Excerpt from "Sex Cults and Madmen"

You can get a full copy of the entire novel pdf at: http://www.solarsendit.net/dd528N6NT4AStE38 
or a doc version  http://www.solarsendit.net/dy3mT1w6Qw1NYRBf 

Chapter 1: Lucky Karde

Karde was wet with sweat from a hard day’s labor as he trod down Miller’s road to Miram. He was the only man of his crew to take the northern way to go home.  The rest lived in the quiet comfort of Wheeling to the southwest, a village of tiny cottages, a single pub, and a blacksmith who spent equal time playing fiddle for spare coin.  Karde, however, was not plied by such uncomplicated comforts.  Despite harsh words from his peers about the heartlessness of it, he was loyal to the urban life.

  Karde was pretty average amongst those with whom he worked, not exceptionally tall, with an average build and a tiny bit of a gut he’d developed over the course of his weekly visits to the public house on Sab’nday.    While few would have called him handsome, he had an exotic nature that drew the interest of inquisitive barmaids who often made a game of guessing his heritage.

  His face was the product of mixed lineages, which made it difficult to place him into a specific culture.  He had the chiseled chin of his Verdani grandfather, but the chin scruff of his Delian ancestors.  Part of him was sad he could never grow what his barmates called a pwapa fische [1]beard, but he never let it show.  One of his traits did stand out, but in the way that a carbuncle sticks out on a sore foot.  His eyes were bright and blue, a feature usually found in the lower classes – Karde had no idea of which relative he could thank or curse for such a distinctively low trait. 

  On a payday, however, Karde’s thoughts were far from thinking about himself – at least not directly.  His biggest concerns were his full pouch, the warm ale that awaited him at Porder’s Pub, and the loud blisters on his feet.  It was hard to ignore the hard ground when his soles shouted the agony of every step.  Such was the fate of the humble pedestrian.

  The path ahead was paved in the carved stone tiles that were his namesake – why Karde?  He wasn’t sure – he’d never even thought of asking as a child.  As with many commonly used words that were folded into the common tongue, a hodgepodge hybrid of Delian and Verdani, there was likely some older meaning behind his name that his kin had lost over time.

  Many called the road he trod upon “Mill-Karden” for the simple reason that it was one of the few paved roads east of the mills.  And while his namesake stones might be great for cart travel, they wore on his tired feet quickly, convincing him to stray off his normal route to follow a sole-friendly riverside trail.  He would miss the chit-chat of the Vagonners[2] as they passed, but his sore feet would thank him later.

  As the ground shifted to the soft silt of the riverbanks, his weary toes begged for a dip in the cool, beckoning water only a few strides away.  Despite such temptation, he kept his focus on the path ahead - especially since he’d just been paid his weekly wage - twelve silver coins, thirty and a ninepence as a bonus.  He certainly didn’t want to risk a chance encounter by carelessly traveling with such a loud heavy purse.  For the next hour, though, his feet were torn between the expedience of the warm earthen path and the promised comforts of the lazy river that dangled its relaxing prize just in of reach.

  Unlike the Mill-Karden, the riverside trails were seldom patrolled by the Miram guard, especially so far from the gates proper.  This realization made Karde pick up his pace as he headed for South Wall village.  Bandits had been pretty scarce, but it felt like tempting fate to linger amidst such succoring snares.

    The men that watched Karde from the shadows of a shore-side shack were aware of the mill workers’ recent paydays, and they saw his lone figure as easy prey - especially since he didn’t have a blade at his side.

Karde felt an encroaching foreboding of trouble as he neared the derelict structure, but he hadn’t yet spotted the source of a threat.  He’d learned to rely on his instincts as they were accurate more often than not – but without clarity and direction, he could only prepare for the worst.

  Unsure of whether he should move on or flee, he stopped for a moment at the river’s edge.  He picked up some pebbles and began to skip them on the surface of the slowly churning water, partly to unleash some of his anxiety, but also to sort out a potential weapon if needed.  He discovered a couple of large stones, one nearing fist-sized, and planted them tightly in his palm.  Suddenly realizing that he was indeed being watched, he angled his path back towards the paved road - but he knew it was well out of earshot, much less eyeshot from where he stood.

  His pursuers made little effort to mask their motions.  Two circled from behind the shack and the other two headed directly at him.  Karde’s muscles still ached from a long day of labor and there was little chance of outrunning the fresh legs of his antagonists.

“Oy!  You there with the janglin’ pocket!” the tallest of the lot began, “Set down some of yer burden and I might be convinced not to slice yer gullet!”

To the man’s left, an unsteady bandit tried leveling a crossbow in Karde’s direction.

The men from the back flanked him and drew their blades – ready to block his chance for flight.

“Certainly such genteel men such as yourselves need nothing from a hapless peasant such as I?” Karde rebutted playfully, trying to keep the tone light.

The tall man smiled, revealing a mouth devoid of teeth, save a single gold-plated monstrosity dangling precariously from his otherwise barren gums. 

“We’ve been taught proper to never discrin-imate,” he slurred coldly.

While his smile may have seemed at least marginally genial, his icy stare carried the desperation of a man willing to kill for absolutely no reason at all.

“No need to…” Karde began, reaching towards the strap on his pouch.

“One thing drops right now!” the obvious leader bellowed, sensing potential shinnanigans.

Jabbing in his direction with an excessively threatening gesture of his hand the leader added, “Either yer pouch, or you!”

The theatrics were designed to distract Karde’s attention while the two flanking men rushed him.

Karde, however, recognized the tactic and he swiveled on his feet to respond.  He hurled two stones in rapid succession – somewhat surprised by the audible “crack” that accompanied each as they flew from his hands like the bullets of a sling.

  The first struck the sword hand of the man on his left.  The antagonist dropped his blade as if it had been a stinging viper.  He stopped dead in his tracks from the sudden sharp agony – and blood trailed down his shattered wrist from twin cuts that resembled the bite of an asp. 

    The second stone flew a low arc - a trajectory that perfectly invaded a gap in the leggings of the man to his right.  The hapless fellow crumpled like a sack of wet flour, clutching his groin as his sword fell forgotten and out of sight.

“My Dinklage!” he shrieked in a surprisingly high-pitched voice.

By the time that anyone could respond to his unexpected assault, Karde had rolled towards the one clutching his bloodied hand and retrieved his foe’s blade.

  Letting instinct guide his motions, Karde sidestepped a few inches and watched as the crossbowman’s quarrel missed him by less than a span of a hand.  The errant projectile sank into the neck of the unsuspecting burglar behind him, shifting the robber’s attention from his would-be target to the wooden shaft jutting from his neck.

  Driven by a force he merely trusted, but really didn’t understand, Karde hurled the blade he had seized towards the fearful sniper.   The addled archer was trying desperately to bend over and reload, but the unexpected force of a blade-hilt against forehead snapped his head backwards and dropped him forcefully to the ground in an unconscious heap.

  Only the leader remained, his smile still intact, but his bottom lip quivering nervously.

Noticing that he was still armed, and his opponent didn’t even have a rock, the bandit suddenly puffed up with renewed bravado.  An insane glint sparkled in the cutthroat’s eye as he charged Karde with his menacingly extended blade.  His grin grew manically wider as he drew ever-closer.

Karde’s focus was not upon the foe who faced him, but instead upon a broken tile between them – a single errant karde that should never have been here.  He would have mused at the commonality between the lost stone and himself, but he was under threat.  He used an acrobatic roll to snatch it and using the inertia of his movement flung the projectile with the force of a punch.  Once again, to his amazement, the air snapped like a whip as he released the stone.

  The karde traced a path directly for his enemy’s wide left eye, but was deflected slightly by a seemingly lucky positioning of his foe’s blade.  However, as the stone found its new mark, a sudden crack and an agonizing yelp echoed in the air.  The tile had struck the would-be robber in his only tooth, ripping it from its roots and cracking his upper jaw.  Blood poured from the horrible wound like water from a fountain.

  The leader tried to spray a curse over his bloody lips but the words became an unintelligible bark.

Realizing his effort was lost, the bloodied antagonist retreated for cover in the distance while his former companions suffered on the earth.  Karde left them alone, only stopping once to pick up a gold tooth from the ground as he left the scene.

  “No matter how hard I try… blood always finds me…”  Karde mused, spinning one of his father’s curses with an optimistic finish, “… at least this time it paid in gold.”

  He wondered momentarily on the strange fortune that befell him as he replayed the attack in his mind.  Sure, he was good with darts, but his aim with the stones had been uncanny.  It felt as if the projectiles had been following his will, rather than his hand or eye.

  And the sword - no matter how many ways he tried to rationalize his amazing precision, Karde found himself utterly puzzled as of the how behind it.  He was downright horrible with the throwing axe, and his swordsmanship was the laughing stock of even novice trainers.  With no logical explanation, he could only chalk up the victory to blind luck.

  While he was still shaken over the sudden attack, he felt a sudden optimism.  He hoped that the trend would last. 

Karde pocketed the fallen tooth and returned to the path for South Wall whistling a jaunty tune.

The sun was still not yet abed as he came within sight of his beloved home.  The reassuring image allowed him to shed his worry like a basket snake’s unwanted skin.

  South Wall was, to pretty much every peace loving soul from the nearby countryside, a jarring spectacle.  Its haphazard array of shacks, tents, and impromptu merchants – some hawking wares from wagons, others from oversized jackets – was a sudden (and often unwelcome) break from the relative calm and order of the pastoral lands nearby.

  The upper tier of Miram called it an eyesore.  The guards called it a bloody nuisance.  Most everyone else called it a shit hole.

  In some sense, the latter description was more accurate than anyone wanted to admit.  With the lack of covered sewers or persons dedicated to full-time cleaning, the few public cesspits for what could only partly be called a village reeked constantly, and were always one severe rainstorm from overflowing. 

  With its constant motion and growth, some, like Karde, saw South Wall as a living entity - though even amidst that number, most saw it as a stubborn tick clunging remorselessly to Miram but refusing to die.

Certainly, no sane person could look at the village with anything resembling fondness.

  Karde was no sane person, however, and felt a sense of relief and happiness when he saw the familiar gritty cloud that rested lazily over his home village.  Miram’s southern wall effectively shielded the community from the few breezes that might have carried away the sooty mass, leaving the place perpetually shrouded in a murky haze that smelled of roasted meat, smelted metal and human waste.

  Most of the residents of the makeshift village would have been glad for some time in the clean country air, but Karde was not one of them.  He looked forward to his return to what he called “an air you can sink your teeth into.”

  If nothing else, South Wall had a palpable atmosphere.  As the melting pot of a dozen cultures, the place was steeped in a variety of colors, scents, sounds and textures that kept the streets abuzz with activity even into the wee bells of morning.

  Karde grinned broadly as he made his way from the guard-patrolled South Road to the “watched” South Wall Road – snared by South Wall “proper” like a fish in a net.  He was immediately beset by half a dozen hawkers trying to steer his attention to their various trinkets and hand crafts.  He usually dismissed them without a second glance, but a familiar item in the hands of a Verdani merchant caught his eye.

  It was an Eagle-crested pendant, much like the one his father had worn.  Given the rarity of such an item, Karde couldn’t ignore it. 

  “You there!” he said, a little too anxiously, but the merchant seemed not to notice, “That talisman… broach… thing… where did you get it from?”

  “A family heirloom, passed down through many generations,” she said, with the slightly lilting accent of a native of the Green Lands.

  Karde knew that the eagle pendant was assigned to ranking soldiers of the Novus Order – a group unique to the kingdom of Del, which lay several treacherous months of ocean travel away.  The order was also less than twenty years old – making her story impossible by the most casual reckoning – yet her eyes seemed as sincere as any he’d ever known – a fiery amber tone with piercing pupils that dared him to question their claims.  Such a contradiction was something he could not pass by without explanation.

  “Could we barter privately?” he asked slyly, jingling his pouch to make it seem as full as possible.

“I hold no blanket other than the grass,” she retorted - the Verdani colloquialism for homelessness – even though her eyes doubted the claim, he let her keep it nonetheless.  There were greater truths to be discovered.

“I have a dwelling in the Bricks District,” Karde said, pointing towards the eastern portion of the wall.  He’d let his eyes linger a bit too long on her hips and she responded as if insulted.

She glared at him suspiciously and pulled her robes over her form with sudden modesty.

“I’ve no trade for plowshares!” she snapped a little too knowingly.

“I’ve no interest beyond… a fair… and private trade…” Karde said softly, stumbling over the Verdani adage, and finishing cleanly “…not an interest in your fair end’s private trade.”

  The woman instantly relaxed at his knowledge of her culture.

“I will follow, then.  But I expect barleycorn for my barely corns,” she chuckled – asking in her people’s way for a drink in exchange for her time.

Seeing the woman in tow, the remainder of the nearby hawkers returned to better opportunities – trailing a keenly-dressed demi-noble who had wandered into the area out of curiosity.

Karde took a place by the woman’s side and scanned her casually.  She was certainly younger than he’d originally guessed, though certainly not a child.  Her peasant robes were more common to the older people of her clans.  Had she been dressed like her peers, she’d have been wearing a brightly dyed tunic and skirt with dark, usually green, leggings.

  Karde thought most Verdani youths looked like garish flowers (which was likely the point), but he was glad for the girl’s alternate choice.  It meant she was likely to be more grounded and practical.

  Such an observation was important, because he’d never met young women as fickle as the daughters of the green lands – their reckless passion made them fantastic lovers - but unfaithful and treacherous wives.  Who knew what else that such fickle hearts were capable of?

  He chuckled to himself for thinking about such nonsense as he scanned the girl more closely.  The looseness of her robes and gauntness of her cheeks told him she was uncharacteristically slender for her people.  And the way her left hand hovered near a bulge at her hip told him she had a small weapon tucked into the folds of her robes. 

He was about to see if he could make out more of the face that framed her intense amber eyes when his attention was derailed by a tug at his waist.  It was a scruffy looking child about half his height with wide round eyes and a form draped in dusty sackcloth.  His skin was surprisingly pale underneath the grime.  It was unusual to see a person of even mixed Aulden stock in this region, much less amongst the poorest of the poor.  He should be in some court supping on roast pheasant or playing on manicured lawns. 

  “Soffer a pents,” he begged in an accent that was clearly of the lowest caste.

“I’m sorry lad,” Karde said in an apologetic voice, “I’ve not but ninepence to last the week.”

He winked at the woman who stood beside him.

The child’s head drooped as it probably had at least a hundred times before. 

Karde spoke suddenly in mock surprise, “Why, lad… what’s this?  Why are you asking me for money when I see a coin resting atop your dome as clear as the one over Miramsgate?”

He swooped his hand over the child’s pate, tussled his matted hair, and pulled back a copper coin.

He then handed the coin to the child who smiled like a beacon.  The boy’s snaggle-toothed grin was infectious and Karde followed suit.

“Thankye!” muttered the child as he rushed to a nearby purveyor of toasted breads and rat-soup.

  “That was a strange kindness,” the woman said in a voice softer than any she had used before.

  If the saying meant anything in Verdani culture, it was well-beyond Karde’s comprehension.

  As he wended his way down the street, he felt a little self-conscious about what his companion had said.  He’d been able to decipher her words before… what had she meant?  The distracting question made him look at everything around him with more clarity.

  In his mind, he’d built up South Wall to be something rugged and unique, which it was, but clearly not in the way he’d seen it in his head.  In that realm of nostalgia and memory, it still had the innocence of its early days.  Sure, its origins were steeped in squalor, but since its birth, South Wall had grown to acquire the seedier elements of lower-class neighborhoods everywhere.

  Theft often took place openly in the street.  Women’s virtues were not held with respect.  And beneath the patina of grime, Karde had noticed the pale skin of his charity child was covered in bruises.  Why hadn’t he even thought about it until now?

  He tried to rationalize his oversights through the lens of the people around him.  With everyone so fervently struggling to survive, perhaps they just didn’t have time to commit towards community.  He had no family here, only strangers – short the few familiar acquaintances.  No wonder the people of his beloved village were so easily downtrodden.  No wonder he found it so easy to pass off a starving abused child with a scant coin.

  These realizations chilled the mirth that he’d clung to so desperately.  He was trying to laugh through something that was tainted with darkness – and trying to allay his guilt the cheapest way possible.  His single coin was indeed a strange act of charity – more done to make him feel better than actually help the suffering child. 

His blindsided conscience suddenly entertained a host of dangerous ideas – but he wasn’t sure where he could let them reside.

  Surely, I’m not the cause of all the depravity and desperation that I see around me, but… do I truly do or say anything in the defense of my community?

  This sudden guilt weighed heavily on his weary feet – and he felt as if he’d been forced to accept a harsh and heavy burden that he’d clouded from himself with nostalgia and false humor.

  He didn’t like the lenses that his companion had handed him, but he knew that he would have to bear them nonetheless.  Yes, the world suddenly seemed less wonderful than it had – and in truth, it seemed pretty grim – but his new eyes allowed him to assess what had to be done.

  Karde struggled in his head with a number of piecemeal efforts that he could make to help, but his heavy conscience could not be deflected so easily.  Even he could see that half measures would not work.

  I’m going to have to stop this horrible thing.  And the solution isn’t here on the street.  It’s up there, in that unassailable white fortress.

  He stopped, dead on his feet, at the implications of what that meant.

  He was not only going to have to face down the laws of the last twenty years, but also the powers and king that had put them there.  The task seemed too overwhelming for the moment.  Motionless clarity gave him the opportunity to take another hard look at things as they truly were, desperate for some lifeline from the immensity of the task ahead.

  The diversity of his village home was a gift beyond measuring - to be sure - but suffering was too common.  Even the healthy and well-to-do people of his makeshift community were at risk of losing everything at a moment’s notice.  The king’s watch had already proven with a single edict that entire boroughs could be taken down overnight.  He couldn’t cling to cultures for succor – nor could his kin.

  With no surety of the future, everyone was put under stress, and it showed in their averted gazes and defeated stances.  Most of them had given up hope on anything better, and worse still, had forgotten how to trust their neighbors – something that Karde suddenly missed from his childhood days.  How could things have changed so quickly?

  Even he knew that things hadn’t instantly transformed into the bleak existence that drifted around him.  The erosion of hope was something done slowly, lest someone might have raised their hand against it.  The posting of a single city guard within their village was seen as the king looking after his interests.  But now, as he surveyed the village, the watch was everywhere.  The change had crept in gradually, like the workings of a master thief – only the fact that Karde had been suddenly awakened allowed him to catch the rogue in the act.  He renewed his vow to do something before it was too late.

  He mused that a watch presence didn’t have to be a bad thing.  If such men were incorruptible, perhaps the people might have felt safer – and more importantly actually been safer.  But these people who had been trusted with the safeguarding of the populace let their personal greed get in the way of their duty to king (and more importantly) the citizenry who funded their wages.  The best of them was taking bribes from at least a half-dozen interests, just to make sure they could afford to bribe yet another official so they could keep their crooked posts.  The worst were so mired in the corruption that they had an interest in every crime on their block. 

  When the guard wasn’t turning a blind eye to theft and abuse, they were participating in it.  Just up the road, several uniformed men openly beat an old lady in the street.

  Karde wanted to help, but realized something quickly.  If he’d acted alone, he’d be inviting an even worse punishment for interfering with the king’s guard.

  Despite his pledge to help his community, he couldn’t act on it right away.  The contradiction burned at him as he saw the lady fall yet again from a kick to the gut.  He wanted to confront the corruption head on – to take out some of the abusive guards while he could, but even he realized the folly and innate wrongness with such an approach. 

  Some of the guards nearby were trying their best to speak up and act as a conscience for the watchmen who were out of control.  Karde wondered if they felt alone.  If not a single peasant stood up for their fellows, how could they be emboldened to act?  Such thoughts almost pushed his feet to rush to action, but his eyes were sober.  This was not the moment for martyred heroes.  This was a moment for planning.

  Karde turned from the scene as best he could and suddenly looked to his companion apologetically.

“I am sorry…” he said, for lack of better words.

She explored his eyes for a moment as if she were scanning his soul.

He felt self-conscious under her deep scrutiny. 

“I… didn’t even ask your name…” he said, realizing that he hadn’t even treated her with the common courtesy of a normal person because he’d labeled her as a lower caste.  Her insights were acute and her heart seemed noble.  How had he dismissed her so easily on sight alone?  He wondered if his other prejudices ran so deep and so silent.

  The girl raised her brows as if to challenge him, but in the end, relented and replied in a firm, even tone, “I am Liberty... or so I was born.  But I insist you call me Libby.  I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  Karde, compelled by politeness, bowed before Libby and she returned with a surprisingly well-executed curtsy.  She might know poverty now, but she’d once been a Lady of some standing, of that, Karde was convinced.

  “Well met,” Karde added in a fashion, ending his bow with a tiny flourish that he’d seen performed in noble homes.

  The passersby looked upon the couple strangely, but aside from that, they went about their various drudgeries with little notice.  Only a cluster of children nearby seemed to take much note, and all they did was point and snicker a few times.

“Shall we?” said Libby, pointing to the cluttered road ahead.

“Indeed…” Karde added as he began walking again.  He thought of saying more, but felt like he was starting to become a parody.  There was a point where too much politeness could almost seem like an insult, and he was not eager to cross that line.

  Karde made the way to back to his home slowly, casting out his gaze with new eyes - both discouraged and encouraged by what he saw.

  Complete neighborhoods of people of moderate success tried distancing themselves from the poverty and despair around them with flimsy walls of scrap wood.  These barriers could easily fall to the smallest efforts – but they insulated their thoughts from the troubles of the streets nearby.  Karde was embarrassed that people would choose to barricade themselves from guilt, especially since he’d been a part in the travesty that kept his kin from confronting the atrocities all around them.  Karde surveyed these isolated boroughs with a sense of guilt and regret, and sudden understanding.

  While care was something that seemed in short supply in his initial assessment, Karde had noticed a few promising signs.  Some of the people in the streets were talking – a few openly complaining about the problems they all faced.  He knew that others discussed more radical possibilities, but usually only in the confines of public houses – at least to his knowledge – though few men could afford to patronize such places in times of such hardship.  Just speaking, though was no solution.

  Karde’s most important observation was that most people still seemed to hold love for their children.  It didn’t seem like a lot to build on, but loyalty to one’s own blood had brought many to rise up in defense of their homeland.  Perhaps that love could be fanned into one that embraced their community.  If so, they stood a real chance of making things better.

  That realization gave Karde the strength to go on, and he walked silently to his home with a humbled heart and a troubled mind. 

Karde’s home was smack dab in the middle of one of the best neighborhoods of the Bricks District.  The wall that had separated this borough from the street was actually anchored into the ground, unlike any of the other fences that separated the various neighborhoods.  The homes were also, likewise anchored, though the wall and house itself were comprised of scraps of lumber from across the land.  Various tones of wood gave the place an almost patchwork appearance that Libby seemed to find amusing.

  “What’s the matter?” Karde asked as he unlocked the bolt on the door to his house.

“Just thinking to myself how safe these people really are behind their walls of waste timber.” She replied, stifling another chuckle.

Karde almost thought to reply, but Libby went on.

“I mean, at least I don’t have all of this…” she added, waving at the home – and then the neighborhood, “to slow me down… if I needed to leave in a hurry.”

Karde was wondering what kind of day he was having.  Luck seemed to be giving way to something darker.  Was the riverside robbery attempt a sign of things to come?  And worse still, would his awareness of the world ever be the same?

  His head was heavy with sudden revelations and responsibilities.

He opened the door with a slight bow and allowed Libby to go first.

Karde followed and closed the door, latching it behind him.

He had almost forgotten the reason he wanted to speak with her when he stepped inside.  His mind swam with so many unexpected and burdensome thoughts that he had to stop and think for a moment before he spoke.  He simply pointed her to a chair while he mused over what he would say.  He sat on a rug nearby and finally spoke.

“Look…” he started, “I know that your eagle pendant isn’t some long-aged family heirloom.  It couldn’t be.”

“While your assessment is untrue,” Libby began, “Your interpretation of its age will have no bearing on how much I sell it for.”

  “My father’s emblem is only two decades old,” he retorted, matter-of-factly, “And it’s the only one of its kind I have ever seen… until now, that is.”

  Libby’s eyes perked at the comment in a way that made Karde feel suddenly ill-at-ease.  Her sudden closeness made him feel a bit uncomfortable.

“Show me!” she barked rather insistently, barely restraining her excitement.

Karde felt a niggling protectiveness over his father’s secret affiliation, but relented in the sake of curiosity.  His father had rarely told him of his order, and he still had a number of unanswered questions that kept him up some nights in wonder.  Perhaps this girl could grant those answers.

  He reached into a snuff tin that was squirreled away with a drawer full of smelly socks, and produced a pendant, which at first glance resembled Libby’s.

“Novus Ordum,” Libby said without a hesitation, “They were a bit misguided, but true patriots of Del, every one.”

  She pointed at several features on his pendant, then compared it to her own. 

“Do you see the base of the Eagle?” she said with restrained excitement, “His feet hold a bound scroll, representing the law of Del…  on mine, his feet hold crossed swords, representing the might of the Del army.”

Karde squinted in the light of his sputtering lamp to see the details that Libby was so quick to spot, but he did have to agree, she was right.  He listened raptly as she went on.

“You will also note on your pendant that the eagle’s wingtips are folded, as if they are being unfurled.  This was to represent the new coming of Del law to the other lands.  And his head is in profile, representing the desire to look back upon the past to guide the future.”

Karde nodded as if he understood, but he wasn’t wholly sure where she was going.

“On my pendant, the eagle’s wings are stretched, representing the willingness to stretch across empires.  Both eyes look boldly to the future.  It is a challenge to all.”

Karde nodded once and she continued.

“In the early Ordum Delandium, the members believed in an aggressive flame of liberty passed on through might.  They were a naïve people, but they too were patriots.  They didn’t realize that the same strength that had given them freedom could so easily be turned against it.”

Seeing the confused look on Karde’s face, she clarified her statement.

  “Those who rule by might always find themselves confronting other forms of power – often from the same people they sought to free.  You cannot force a single vision of liberty on a people who do not understand it.  You have to educate them to its nature – and allow them to choose the form it will take.”

Her words were fascinating, but as alien as the thoughts that must lurk in the mind of a dragon.

  “Freedom always comes at a price – and that cost is either paid in commitment to education or blood.  Yet many are unwilling to pay the former, despite the foolish cost of the alternative.”

  Karde still seemed a little confused, but some of the points seemed to be taking hold.

 “So Del… it’s a place of freedom?” he asked sincerely, “What does that mean, exactly.”

“Well,” Libby said, “I don’t know any of this firsthand, but from what I have heard, it’s a place where the kings all share a common table.  They meet and discuss the matters of their kingdoms in an open forum where all can hear.”

The idea seemed logical, but impossible to his mind – though he still tried to follow as she spoke.

“And the kings are selected not by birth, but by a public lottery where no single person holds advantage.  Merchants and peasants alike each stand a chance to become king.”

  The more she spoke, the more incredulous Libby’s story seemed to become.  Karde shook his head in disbelief.

“So how do these eagles come into this idea of freedom?” he asked.

“Well,” Libby explained, “In Del, the military is accountable to the king, but has various groups within it to make it more responsible to the needs of its community.  These armies don’t just wage wars or defend castles.  They build roads and buildings where needed.  They provided security, instead of just watching idly as crimes go by…”

Seeing the unspoken comment in Karde’s eyes, she added, “We don’t call them them the watch around here for nothing.  Well actually.  Since they do nothing but watch… you get what I mean.”

Karde chuckled a little uncomfortably.

Karde listen raptly as Libby returned back to her tale, “Each of these groups, or orders, called an ordum, was created to tackle a different aspect of need.  Some specialized in service to community, others to the service of the securing the king or kingdom, and others to a specific cause.”

Karde nodded, still unsure of the veracity of her story.  If it were a fiction, it was the best he’d heard in ages, so he sat and listened carefully.

  “Ordum Deledanum was a group that sought to spread the Delian ideals of freedom to other realms – and while their goal was noble, they often became very short-sighted about how to interpret freedom.”

Karde suddenly realized that he’d forgotten to offer his guest a drink.  He swiveled behind him and grabbed a couple of wooden cups and poured out some of the burnt-wine beverage his father had called “brandee.”

Both of them took slow sips and Libby nodded approvingly.  Satisfied at the quality of the alcohol, she quaffed the remainder and returned to her story. 

  “Del’s self-righteous claim to freedom was one with dire consequences.  They trod recklessly upon the rights of sovereign people, such as those of Espani - a humble group who lived like gypsies upon their lands, taking only what they needed to survive.  The Ordum saw them as lawless tribes of rogues and crushed them before even considering that they might have as valuable a form of freedom as was offered by the Delian king.”

“These Espani… they were the forebears of the Verdani, from Del, right?”

“No,” she corrected, “They were the residents of Hess – a sovereign nation that only became part of Del by force.  They aren’t from the Del, the Del took them.”

Libby calmed herself a moment to regain her composure.

In the gap, Karde asked, “How could you possibly know so much of the history of a land so far away… or of orders so long dead?”

“Because my great-grandmother was an immigrant from Hess.”

She sighed, and tapped her glass for another drink, knowing another story was coming.

  “Great Gran paid for her passage on a leaky boat with her virtue.  The trip left her with two things - the bastard child of a Delian captain and the golden emblem from his cloak – stolen, of course.  She vowed to never let her family forget what her freedom had cost her – so they would never take it for granted.”

  Her eyes fell upon Karde in a way that made him shuffle his feet nervously.

  “Her stories lived on through several generations… until the current one, which hardly knows the tales, and seldom speaks them.  And what do we have now that her words are ignored?  A clan of people who value linen over Liberty - people who don’t realize the value of wisdom or family.  They’ve forgotten how to carry the song of freedom in their hearts - distracted by games of chance, local fashions, or gossip.”

Libby sighed for a long moment and continued.

 “Of six sisters, only I stayed to help with the family farm.  Only I honored our traditions - and the vow to carry the warnings of the past into the future….”

The tale was broaching memories that she was uncomfortable to recall, much less relate.  She tapped her glass to remind her host of her desire for another drink, which Karde offered eagerly.

  “To be honest,” she added, choking on the wine she could not drink quickly enough, “Such knowledge makes me feel ill of a people and tradition I should hold dear.  Of my clan, only a handful keep vigil to my ancestor’s dream – to never stop learning, and never stop striving as long as liberty is threatened – and that number seems to fade by the hour.”

Karde shifted uncomfortably and felt a sudden uncertainty about the relic he held.  Libby sensed the discomfort, but had no time to allay his worries.

 “I know you probably are upset at me for making you lose pride in your father and the symbol he wore, but that’s an unfortunate side effect of the truth - and the truth is that as much as I want to keep this thing as a testament to the sacrifice of my forebears, I am at an unfortunate crossroads where I have to choose between my loyalty to the past or the present – and in the end, this is just a lump of gold.”

    “What do you mean, ‘choose’?” Karde asked.

“My father has been taken by the watch.  The reason why is unimportant.  But I am not certain the gold I could get by having this melted down would be able to bribe enough guards to earn his freedom.”

  “But you just talked me out of wanting this thing…” Karde said, frustrated, “And there is no way I could offer enough for your needs, even if I did.”

“It’s still an item of much value, as I will soon explain, but more importantly, I am not looking for gold, but instead for an honest person to act as my advocate.  A person to undertake a simple task that should take but a few days.”

“I just don’t see where…” Karde began, but he was cut off by Libby’s insistence.

“These emblems, while of no value to us, would be of extreme value to any number of people.  If you could find a current member of the Delian order in Miram, they would pay handsomely for their return – though given your birthright, they would likely try to recruit you.”

  Libby looked to his eyes to see if he was warm to the idea – then offered another choice.

  “As for the other option, you could offer them to one of the king’s advisors.  They would certainly give you an even tidier sum for such a thing, but they’d want you to come up with at least two faces to tie to the emblems lest you incriminate yourself.  It would be a terrible thing to do to a person, but I cannot be the mother of your conscience.”

  Once again, Libby watched his eyes for a response.  There was no glint of greed, merely concern.  She relaxed and continued speaking.

  “Just suffice to say that either emblem would be worth a small fortune, and both would be more than doubly valuable.  The king does love his conspiracies.”

  Karde briefly entertained the idea of implicating a couple of the guards that he’d seen abusing the old lady in the street, but his sense of righteousness rejected the possibility, at least for the moment.

  “So what would I need to do?” Karde posed, his face suddenly becoming as hard to read as a book of Dwarven limericks.

  “I need you to go into the city proper and find a barrister, a specific one.  Her name is Victa.  She was once a member of the White Hand, but for now… we’ll say she is a servant of the people.”

“Sounds easy enough,” Karde replied, “What’s the catch?”

“She will need gold.  At least 100 coins.  And this document…” she answered, pulling a paper from the ruff of her sleeve.

  “A hundred gold?!” Karde choked, “Where would I get that kind of money?”

“And that’s the sticky part...” Libby said, “…listen closely.”

Chapter 2: Praud[3] and Prejudice

  Praud* had been told as long as she had been in the service of others that she was a lesser person.  She wasn’t special – she would always reside in the lowest caste, and her only future involved lifelong service to those of nobility until she died or they grew weary of her presence. 

  As a daughter of the lands of Ferrik, she was burdened with the predominant traits of her kind – a mottled brown skin tone and a bald pate.  Only a few rare people of her clan grew any hair at all, and even then, it clung tightly to their skulls like moss on a rock.  Such obvious physical distinctions made her immediately noticed virtually anywhere she went.  Peasants either scowled at her approach or ignored her completely.  Guards’ eyes fell upon her constantly with intense suspicion.  Many would even rest their hands upon their blades as she passed by.  Nobles would either curse her laziness and lack of personal hygiene or simply look down their noses at her in a way that burned more than being ignored.  Even her own people would not speak to her – mostly out of fear, but also out of a deep sense of racial shame.

  Not that she knew much freedom to travel.  Her only outings were when the young Lady she served deigned or needed her accompaniment – or when the Lord or Lady of the house insisted.  Such trysts were few, perhaps once a week.  Aside from those treks, her existence was usually defined by a few hallways and rooms in a corner of a grey stone keep.

  Praud had really only one escape from the weight of her many duties, and that was the time she took at the end of each day to unwind.  During these precious moments, she felt free of the persecutions that clung to her like a stinky coat of sweat.  Mostly, she just tried to look and listen without the shadow of judgmental glares following her every motion. 

Life within the city walls of Kos-Al was a constant spectacle to be sure.  Even late into the night, bright lights lit the streets below, obscuring the stars from her lonely eyes.  Loud music and the obnoxious laughter of revelry below drifted in on the few breezes that blessed her skin with cool comfort.  She stretched her lean yet muscular legs and then her slender arms, yawning like a cat.  In many ways, her mottled skin and slightly almond shaped eyes gave her the appearance of a mischievous feline as she peered over the distant waters.  As she dangled her feet from the balcony of her tiny loft, her thoughts drifted many places, first thinking of her native land.

  Even in the shadow of greater nations, Ferrik had still been a better place to be.  Some had called it a nation of impoverished peasant villages lead by unpredictable zealots and chieftains, but at least the people had some sense of personal pride.  Individuals had the opportunity to seek independent success without skirting the law.  Communities were sacrosanct.  And her people had a deep respect for nature and the blessings it offered.

  Now all that remained of her country was a broken people.  Their warriors never stood a chance against the might of thousands – and the fact that their conquerors were dressed in full metal plate seemed yet another insult to the honor of battle.  The best her nation could offer were hide-wearing men, women, and children wielding farming implements.

 The cost for defending their kind was either death or servitude.  The villages that survived the razing torches of the invading Delian armies were splintered.  Families were torn apart.  Men sent to labor in mines or work camps.  Women were tasked to mills or brothels.  Troublesome or rebellious children were slain on the street like mad dogs.  The few that were too young or too cowed to offer resistance were offered as prizes to the noble houses. 

  Praud was one of these children.  Now seven years in servitude following seven years free and she could barely remember her father’s face.  Yet she somehow she could still remember the face of the man who had clad her in irons and drug her away from her pleading parents.

  Of course, her inner voice mused, it wasn’t hard to remember the face of a man who had beaten and violated you hundreds of times.

  While she had vowed to end the man’s life by her own hands, Fate had denied her the privilege.  He had choked upon a berro bone following a particularly grandiose meal and died face first in a plate of steaming meat.  Praud felt a bittersweet joy at the memory, remembering how none of his servants lifted a finger to render aid.  They were not allowed to touch the master without his permission, and the bone lodged in his windpipe had rendered him mute.  His guards, hired for muscle and not brains, simply watched him perish, unsure of what steps to take to save him.

  Her owner’s death had placed her in the hands of the man’s niece, young Lady Eleana.  Despite the fact that age made them peers, Eleana never saw Praud as anything more than a pet.  In fact, with the opulent treats that the mistress lavished upon her hounds, Praud could say honestly that she had been treated worse than an animal.

  She tried to divert her mind from such negative thoughts by counting the few freedoms she still had left, and accounting for how much better things had become since her old master’s demise.

  She had a room, be it small, that she could use as she saw fit.  It didn’t have a door for privacy, but it least it had a curtain of beads that kept prying eyes from casual glances.

  She had a bed of sorts, a pile of woolen blankets in the corner that were surprisingly warm on cold nights and were able to fend off the chill that clung to the stone beneath her.

  Her room had shutters to keep out strong winds and most of the rains that could spring up without notice.

  She had a few feet of garden space on the grounds below for her own use.  It wasn’t going to feed her often, but it did offer her a chance to honor the traditions of her people – who saw all life as sacred – and valued the act of nurturing plants as a spiritual duty.

  She was no longer the victim of a brutal man’s lust.  Admittedly, the Lord of the house would sometimes give her a drunken rut when he was bored, but he would never beat her.  He would merely waddle off in the night and avert his eyes for the next few days.

  Considering the treatment of her kin, she was actually doing quite well, but it didn’t keep her thoughts from occasionally straying into dark places and leading her into bouts of depression.

  The one thing that made her life truly tolerable was a plant called Goldleaf.  Native to Ferrik, the herb was once a part of every person’s daily ritual.  The ground leaves of the plant were smoked in long stemmed pipes at the break of every day as the families discussed their morning plans.  Whole leaves were placed into foods as a spice.  And small bundles of the leaves were burned as part of religious ceremony and rituals.

  The leaves calmed the mind and soul, circumventing the barriers of fear and guilt by opening up gateways to long-thinking spiritual exploration.

  Praud maintained a small number of the plants in her personal garden space, keeping their growth low because her master considered them weeds.  She planted some tomat and mercat vines to obscure them from sight, meaning she occasionally had fruit in addition to her daily gruel.

    As she slowly rocked her legs back and forth from the edge of her balcony, Praud smoked a few leaves of her sacred leaf in a makeshift pipe and tried to urge her thoughts to even better places.

 Hope sparked in her mind only shortly after she had sparked her pipe.  As she exhaled, she wondered if she should allow it to burn.

  If such an lost concept as hope is to be a pipe dream, Praud mused, so be it.

 One of the first things she had learned as a servant was to listen to everything.  The confidences of two voices down the hall could have long term consequences on her well being.  She’d certainly taken notice of his rants when the house Lord had been drinking too much.  If these rants became argument, she could expect a visit.  It was better to partake of the leaf before his arrival to keep away even darker memories of her childhood.

  Lately, there were talks of problems with the noble house.  Late night arguments in hushed shouts about “dangerous documents” drifted down the hall.  Apparently, recently-surfaced papers revealed that her Lord’s family had long ago supported the outcast King, Miram, as he took flight.  While she wasn’t sure why a family would be concerned with the sins of their ancestors, Praud did her best to listen closely when such conversations arose.

  Hope drifted in during one of those recent conversations.  The Lord was apparently making efforts to “wrap up his affairs quickly” and he’d been taking more late-night meetings with people of a low station.  Swarthy men with scruffy faces and dangerous eyes would discuss “means of safe egress” to the tune of rattling coins.

  While some of the words that were exchanged were beyond her understanding - from the perspectives of both language and station – Praud was no fool.  She understood the gist of what was being said.  The noble family of Drakestone would be leaving the land of Del for good – and quite soon.  Perhaps in the hurry to leave, she might be left unattended long enough to escape.

  She let that hope flicker ever longer as she lit another bowl and scanned the reflected motes of light on the distant waters of the harbor below.

---

[1] Pwapa fische (pwa’pa fesh) [Old Delian]: literally, catfish whiskers, but it’s meant as a pun on “proper catch.”

[2] Vagonners (vey’gon’urs) [Archaic Verdani]: literally “Wagon Masters”, but oft-used to mean any reign holder.

[3] Praud (pra’uud)[Ferrik]: Having pleasing attributes (intelligence, kindness, wisdom); synonymous with beauty.