Seeking the Veil, Part 2

Black Towers

"Ah," sighed Orangebeard, as he shifted in the saddle of the gray garron plodding along, shaking its head in the cold. "We're almost there. And almost to a hot meal and a hot bath. Look off there, ya will see the towers soon. Not much to look at, not a big place. But gold is gold and any chance to sweep Sordin is one worth..." The kopf trailed off as the column of the Band rounded a turn in the road, a line of tall pine receding to the right and the sky opened up. There, right where Orangebeard was pointing, was a trail of black smoke rising into the gray sky. "Ah, shit!"

Orangebeard said other things as he hooked an arm around a scout, tossed the reins of the little garron to him and jumped off. The scout took off, two others following and the kopf kicked snow, cursed the gods and stomped forward like an orange thundercloud, ready to strike.

The Band arrived to find the fortress a fired, ruined mess and then the snow started to fall: gentle, soft, and cold.

***

Dietra and Gunter turned from the blackened rubble, ash settling on their shoulders as snow fell: gray and white. Their eyes were troubled.

"Orangebeard," called a scout named Mordic, lean with broad shoulders and a ragged leather vest.

"What?"

"No tracks."

"No... What?"

"No—"

"I heard what ya said. Not good," said Orangebeard, puffing out his cheeks and gazing around the ruins. "Sordin don't attack like this."

Hestea remembered back to the story of Orangebeard's. Graf van Sworten's keep had been torched and destroyed. Not unlike what Hestea saw before him.

Orangebeard pressed his lips together. "Not often, at least. Fine. Ya said no tracks? Then it was Scraith." The kopf looked to Dietra who nodded. "Why van Wagner? Did he tick off one a them black-robed buggers? First they pissed on his land, ran us a wild chase, then lopped off his head." Orangebeard ran a hand over his bald pate.

Hestea swallowed. It was getting worse. He could see it in the kopf's eyes. There was worry there. This man laughed at danger and sang in battle, but Hestea could see the concern dancing there in eyes of brown gypsum.

Gunter stared around, folding his hands in front of him; looking to the smoking ruin scattered on a low hill, the forest that surrounded, the distant hills, and then he stopped as distant mists unfurled — a hulking mountain shape hinted at from behind. It was a strange form, taller than the rest of the range, nearly vertical, with a notch out of the top. Like some god had bent down from the heavens to take a nip. "Is there a village near?"

"Before the black bastards rode through, sure," said Orangebeard without a thought. He turned to see Krass sauntering over with Dietra. "Scouts said they burned that too. The Sordin are fond 'a their fire, they are. None better than the blasted Scraith."

Gunter seemed to digest that. "Did they say where it was?"

Orangebeard waved off to the east. "It's close, within sight of the keep I heard." Then he turned away, one eye squinted as Gunter stared off to the east, his lips parted, breath steaming in the air. "Eh, now? What's yer smile for Krass. Ya know I hate yer grin, gives me the creeps. Ya never learn to smile with yer eyes man? Yer mum take ya off the teet too young?"

Krass fingered his ear, the shimmer of gold a small thing next to his smile.

"Ah, what's this?" demanded Orangebeard when he saw Nish and Trish walking in Dietra and Krass's wake.

"Kopf," the tall magess replied, "the girls here want to know if they can take over in Amott's place."

Orangebeard wrinkled his nose and glanced at the smoking ruin as he ran a hand over his belly. "Was waiting for some food from our blackened host."

"I think we'd be disappointed at the selection," Krass said with a glitter of white teeth.

"Uh, no doubt."

"We're running low on salted pork and cheese. The bread is stale and what is left is nearly gone." Dietra did not look amused as she stood there, arms crossed before her breasts. "Unless you know a way to make the men eat mud and snack on pine cones, we need more cooks. Raddish and Tot can only do so much. And the men will revolt if some are fed and others are not."

They said nothing about Hestea's part in the kitchen and he was happy to keep it that way. Since the battle, the kopf had not pulled Hestea back in. Not since the Saeordin had ransacked the mess tent. And not since... Amott. 

Orangebeard muttered to himself, "It was Amott's place. He kept the women in line. Kept the damn greens out. Made good food. For a man." He grimaced like a child being force fed brussel sprouts soaked in vinegar.

Dietra flexed her wide jaw with a scowl. "So what. Unless you plan to lock a good blade in the mess tent, I suggest you swallow your veggies."

The kopf turned as red as a beet, perhaps as close to eating one as he would come.

"The men found some hen houses and a couple gardens missed by the Saeordin. Raddish and Tot could chop the tubers, but they wouldn't know much else to do with 'em."

Orangebeard blew out his beard. "I don't want me food dressed in green ruffles, ya hear? And if I find bloody rutabagas in my stew." Orangebeard worked his mouth. "I'll not have it! Meat 'n potatoes. I'll take some carrots for color. But no - blasted - rutabagas!"

Nish and Trish jumped up and down, giggling and chattering. One threw her arms around Orangebeard and he turned away in a huff, while the two ran down a list of what they needed for the coming meal as they skipped away.

"No rutabagas!" Orangebeard shouted again.

Hestea grinned. The kopf couldn't say his name, couldn't pronounce Saeordin, but he hated rutabagas enough to know every single syllable. Dietra seemed less amused.

Hestea glanced to where Gunter had stood, and then whipped his head about. The magus was gone. Orangebeard and the rest walked off, the noise of camp being assembled grew to a dull roar as the light of the day faded. A slender shadow crept past trees and a crop of rock. "Now what is Gunter doing?"

It didn't seem like the magus to just wander off. Hestea shook his head and trotted forward, keeping Gunter in sight. The magus walked with leaden steps. Hestea opened his mouth, then closed it, and finally resigned himself to silence, pacing some thirty paces behind. Gunter went up a low ridge, then vanished at the top. Hestea ran softly to the precipice, peering over into a clearing. Below, there had been a dozen homes, perhaps more: a market, a green, a large house in the center — perhaps timber, perhaps brick. Hestea squinted. It was all gone now. Reduced to blackened rubble. Thin streamers of smoke rose at points, waving like a last farewell. Once full of merchants, a couple cobblers, maybe a wheelwright, it would have been a meeting place for nearby farms, bringing their wares to market. Why the Saeordin would bother with such a place... It was beyond Hestea.

And there, in the middle of it all, Gunter stopped, staring around, his shoulders low. He dropped to his knees as the sun dipped below the Scale, running his hands across the seared soil, lifting a pinch to his lips and to his brow.

Hestea squinted his eyes in the twilight. And there in the middle of the mundane, amid the blackened bones of homes for the common and for the simple, Gunter, Magi Master, graduate of the Academy, Fourth Circle Magus kneeled in the dirt, his head hung low. And there, in the midst of mediocrity, a magus of Aeongard cried, his shoulders shaking.

Hestea watched for several moments longer than was right. Then he crept away, moving back to camp, feeling silence crowd over him like a shroud. Gunter was not who he had thought he was, and he wondered if he had ever known him at all.

"You have a better reason to be here than I."