could see it was a troubled smile. This woman had gone through a lot.

***

Izaak sat outside the private rooms in a brothel near the border of Unith and Kais. He was waiting for Yuron and Sajh to finish their sessions. The doors were separated by a two-meter distance or so, and from Izaak’s view, Yuron carried out his business in the room on the left and Sajh on the right. The two of them with their women were louder than a thumping log of wood against an unbreakable door. Funny to think what was going on in there.

Izaak was sick of waiting for the two of them and so he started to look around.

It was a pinkish room, with all furniture and walls of the same gradient, the two doors were directly in front of him, and on the right was a lamp with a glowing candle, the lamp being affixed on to the wall, and the same on the left. The room was very symmetrical, with the view from where he was sitting looked as if one side of the room was mirrored on the other. Might as well have a wall dividing the two rooms! He thought. Have some fekhin privacy and all that.

He started to get really impatient and so he stepped out of the room. Outside the room, there was a narrow staircase. There were two rooms and a waiting area on 4 levels, and a ground level to set up a booking. He walked down the narrow staircase and reached an identical waiting area — same mirrored design, same two doors. He did so a few times until he reached the ground floor. He started walking towards the exit. A man at a counter on this floor, who had a quill in his hand, said ‘You’re not from the South…’ Izaak nodded. He was quite gullible.

‘They like vicers. The girls, you know, M’ro?’ Izaak did not know that M’ro was an informal way of greeting a fellow Loazian, and so he just smiled and walked out. He was right outside the establishment, and he turned towards the left and walked a little distance. He was wearing a yellow garment of silk, embroidered specifically to Kaandor, although none recognised it. There had not been frequent contact between Erhin and Layonas in the last few decades — besides the politically powerful of each planet who consistently stayed in touch with one another — and so people didn’t bother with knowing the other planet’s culture. It was the break of dusk, and Izaak desperately needed to smoke his pipeweed. Brought straight from the gardens of Kaandor, his weed was greener and finer than any grown and tilled on the gardens of Loazer.

He took out the long, brown pipe which had a large cup on the end. Inside of another pocket, he had kept his weed. He took the weed out. It was wrapped in brown parchment. He opened the paper on four sides and there was a tad bit of weed, just enough for three smokes. And so he took out a third of the weed and put it right into the cup at the end of the pipe. It filled it completely. A tad bit of weed for a Kaandorian vicer is worth more than ten smokes for any layman, Southern vicer or Grenorian vicer. The seven-foot tall man walked back into the brothel.

‘Well hello again M’ro!’ The man at the counter said, counting gold coins. He ignored him this time and started to look at the walls for affixed lamps. He found a wall with a lamp on it and walked towards it. The man watched in perplexity. Izaak took the candle right out of the lamp and lit the weed. He walked out again. The man stared frowning. ‘Good day to you, M’ro.’ He said in a tone of oddity. Izaak stepped right out and walked back outside, this time, puffing on his weed happy as ever.

***

‘I hate Unith.’ Isolde said in revolt. Pires, Isolde and Muriel were walking on an unbuilt road, on the way to the establishment. It was at the break of dusk, and the roads looked gloomy. Isolde grimaced. The three took a few turns and reached their destination.

Isolde was about to walk into the brothel when he saw a very tall, dark-skinned man on the side. He seemed very tall, but nothing compared to Pires. He had a long, deep scar on his face, which was a trademark of a Kaandorian vicer. Isolde looked at Pires and smiled. Pires smiled back.

He walked up to the tall man. This man was deep into his pipe-weed.

‘Ho M’ro!’ Pires said.

‘Yes?’ The vicer kindly responded.

‘Can I know your name?’ Pires said. He condescended the vicer quite a bit. He was about eight or nine inches taller.

The vicer hesitated, but said, ‘Izaak.’

‘Izaak. Ho!’ And Pires was off. Izaak seemed kind to Muriel, and so he felt a little bit of guilt when Pires began to hit him, but it was his duty so he scavenged for as much pleasure as he could find in the situation.

He yielded his sword, which was more like a rapier, but still not thin enough to be one. It was a very finely forged blade though, gifted to him by Theren. It was long and had no custom house ren-call, as Pires did not belong to a lordship family. It was a well-forged sword anyway. The grip of the sword was made of symmetrically cut wood, which was suited to fit the size of Pires’ fingers.

They were huge.

Right on top of the handle were two sharp protrusions on each end, in jade. On and on the thin pointy blade went; it was very long.

The vicer was fast.

Izaak yielded his blade not a moment later, and blocked an incoming blow from Pires, coming straight down on him. Pires’ method of attack upset Isolde just a little bit because they wanted him alive.

‘Kurra! Y’o Mastacha!’ M’ro, we want him alive! Isolde said. Pires nodded at him and took a step back. He positioned himself in the common stance, left leg in front, his knee straight, right leg at the back, knee bent slightly. This was a Wielding stance — commonly used for fighting — also called Mistac, yet Pires was not a Wielder.

The Fekher’s skilled! Pires thought. He kept himself concentrated, focused on nothing but the fight, as he determined that Izaak would not attack.

He’s oddly… not savage for a Kaandorian vicer!

Pires turned around, blade raised above his head, and in the motion of facing Izaak again, rotated his blade parallel to his body movement, gaining momentum and striking hard at the feet. Izaak’s thick, yet unworked blade had jagged edges, which easily handled the high momentum of Pires’ blow. As soon as the swords parried, Pires took a step back and without taking his blade too far back, struck again in quick succession. It was an odd strike, for he falsified the fact that he was to strike on the torso region, but instead faked it and struck at the legs again. Izaak did not anticipate this at all. The fine blade of Pires’ sliced right through his left leg.

Izaak screamed like he never had before, with more agony than he had ever felt.

Pires looked behind at Isolde who seemed content and said,

‘The fekha’s skilled!’

Izaak was very near to Pires, and so a very bright, red, and healthy looking blood squirted all over Pires' foot. It was coming out of his half-leg with extreme pressure. The fat was visible from the under-knee. The bone was chopped at the sensitive conjoining point as his cut-off lower leg lay dead on the ground. Izaak screamed and screamed, but the street was empty. The brothel full, but the streets empty. Unith was a dangerous place and so people found shelter before dusk broke. Of course, Izaak did not know this. Before he lost too much blood, Pires picked him up with ease and put him on his shoulder. He continued to scream at the top of his lungs but did not try to attack Pires. Blood was squirting from his leg all over Pires’ back.

‘Eh M’ro, by Krilin I swear, he won’t last the journey!’ Pires squealed.

‘I changed my mind. This is not commendable. We needed him alive and well!’ Isolde shouted. Muriel stood looking up at the ginormous Brobdingnagian trying to figure out what to do, which Isolde had already worked out.

‘We will take him to the brothel.’ Isolde said.

Pires’ frown deepened.

‘Are you insane! We cannot!’

‘Oh, by Krilin’s grave do you want him to die? Pires, it is risky, but we cannot take any chances. They must have some commodities, a rag, something!’ Isolde said. Muriel just had a face of disgust, yet smiled at the same time. It was a distinct reaction.

Isolde took a knife out of a small leather sheath buckled to his fibre belt.

‘Follow my lead.’ Isolde had a look of concern. Izaak did not stop screaming, and so Pires gave him a hard punch right on his face. He was knocked out. Isolde started to run towards the brothel. It was on his right. As soon as he found the door, he opened it and saw the man at the counter. He raised his knife and put a finger on his lips. The man understood.

‘I need a rag or anything to tie this man’s leg down. Give it to me now.’

‘There is an ailment assessment pouch on the table! Right there!’ The man at the counter pointed behind. Izaak ran, Pires followed and Muriel casually strolled along. The man looked at Muriel, who was mockingly putting his finger on his lips, and the man frowned in confusion, for Muriel was smiling as well.

Izaak found the pouch kept on a small table against the wall, just next to a narrow staircase.

He opened the leather lace that bound the cloth sack to the cover. He found many different types of herbs in small pouches, the herbs being slightly visible through the thinly woven pouches. There was a large collection of rag, which was stacked upon each other, connected to each other on alternating ends. It was a brown coloured rag.

Odd. A brothel has so much assessment, Isolde thought. He took out the rag, and beneath it was kept sap. He looked back at the man and raised the Sap, it was in a small glass container.

‘Of Poppy?’ Isolde said. The man nodded.

Why does he have Poppy? This kind of equipment is never in a brothel…

He took the rags and tightly tied it on top of the cut leg. This slightly prevented the blood loss. He tore off some rag and placed it aside, and then started looking for some other substances.

‘Is there any spirit?’ The man rushed over to Isolde and took out another small, identical bottle, but this bottle had a transparent fluid inside of it.

He took the bottle and opened the cork and said, ‘He’ll wake up.’

He poured the whole thing on Izaak’s open part of his leg. Izaak suddenly woke up, screaming with terror. He now had a large bruise on his face. Pires quickly smacked him again a few times and he was knocked out. Isolde felt alarmed that someone may have heard them.

He fished for another bottle inside the bag, for he definitely needed more, and he found another. He opened the bottle, poured it, Izaak woke, and Pires knocked him out again. Isolde used the torn rag and tide it on top of the open leg, very tightly.

Good. Now at least it won't get infected.

‘Hold his leg this much higher than yourself.’ Isolde said, pointing a few inches above his own shoulder. Pires took Izaak’s body and held his leg a little above his shoulder like Isolde instructed. Izaak woke up again, screaming. Isolde grimaced and fed him sap, from the poppy plants, forcefully. Izaak went to sleep.

‘Let’s hope the fekha won’t wake.’ Isolde said. Pires laughed, and the three began to exit until two men as dark and as tall as Izaak walked down in confusion. They too had scars across their faces. This meant one thing only.

Yuron and Sajh.

Isolde quickly unsheathed his knife and threw it with blazing pace. His arm flared past his head lightning-fast as the knife launched right out of his hand and pierced through the left eye of the vicer to Isolde’s left. He let out a few squeals, and stopped breathing. Blood leaked from the spaces of his eyes, in thin lines, resembling a few water falls, smoothly flowing down his face. He fell not a moment later as the other man watched in terror. He then charged towards Isolde, who got into a stance.

‘Isolde! That won’t be necessary.’ The Brobdingnagian said. He put Izaak down and stepped up to the man.

‘Are you Yuron or Sajh?’ Both of them were truly vicers.

The vicer was daunted by the aspect of Pires’ unbelievable height, and so the vicer pitifully said, ‘Yuron.’ Pires sniggered and held the man by his throat. He squeezed extremely hard and was about to pop it, but Isolde intervened, ‘We can question him too.’

‘One is

Pires let go and smacked him extremely hard.

Isolde walked over back to the part next to the staircase and took his knife out of Sajh’s eye. Blood leaked as there was a sickly deformed eye inside his eye socket, full of red.

He took the knife, and with the same throw, threw it at the man who helped them find the ailment assessment sack.

Isolde looked towards Muriel and Pires, shrugging his shoulders. ‘No one must know we were here.’ The two accepted and the three made their way out of the brothel, Izaak on Pires’ shoulder, and Yuron on the other. Muriel laughed at the sight as they walked out of the street and made their way to Isolde’s home.