The Brinn were insane.
Obviously, I knew that, and yet, when massive winged creatures descended upon their encampment and they cheered for joy, I still managed to be surprised.
Swarm Rocs. The term came to Yethyr’s mind immediately as he watched massive talons pluck a thrall from the ground and rip the poor man in two.
Wes ducked behind a boulder and cowered, but the Brinn hunters seemed to stand all the taller. “Blessed Maethe,” Hegrir cried out. “Thank you for this quarry!”
Eagerly they shot arrows at the descending flock, daring each other to shoot faster and betting on who would shoot more.
One of the hunters, Bravir, I think was his name, was pecked to death in an instant and still they made a game of it.
Yethyr decidedly did not make a game of it. He began gathering the required deathsong within himself. “I’m going to kill them,” he told Jaetheiri. She had taken up a bow and had already shot down two.
“The party will resent you for it, my prince.”
“Perhaps, but I can’t afford to lose anymore. We go to fight the best arcanists in the world. For Maethe’s sake—”
“For Maethe’s sake indeed!” Yethyr whipped around and there was Nisari, the Blustering Gale, grinning wildly up at the deadly sky. “Birds come and go from Heaven as they please. This challenge was Heaven sent, likely sent by Maethe herself.”
“I know that!” Yethyr cried. “But our task was Heaven sent too.”
Nisari laughed. “You should learn to enjoy the journey, my prince.
“We are not here to die to Rocs, woman!”
“You would dare dishonor the angel by touching her gift with your demonsong?”
“Demonsong?” Yethyr’s exasperation morphed into wrath. “There is no such thing as ‘demonsong.’ The music predates the split between Heaven and Hell!” He advanced on her and was annoyed he had to look up at her. “There is no difference between you and I.”
Nisari set down her bow and sighed dramatically. “Very well.”
Yethyr was about to turn away when the windsinger took up her carved horn, pointed it up to the sky, and blew.
The shockwave that rippled out from Nisari hit the rocs with such force that it sounded like an explosion; it sounded more like firesong, instead of the pure and deafening windsong that it was.
A chorus of pained shrieks cut above the sound of wind as the birds were all slammed high up into the sky.
They fled quickly, their silhouette shrinking against the setting sun and Yethyr gawked.
“The difference between you and I,” Nisari said gravely, “is that I don’t have to kill Heaven’s messengers to defeat them.”
Before Yethyr could argue, the other hunters converged on them. “Woman!” Hegrir cried. “Why would you do that? Now they’re flying away!”
“We are not here to die to Rocs, stupid boy!” she quoted Yethyr indignantly like she had come up with the thought herself. “That was just the first test. There will be many more.”
Dathari stood over Bravir’s broken body. “I shot the Roc that killed him. Did he have Tezem?”
“I don’t believe so,” Mandorias, Yethyr’s scribe, piped up. “But I’ll check his records.”
Dathari shrugged. “I guess the spoils are mine,” she said as she cheerfully picked through Bravir’s strewn-about remains.
Kvelir looked at the dozen or so rocs that now littered the ground “At least we shall eat well.”
That, at least, improved my mood. I liked experiencing taste; it was without doubt the only pleasant sensation I experienced through Yethyr.
And now I began to smell the glorious aroma of fire-roasted roc. How could I not be eager? My eagerness bled into Yethyr and when dinner was served around the roaring campfire, he dug into the meat with zeal.
Clearly, this was unusual. Ruzar, who I had gathered was the thrall in charge of meal preparation and provisions, smiled.
“It’s nice to see you have an appetite for once, Master.”
Yethyr glared at the man, much to Ruzar’s confusion and my amusement. The Prince knew his hunger came from me and did not appreciate the influence. He ate angrily, letting others’ stories of great hunts float over his head.
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To get his mind off my unappreciated influence, he called over Mandorias. The old man hobbled over, almost stumbling over his collection of maps. He leaned down and blinked his strange green eyes at Yethyr.
“Master?”
“Flazea, the settlement we approach, how large is it?”
“It was the second largest town on the river,” he said in his halting accent. “And it was under the indirect dominion of Datrea, as was all the land beneath that mountain’s shadow. Proximity to the city itself made Flazea wealthy. Datrea always needed their pine, and their boats would deliver precious Datrean metal and stone further downriver. We’ve sacked it twice of course, during this last year alone; Flazea is a shadow of its former self.”
“Do you think we could assault it with eighteen…” he thought of Bravir’s pecked-apart body. “...seventeen hunters.”
“I will not speak to matters of war, Master, but they do pay your father considerable tribute to not attack; they have been since last winter.”
“Ah.” Yethyr sighed. “It would not do to make my father a liar.”
“Of course.”
“That means we must resort to…” Yethyr wrinkled his nose. “...trade.”
“Would you like me to summon Arsari?”
“Yes, that would be helpful. Thank you.”
Arsari, it turned out, was a woman of sharp blue eyes and curly black hair pulled back into a tight bun. Yet, despite that, she greeted him in perfect Datrean.
“You called for me?”
“I’ve practiced enough Datrean these last two days.” He said in Brinn, glancing at Wes who sat far from the campfire and the food he could no longer eat. “And we will speak Datrean much I suspect tomorrow. We enter Flazea by midday, and I will need boats to carry us up the river.”
“I am always eager to represent you, Master,” Arsari said, switching to Brinn and I immediately noted how much more expressive she became in her native tongue, “in bargaining as well as diplomacy.”
Oh, so this was Yethyr’s diplomat and presumably who taught him how to speak Datrean. I briefly imagined the dinners she must have had with Unda, the Datrean Ambassador.
And explosive arguments, probably.
For a thrall, Arsari was not particularly meek. She looked Yethyr in the eye and spoke with more self-assuredness than half the hunters on the mission.
Yethyr respected her.
“Do you know what we could trade?”
“Don’t you worry, Master, I have just the thing. Several things actually. Flazea, you see, is known for its riverboats. You have likely seen their boats even in the harbor of King’s Horde.”
“The ones with the light wood hulls and the black sails?”
“The same, Master. They say they even carve ancient hydromancy into their construction. They are sought after and their price has only increased since Flazea has…um, come under hard times. They will try to use that as an excuse to cheat us. It is a delicate thing of course, the market of this region is in shambles, due to the Datrean siege of course, but I will ensure that the exchange is fair.”
“I’ll leave it to your expertise,” Yethyr said deferentially, much to my amusement. He turned back to his meal and nearly leaped out of his skin.
Something else was eating his food.
The orange tabby that had followed Yethyr through Hell was back. Belatedly, Arsari shrieked and the cat only blinked its green eyes up and kept on chewing.
“How do you keep following me?” Yethyr stood and made to knock it away with his boot.
“Don’t kick it!” Wes swooped in and scooped the cat out of the way. It immediately bit him and scurried off.
Wes hissed, shook out his bony hand, and briefly forgot his fear of Yethyr. “Are you mad? Are you truly so unworthy as to spit upon such an honor?”
The entire encampment was staring at them and Yethyr was briefly relieved that only he could hear Wes’s words.
“A demon was eating my food,” he said in Datrean. “What was I supposed to do?
“Feed it; worship it if you can. It is a great blessing to be chosen by a cat. Very lucky too.”
“Lucky?” Yethyr roared, making the rest of the encampment jump. “What is lucky about being stalked by a hellspawn?”
“Cats can claim you in Hell,” Wes said with envy. “To serve them in their corner of Neyleesi’s palace. A cat’s favor is salvation itself. Everyone seeks such distinction.” Wes looked away. “I was hoping my grandmother’s cat would have taken me from Z’krel.” He sighed. “A stray hope. I knew she never liked me.”
“You hope to be enthralled by this mangy thing?” Yethyr gasped in horror.
“They can save you from being sacrificed to Z’krel,” Wes insisted and now that I had seen the Hell that awaited many Datreans, it made perfect sense to me. Attending to the whims of a cat was a noble fate if the alternative was having your brain eaten by Z’krel.
“No lord of Hell can stop Neyleesi‘s children from taking what they are due. That cat can probably save you from Spryne—”
“Say that name again and I’ll give you to Flavrir.”
Wes clamped his bony jaw shut so fast I could hear the click.
“I will indulge this blasphemy no further,” Yethyr said darkly. “I don’t want that thing near me again.”
“You know not what you throw away,” Wes sighed and skulked away.
Yethyr looked at the rest of the camp staring at him. From their perspective, he had just had a one-sided raving argument with his silent skeleton.
Yethyr scowled and sat back down.
“That was an interesting conversation,” Arsari mused.
That was right. She could not hear Wes, but she could understand Yethyr’s Datrean half of their discussion.
“There is nothing interesting about Datrean madness,” Yethyr said dismissively. “I’d rather hear more about Flazea.”
“Ah, yes, well as I was saying, seeing as we sacked them twice and forced them to pay homage to us the third time, they may be…ah, unhappy to see us.”
Yethyr grimaced and I was amused.
This was sure to be quite the boat shopping trip.
Thank you so much for reading! This marks the end of my "one chapter a day" extravaganza. New schedule is Tuesdays and Fridays. Make sure to check back then
I really appreciate all the support I have gotten during the transition to move this story to Royal Road. Do tell me what you think! I love comments and often respond to them
What's going to give Yethyr more trouble?
