The Ghastly Tales of Dalien Grieger: The Howling

Chapter Three: A Bunch of Kuntz

Lantern's flickered as the surviving harvesters were led through the plantation manor's hallway, its walls decorated with wallpaper that depicted a mosaic of Echstadian symbols. Among them, Dalien noted the symbol of the moonflower, the sacred seal of Jaikhism, the official religion of the Echstad.
  Being of Rhus blood, Dalien was no follower of the Baranic religion, but he knew the moonflower represented spiritual awakening, and communion with the Cloven God, Baran, creator of Delos, the world.
  So, the Kuntz were religious folk, and Dalien sneered at the thought, a Jaikhist monk had whipped him once when he was a boy. He had not forgotten. Of course, Rhusians were made of thicker hide, and despite that monk bastard's best efforts, the puny sod failed in his attempts to draw blood.
  Nanook on the other hand looked upon the symbol with an ample measure of concern. Those of the Jaikhist faith were known for a great many things, but tolerance of the three subspecies of humans was not one of them. Jaikhist theologians considered them 'born of the grimy bog,' unlike Baranic humans, who had been created in the image of the Great Cloven One, the One God, Baran.
  There were eight surviving harvesters, including Dalien, Nanook, Friedrich and Symon, and they all trudged through the manor in single file. Among them was Onika, a woman of Grobardian stock, nearly seven-feet tall, quite intimidating, and possessed of a thick, red beard, which was commonplace among the Grobards.
  The other three survivors were Baldo, Egon and Pepin, a trinity of former Echstadian soldiers who were seemingly inseparable, though, judging by their features, they certainly had no relation to each other. Baldo, had his curly blonde hair, that he tended to, day and night, obviously proud of the dense mane he had cultivated. Egon had his black handlebar moustache, that was so long he was often found tripping over the damn thing. And of course, there was little Pepin, who was so short and stumpy, you could be forgiven for mistaken him as a child, if it were not for the wrinkles and liver spots that revealed his advanced age.
  'What do we have here?' Egon said, inspecting a particular section of the mural, where a depiction of a black pyramid resting upon a pale hand could be found. Egon reached out to touch the artwork, but his hand was swiftly slapped away like a naughty child's.
  'Don't spoil the damn thing with those grubby fingers!' Pepin said, pulling Egon away, and sneaking a look for himself. He retrieved a pair of seeing glasses from his inner pocket and inspected the work. 'Yes... very interesting indeed. Peculiar to see such a thing on a Jaikhist mural though. Very odd.'
  'What is it?' Baldo asked, whilst combing his blonde locks, which had unfortunately been matted with the dark blue blood of the Kovanche.
  'I believe this pyramid represents the Stone Eternal; a mythical artefact capable of gifting its owner with immortality. Complete nonsense of course. Still, it is interesting to find such a thing depicted here.'
  'Why is that?' Dalien asked, approaching the diminutive old man.
  'Well, it would most certainly be considered blasphemous to the Jaikhist faith.'
  'I see,' Dalien frowned. 'Come lads, let us not keep our hosts waiting.'
  The three soldiers nodded and continued down the hall. Dalien glanced a moment at the pyramid, he could've sworn he had seen such a thing before, but he could not place it. He turned away and followed the others.
  As they made their way down the hall, Dalien's mind wandered back to his days with the Lutes of Mourning, back to those nights he and his comrades strummed their lutes and pulled a thousand songs from the aether. But those days were gone now, he had a far greater duty. He looked to his son, and Dalien knew he could never let him out of his sight, for halfbreeds were shunned by both Echstadian society and the tribes. Nanook was his duty now.
They were led into the manor's living area, where the raucous sounds of cheering arose. Inside, three young men circling the room, waving their arms, and yelling, though one of the boys appeared less enthusiastic than the others. In the centre of the living area, two small meavels, a species of slender, sentient rodents, more common in the south, were engaged in fierce combat, each of whom carried a wooden sword and shield.
  Their swords met with a clank of wood. 'You will not best me this time, scoundrel! Justice shall be served!' The meavel on the right announced, snarling at his opponent, its reddish fur standing on end.
  'You are no match for me, Sir. You would be wise to lay down your sword,' the other meavel said. The little creature bore an eye patch, and a scar ran across its snout, which gave it a rather mean and menacing appearance.
  Their swords met once more with an echoing thud, sending splinters of wood across the carpet. Dalien was impressed with the duo's skill, though he found the scene distasteful to say the least. It was clear these three brothers were betting on the poor beasts for their own entertainment. Dalien grimaced as a strike met its mark and sent the one-eyed meavel spinning to the ground.
  'Good form, Vilhelm!' the tallest of the brothers cheered, a wicked grin stretched obnoxiously across his face. Dalien noted the boy had his father's look about him. Silver hair and a rather elongated beak of a nose.
  The Duchess Ursula stormed through the onlookers, her face stern, and eyes fierce. 'Adgar, Valtor and Rasmus! Where do you think you are? Some grimy gamblers den in Kalinberg? Cease this uncivilised behaviour immediately, we have guests.'
  The harvesters looked at one another as the Duchess proceeded to reprimand her three sons, and a trio of clips around the ear were administered. The two meavels scurried away, leaving their miniature swords and shields behind. 
  Lady Ursula's gaze shifted to the survivors, her stern demeanour softening slightly as she addressed them. 'Apologies for this most unsightly display,' she offered. 'We Kuntz may have our eccentricities, but we also try to uphold proper decorum. I trust you understand this is not the usual atmosphere of our manor.'
  Before Friedrich or Dalien could reply, the grand doors at the far end of the room swung open, revealing a figure of noble and imposing stature. Duke Viktor Kuntz strode assertively into the room, back as strait as a pole, silver hair tied in a knot, and a tremendously pronounced nose, marking him as a scion of the Kuntz lineage. His demeanour and stride exuded an authority that brought the entire room to attention.
  The duke assessed the scene, his gaze settling first upon his three sons, who bowed their heads in shame, and then he turned to the harvesters. His eyes narrowed as he took in the odd assortment of characters that had sort refuge in his home. 'Ursula, my dear,' he said, his voice laced with an inherent authority. 'Would you care to enlighten me on the circumstances that have led to this... gathering.'
  The Duchess, who had moved to stand by her husband, met his eyes with an air of great respect. Her voice remained unwavering as she explained, 'My Lord, these here are victims of dire circumstance. The Kovanche have attacked our fields it would seem; these harvesters have sought shelter within our walls.'
  The duke's gaze shifted from his wife to the survivors, his penetrating eyes assessing everyone with calculating intensity, though his regard lingered a moment too long upon Nanook for Dalien's liking.
  'Very well, Ursula,' the duke conceded, though his words carried with them a silent caution. 'But do remember, the Kuntz name holds a legacy that demands both reverence and responsibility.'
  Noble bastard, Dalien thought.
  'Well,' the duke continued, 'considering the situation, I sense it would be prudent to bolster our defences. Oswald!'
  The pig-nosed butler scurried forward and curtsied like an idiot.
  'Yes, my Lord?'
  'Prepare the manor for a potential siege. Gather the household staff and ensure every measure is taken to secure this building.'
  'Of course, my Lord. I shall attend to the arrangements at once.'
  As the Duke's gaze lingered upon them, a tension-laden hush enveloped the room. Dalien sensed something beneath the duke's aristocratic exterior, though he could not say what.
  'You are Dalien Grieger, if I'm not mistaken,' the duke remarked, His tone carrying a note of intrigue.
  'Aye, Lord,' Dalien replied, 'I served under your banner during the Muskota Campaign.'
  'I remember, Mr Grieger,' the duke said. 'And a bloody business it was. The Muskota were a proud people, unwilling to bow to the Echstad's might. And that foolish defiance eventually led to their complete eradication.' The duke's expression darkened, a cloud of what appeared to be remorse settling over his features. 'Their refusal to surrender cost them dearly, a tragedy etched into the archives of history. Unfortunately, corruption in our glorious capital of Kalinberg has borne many ill things, brutality upon the frontier being but one.'
  'We can certainly agree on that, Lord.' Dalien replied.
  'The past cannot be undone, Mr Grieger. But a future is there to be forged, if men like you and I have the resolve to forge it.'
  The duke's eyes met his wife's and he nodded.
  'Welcome to our home,' Lady Ursula said, however unexpected the circumstances. You shall be shown to your rooms and provided for as best we can.'
  The words of the duchess hung in the air, a promise of refuge and a chance for the weary harvesters to find respite before the coming storm. The Kovanche would come again. They all knew it.
  As the room started to disperse, Dalien exchanged a knowing look with his son, who's instincts were as sharp as a blade of howling grass. Behind the facade of grandeur here, there was something not right in this manor, amongst this enigmatic family, these plantation overseers, this aristocratic bunch of Kuntz.