Once again, Bhoural felled the final monster in a dungeon with deft ease.

  The Chruutan, a horrid looking beast humoresque of a shrimp, stumbled on its six legs and collapsed, milky fluid leaking from its wound. Bhoural withdrew his blade from the things neck, lifted his visor and began to clean his sword’s blade with a rag at his hip. He looked at Braulyn, one of his 3 other main adventuring companions, and a staunch enemy of Url-Rafam. Her steel claws were dirty with the same plasm on his blade, she’d been slicing at the beast’s backside. “Superb, Braulyn,” Said Bhoural. She grunted affirmatively.

  The year was 1696. It had been five years since Url-Rafam’s fateful encampment raid left Bhoural the only surviving member of the Uslagen bloodline. Bhoural had reached physical maturity. He had a narrow face that fit oddly atop his very broad and athletic shoulders, with a thin mouth that settled very naturally into a solemn pout. Like all Soldier-types, he had no eyebrows, but a pronounced, iron-clad brow that made for nasty headbutts. It cast a shadow so deep upon his eyes that the whites could only be seen from a foot away. There was a statuesque and geometric sharpness about him, like if you touched his cheekbones or his temples with even the slightest pressure, you’d cut yourself.

  His party was single-mindedly devoted to vengeance against Url-Rafam, searching the land for whatever advantages they could secure in a confrontation with the gocep. Their adventures presently brought them into the cellar of an abbey not too far from Qaihedek. “How much further to the sacristy?” Asked Bhoural to Eydan, who was rested on a large round rock and studying an old map.

  “This is the room with the magnesium spring running through it, yes?”

  Bhoural glanced at the babbling spring that issued out of the cave, through a small crevice in the wall where the Floru countryside was visible. “Looks like a water stream,” muttered Braulyn.

  “The magnesium’s dissolved in the water, Miss Nelpchev,” Eydan retorted.

  “Should I taste it to make sure?”

  “Yes, it should be thick and lactic, moreover-“

  “Enough,” Bhoural wasn’t about to let the two argue again. “The sacristy’s beyond that opening in the wall, right Eydan?”

  A sound of something metallic and delicate being dragged along a stone surface echoed in the cavern.

  “Where’s Klyra?” Asked Bhoural. Nowhere in the room, as far as he could tell. “Earth’s writhing” groaned Bhoural in Balvird, storming into the precipice.

  “Klyra!” and off in the sacristy’s corner, Klyra was rushing to stuff a candelabra into her haversack. This was typical. Klyra had an incredible capacity for destruction, an incredible hatred of Url-Rafam, and incredibly poor impulse control. Off in the corner, a few Janxanian monks were clustered and cowering as far away from this marauding, frazzled human woman. Klyra rolled her eyes at Bhoural. Bhoural stormed forward.

  “You are going to empty that traveller’s bag of everything, and if you withhold anything that belongs to these strangers from me, we are stranding you at the first caravansary we come across.”

  “We saved these dipshits,” groaned Klyra, “what’s the point of goin’ into their cellar if we don’t get a little somethin’-“

  “Can it,” and Bhoural turned to face the frightened friars, “My brothers in the Law,” began Bhoural in Balvird, presenting his Jeweled-X of Janxan, “you must forgive my hasty companion. We wish only for the tanzanite spearhead which was used by Abbot Arouth-Neik to defeat Sameyat-Rafam. Where might that be?”

  One of the friars ran off to look for the spear among the relics. “You saved us!” Cried the most elder friar, “we were alright until-”

  “Yes, I know, monsters came and it was up to us heroes to slay them to protect you,” said Bhoural in exasperation, “The abbey’s been cleared, you can head back up. Do we have your consent to take the spearhead?”

  “Of course,” replied the elder.

  Soon, the friar returned with a spear, crowned with a purple gem as its head. Bhoural cracked the spearhead off the weapon that was presented to him. “Brilliant. That will be all. We’re leaving, everyone.”

  “Hold on,” said Braulyn, blocking Bhoural’s exit, “Klyra’s got a point, if it weren’t for us, those guys would be dead. They seemed ready to part with some of the stuff in here.”

  “If it weren’t for our quest,” began Bhoural, “fate wouldn’t have twisted so this trip would be complicated by a monster infestation that we have to clear. We have no right to extort these people. Certainly not brothers in my faith.”

  “Prove it.” rasped Klyra.

  “It isn’t odd to you that every place we visit is occupied by monsters?” replied Bhoural.

  “No,” she said, “We’re heroes. Heroes get paid. And we’ve saved somethin’ like 80 people on this gig, and every time we ask to be repaid-”

  “There is nothing heroic about seeking rent from poor, innocent people. Are you here because you want to be a cur?”

  “I’m here ‘cause I wanna get paid.”

  “Well you’ll just have to make do with the gems we found on the bodies of that ghast for some reason.” Bhoural stormed out of the monastery with the spearhead he came for. “I’m surrounded by Brigands.” he muttered in Balvird. Then it hit him:

  “Klyra?”

  she groaned, “What, Mr. Generous?”

  “Our tally was up to 87 civilians saved on our journey. Today brings us up to a clean 90.”

  On horseback, Bhoural entered Yhorkar township, the sun obscured by a single stray cloud. There were children bringing in herds of Aurochs and sheep, there was an argument unfolding among two haggling hobgoblins, there were old, roadside idols to Chcurex whose stone heads were beheaded and replaced with the Janxanian X (and of course Bhoural blew a hand-kiss to them as he passed). Bhoural had passed countless towns like Yhorkar, but only now was he appreciating the Floru countryside. What’s different? he thought to himself.

  The silence, he realized. It’s quiet enough that I can hear the marmots. Klyra isn’t bickering behind me. I’m alone for the first time in five years.

  Bhoural had arrived to meet a woman. Recently, Eydan reminded Bhoural that after killing Url-Rafam, Bhoural would be a nupro nobleman, and nobles were obliged to marry. Bhoural had some childish misgivings about divorce, but nevertheless, he was here to meet Yanla Tayman. She was the daughter of a discreet and well-off trading family. Their meeting in remote Yhorkar was to minimize the chance that they’d be waylaid by Url-Rafam’s men.

  He stopped in front of a large ger, dismounted, stuck his mount to a tie bar, and studied the other horses upon it. He looked at their brands, in particular Two of them had the identical markings of the Tayman family. One for the lady, and one for her bodyguard. In the universe of families Bhoural could enter the necessary evil of marriage with, the Taymans seemed like the best choice. They were ranchers, so of course they’d bring their own stock to the rendezvous here in Yhorkar. Rich, and very boring, thought Bhoural, No enemies. No chance that I’m forced to embark on another family vendetta. Perfect.

  He ambled towards the wooden steps that lead into the large hall. Rather quickly, he found the human bodyguard with a green armband on his left bicep. This guard was the Lady’s escort. His eyes were locked on Bhoural the moment he stepped in the room. Bhoural approached the fellow and said the password (Taxis) to him.

  “Where is she?” asked Bhoural. The guard gestured immediately to his right, where a figure was seated away from Bhoural at a vast bar. “Yanla, yes?”

  The girl swiveled to face Bhoural. She was a stocky, titan-blooded thing, a proud forehead and with 2 silver bands piercing her lower lip. She had a little wart on her upper right eyelid, a serene looking smile, and a little silver X around her neck. “Yes, Yanla. Honored to meet you, Lord Uslagen,” she replied.

  Bhoural searched fruitlessly for a bon mot for the occasion. “What’s the matter?” chuckled Yanla.

  “Nothing, I-... Sincerely, I thought I’d be courting a human,” the two shared a bit of laughter. “Have you already had a bit of kumis? It’d be my honor to buy you more.”

  “Go ahead,” Yanla replied.

  After exchanging further pleasantries according to Nupro custom, the guard left the two to their own devices. In the stiff exchange of ritual greetings, Yanla suddenly asked: “That word, Taxis, were you ordering him around?”

  “In a way, yes. I don’t follow.”

  “Well, you ordered him wrong. You didn’t conjugate Taxis. It should be Taxe. ‘I order you to leave’. Well, most of the sentence is implied, really.”

  “Oh,” Bhoural chuckled, finally grabbing a wooden mug of Kumis that was passed to him and sipping, “That was just the passcode. How do you know Greek?” he asked the last sentence in Greek to test Yanla’s proficiency.

  “Because I learned it. I’m a merchant’s daughter. I have to stay educated to stay a merchant,” Bhoural’s eyes widened. She spoke the language as if she’d been raised in the court of Pallas. Bhoural could tell she was a little drunk from the kumis, it made her delivery all the more impressive. The rest of their conversation was in Greek.

  “How’s it useful for a merchant to know a Jurenonian language in Bursual? Wouldn’t you be better suited speaking Balthi?”

  Yanla shook her head, a little embarrassed. “I do know Balthi, but you’ve sort of got me there. Greek isn’t useful at all, really. I have selfish reasons: I like Opera. All of the best Operas are in Greek.”

  “Ah, a Hellenophile. Do you have ambitions of going to Palladia one day? Walking its forested avenues? Flirting with the satyrs?” Bhoural was more than a little teasing here.

  “Yes, but don’t make me feel self conscious about it!” whined Yanla, “I’d like to go to the beaches they have there, and then catch a production at one of the big temple venues in the evening. That’s my idea of a perfect day.”

  Bhoural listened onward to Yanla’s nimble and voluble Greek tongue, how she only got to see any Opera productions once every other year. Eventually, however, the conversation focused on Bhoural, and his adventures…

  “And that’s why I hate adventuring,” muttered Bhoural, more than a little tipsy as he escorted Yanla along the length of the stream outside of Yhorkar. “It’s brutish and horrific work, and it attracts the slimiest people you’ll ever meet. All the stories chroniclers spin about the good guys winning are just after-the-fact, you know? Most ‘heroes’ are only in it for the money and power.”

  Yanla chuckled. “Well how would you have it? If you hate it so much, leave it. Let Url-Rafam claim victory over your family and over the dozens of others he’s slaughtered.”

  Bhoural scowled, feeling his temper rise, “Don’t be coy, you know I have to. Look at this scar on my right hand. I made a promise to the dead men in my family that I’d see this feud through. And not just them, I owe it to Bursual to get rid of that dog.”

  Bhoural could sense that his belligerent, anti-adventure tirade had frightened Yanla. “Look, I’m-... my point is that the whole blessing is stupid. Why should it be up to one God’s blessing to decide who rules and who suffers? And why me of all people? I should have been a physician, that’s what I was trained for.”

  “Oh,” remarked Yanla, “How funny. Right now I’m a nurse at Yaiglath’s Convent in Bursual.”

  Bursual was speechless for a moment, save for a shocked breath that slipped out of him. “You’re the most marriage-eligible nun I’ve ever met, Miss Yanla.”

  “I volunteer, I’m not part of the convent, silly. It’s the only way a girl like me can heal people without becoming a spinster.”

  Bursual nodded. What a shame this young girl had to jump through the hoops of religion to become a physician. Then again, so did he. “Fascinating. Do you have a tutor that teaches you medicine, or is it all training from the convent?”

  “Right now I’m only triaging the incoming wounded. I’m still learning the ropes.”

  “Well, let me put it to you like this,” something came over Bhoural and he turned to face Yanla. “You asked me how I’d have it. What I’d do if I had a choice when it came to adventuring, and if I-,” Bhoural paused to think for a moment, “How many people do you want to save in your career, Yanla? Just give me a number.”

  Yanla choked on her breath a little bit, “I haven’t really given it much thought.”

  “But you want to go into medicine to save people, yes?”

  “Yes. I want to help.” Yanla was much more confident stating this.

  “How about 1,000 people? A nice, clean number.”

  Yanla thought for a little. “If I hope to have a career lasting 35 years, that’s something like 30 souls I’d have to rescue in a year. Maybe I could save their lives in little ways.”

  “Well it’s my sincere hope you save their lives in little ways. That’s how I’d have it. Little people saving the world in little ways, not these big, gaudy, melodramatic adventures. And if you pick me,” Bhoural got down on one knee, “I promise you’ll save 1,000 lives before I save my 100th. I’d say that ten lives saved in little ways is equal to one life saved heroically. Thus, you might exceed my heroism in at least one point in your life if you save 1,000 lives before my 100th. Call that my betrothal gift.”

  An awkward silence hung in the air. Yanla’s hands were clasped by her mouth.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

  “Have I made a fool of myself? I’m sincerely sorry if-”

  Yanla embraced Bhoural and giggled. All of his anxiety melted away.

  In the heart of Bursual, in the dead of night, a supply cart arrived at Yaiglaith Convent. A gaggle of nuns came out to inspect the payload. Only a young soldier titan in a tunic came hopping out, dashing into the monastery’s worship hall, into the main cloister, and finally, into the infirmary. He waved at the spectating collection of young sisters. They always giggled as he passed on Tuesdays and Thursdays past midnight.

  Finally, Bhoural looked upon the infirmary, finding Yanla tending to the wounded. It was time to help her exceed his nobility. He noticed that some of them were on floormats rather than the beds. Low capacity. It was going to be a long night.

  “What’s his problem?” asked Bhoural.

  “Dislocated spine,” she replied, “some internal bleeding, too. A lot of the poor souls here were waylaid by Url-Rafam’s men.”

  Bhoural sat erect, suddenly. Now he definitely wasn’t leaving until all of these souls were healed. Bhoural rolled the fellow over and inspected his back. “This is a job for the chaplain, later. A dislocation is an injury you can treat with curative magic. Our job’s to make sure he doesn’t bleed out before then. Give him trednoplat, it’s as good as a red potion for internal bleeding.”

  “You can’t cure him yourself? You’re a cleric.”

  “Yeah, I’m a cleric with all my daily magic depleted. I brought some scrolls with me, but we really need to make sure you save them for the people who need them.”

  And so the night went by in a blink. The scrolls of healing magic were expended only for the most urgent cases. And they were all used. Sixty-Five souls were saved that night by Yanla’s hand and Bhoural providing help; they’d saved the majority of souls in the infirmary that night. Yet just when the two of them had handled all the maimed, the night worsened.

  In burst a cavalcade of town guards carrying more wounded: “Url-Rafam’s hit the Southwest!” A ferric smell suffused the room. Much blood had been spilt. The nature of the second round of the gocep’s barbarous “tax-collecting” was particularly dire.

  Bhoural rushed to triage the first poor bastard who was brought in. It was a human, his age, with a tad of vitiligo on his-...

  Oh no.

  “You! Are you with me?” cried Bhoural. The wounded fellow mumbled feebly. “Do you remember me? When I told you to giddy up?”

  The fellow hummed. “Yes. That was five years ago.”

  “I’m a doctor now, I’m going to treat you! You’re going to live!” Bhoural wrenched the stretcher from the guardsman. The poor sap had a giant axe wound in his left pectoral and was gushing blood. He was deathly pale. By the time Bhoural had found the stapler he’d need to shut the wound, he realized it was futile. Only a cure spell was going to save this fellow, and he’d just run out.

  “What are you going to do for a living?” asked Bhoural, trying to stanch the bleeding by any means necessary.

  “Huh?…Fruit. Sell… fruit.”

  “Good! Stay with me! It’s what you want to do, though, right?” Bhoural clasped the fellow, using every ounce of strength to try and stanch the massive wound on his shoulder.

  The human cackled. “No! That’s the-” the human sputtered blood in the air. “Last…thing…”

  Bhoural was the first person to feel the poor soul’s heart stop. That night, he prayed to the corpse of Janxan that he’d exact vengeance on Url-Rafam.

  Bhoural and Yanla strode triumphantly to the center of their wedding tent. The taste of Yanla was still fresh on Bhoural’s lips, it was mere moments after the Janxanian officiant had told him to kiss the bride. A kaleidoscope of sweet smells and faces and congratulation wizzed around husband and wife. The feeling was happier than either had ever felt. The spectre of Url-Rafam was gone; he’d been slain by Bhoural 3 days ago. Above all, the nobility of Yanla exceeded that of Bhoural. She’d saved 1,003 lives before Bhoural had saved his 98th. Finally, the two met near the pole’s center, ready to dance according to Nupro custom.

  Bhoural leaned in to begin a lively three step. He immediately noticed Yanla’s reluctance. Then he noticed the song’s first notes: eerily familiar

  He cast his hand out with the speed of a viper to halt the room. “One moment.” He had been here once before, in a dream five years ago. He’d been talking about this moment for days with Eydan. The words trembled and nearly stayed shut in his lips as he asked his wife: “What’s wrong, Yanla?”

  His beloved beckoned him to listen to her whisper. With insurmountable dread flooding the pit of his stomach, he used all his willpower to brace himself for what she had to say…

  “I had some sand in my eye,” she chuckled.

  “Well, may I have this dance, Lady Uslagen?”. Yanla nodded, and Bhoural beckoned the band to start playing. The most horrific moment of his life passed as quickly as it had ambushed him. When Eydan came into Bhoural’s view, the newlywed enthusiastically flashed a thumbs-up. Eydan returned the gesture.

  The two danced to various arrangements of Opera overtures that night: Die Fledermaus, Dido and Aeneas, The Barber of Seville, all the pieces that Bhoural and Yanla agreed were sufficiently danceable. During the quieter bits of the Barber overture, Bhoural whispered: “Do you know what I’m most looking forward to about our marriage?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Putting this adventuring nonsense behind me, and helping you at the convent in broad daylight.”

  Down Afreyatz Avenue, a parade of warriors and adventurers inundated Bursual. Unendingly, they marched into Bursual’s central keep, and drained into every tavern, barracks, and inch of real estate the city had to quarter them. There were loud horns, the groaning of the machines of war, and above all, Ursa Legionnaires, parading with their signature Guandao on the flanks. Their suits of armor, packed with every magical gadget and enchantment imaginable, were more expensive than the entire city of Bursual. Every now and then, there was the Woosh that came with the showboat-flying of the Autocracy’s dragons. For the whole parade, the city stood still. The din and distraction had been constant for 4 days, all directly adjacent to Lord Bhoural Uslagen’s new townhouse on Afreyatz. The city was so congested that Bhoural and Yanla couldn’t escape for their honeymoon.

  Lord Bhoural rubbed his temples as he watched the onslaught from his new residence. “Is it like this every time the Autocracy sends their armies up?” he asked Eydan.

  “Whenever a new Bison’s Chosen debuts in the North, yes,” nodded Eydan, with half an earplug in. “The fell god has declared his 12th crusade against mortalkind. His new chosen warlord, Oluns, behooves annihilation with as much shock and awe as possible.”

  Bhoural tutted, “Why not kill this Chosen the same way every other Chosen was killed? With a small crack-team of adventurers? Are most of these paraders canon fodder?”

  “Well, before they all expire in hellfire, these brave chaps are going to forage and rob the countryside completely and utterly nude. This new crusade is as much a sanction for the Grand Duchy as it is about actually killing Oluns. The duchy was too slow. Too lax. Its job was to preemptively avoid Oluns from ever coming about.”

  Before Bhoural could curse the Autocracy for this, Bayfaz, his retainer, stood at Bhoural’s ready: “Sir, there’s a visitor. He was in Ursa armor.”

  Bhoural and Eydan groaned. Bhoural lurched over the Town house’s balcony to get a look at the fellow. Flanked by 2 escorts, the fellow, in green full plate that was more impressive than any Bhoural had ever seen before, carried his Angel-headed helmet in his left hand, exposing his full-blooded Soldier Titan visage.

  Bhoural couldn’t believe it. He sprinted down the stairs and forced his estate’s gates open to hail a living legend: “Kalla Tarle?” He gasped.

  “Grandmaster of the Emerald Empyreans at your service, friend,” Kalla had a kingliness and warmth that exceeded the Grand Duke of Bursual himself. “May I come in?”

  “Not bring guards inside you with?” Replied Bhoural in choppy Balthi.

  “Mercy, boy!” Cried Kalla in Titan, “speak to me in thine Mother Tongue. It’s been too long since I’ve spoken like an Soldier.”

  Bhoural received Kalla warmly on the sunlit couch. Bhoural himself sat on a wicker chair. Eydan entered stiffly, gazing upon Kalla with curt politeness.

  “Now,” began Kalla, “I’m wanted in many places, so I’ll be brief. Two things: first, I request the Tanzanite spearhead in your possession. My legion would like to borrow it for divination. It’s of great importance to the current crusade against Oluns. If you’d like, I can have a barrister come and draft a contract guaranteeing the Tanzanite’s return, and have them pick it up in my stead.”

  “Divination of what sort?” Asked Bhoural.

  Kalla clasped his hands and leaned forward. “Well, this leads nicely into thing two. The smith for that tanzanite spearhead was no Janxanian friar. He was a demagogue of Wyzzyx.” Bhoural sensed the subtle gasp from Eydan behind him. Then he observed Kalla produce a couple of printed copies of a ransacked Bison’s throng camp. The camps apparently had rather intensive orb systems in their center. “We think the demagogues have been using these orbs to coordinate logistics. There were clover motifs all around them. The threat of a Wyzzyx-Chcurex combo alone merits investigation, even if it’s just a bluff.”

  “Clerics of Wyzzyx colluding in the Throng?” interjected Eydan, “The last time that happened was the first Daemon War. Their followers’ discord is famous.”

  Kalla nodded. “Indeed. Anyhow, we need all the adventuring muscle we can scrape to meet this threat. Your mark is still active, right Bhoural?”

  Bhoural, caught flat footed, turned towards Eydan. “Can you check?” and Eydan hurried over to cast detect adventurer.

  “Yes,” said Eydan, “As fresh as the day the goddess bestowed it.”

  “Good,” said Kalla, “Then I’d like to extend you an offer to become a junior chaplain of the Emerald Empyreans,”

  Bhoural sat aghast. “I’m a cleric of Janxan, though, I don’t see how I could just swap to Cheeth.”

  “I do,” said Kalla, “Most of the Empyreans’ divine casters enter the legion worshipping a God besides Cheeth. Devotion to the Crusader can be taught. We’d allow you to mobilize with your old party as well, you wouldn’t be giving up your life to the Empyreans.”

  Bhoural clasped his chin, shock giving way to consideration. “It’s a big decision,” he mused.

  “And you don’t have to decide on it right away. My legion makes for the Far North in four days time, and we’re staying at the keep if you need to tell us yea or nea,” Kalla stood up and made for the door, “Just know that this is an offer that I’ve made to very few people in my 250 years of service. Now, were you going to give me that spearhead?”

  “Yeah,” replied Bhoural, “Send your barrister, though.”

  “I’ll be off then,” and then there were Eydan and Bhoural in the living room. They were still dizzied by the conversation.

  “You’ve only been barely wed, Bhoural,” Eydan began, “And you spoke ceaselessly and longingly of the relief of civilian life. This all goes against that.”

  “Is the combined threat of Chcurex and Wyzzyx serious?” asked Bhoural pointedly. Eydan hesitated to respond. “Is it or is it not? Do you want to be old and regret having done nothing about a potentially world-ending conflict?”

  “I confess, A Wyzzx-Chcurex partnership is cause for great concern. But I must be Frank, young master. I want out of adventuring.”

  “Me too. I’m also mature enough to recognize that sitting idle may no longer be an option. If this crusade were another yahoo excuse to invade the Floru Steppe from the Autocracy, that’d be one thing. But this could be a century-defining tumult we have on our hands. We should at least try to see how legitimate this threat is. Plus, Klyra and Farra will probably join the Autocracy’s anticrusade. I don’t like the idea of them adventuring unsupervised if Wyzzyx is involved.”

  Eydan composed himself and extended a finger rhetorically at Bhoural. “Fighting against Wyzzyx and Chcurex is one thing. Collaborating with an Ursa Legion to fight Wyzzyx and Cheeth is entirely another.”

  “I thought you liked Kalla,” Bhoural said, “You said he’s the only Ursa Legionnaire that merits any respect. Don’t you think he’s cool?”

  “He’s the least bad in a dreadful bunch. It doesn’t matter that he killed a Dragon and got to form his own Ursa Legion. All of the Legions answer to Cheeth. He is in league with Cheeth personally. I hope that the one lesson you’ve gleaned from your religious studies is that to consort with Cheeth is a mortal danger. If serving him doesn’t turn your body into mincemeat, it’ll turn your soul into mincemeat.”

  Bhoural sighed. “You were the one that said belief was immaterial when it comes to the divine. That in a vacuum, a cleric of Janxan heals just as well as a cleric of Yusk. That’s why you were alright with me becoming a cleric, no? If we saddle up with the Emerald Empyreans, that could be a lot of firepower and resources we earn access to.”

  “I said belief is immaterial when it comes to divine casting. Belief is everything. Belief is what makes us mortal. It is very different to worship a dead god indifferent to your belief than to worship a living God whose sole obsession is your belief and loyalty. To embrace a god is to become their simulacrum. You are at risk of blundering massively.”

  Bhoural stood up with his hands at his hips, “No matter what, I’ll be the same Bhoural.”

  “I sincerely hope so, Young Master.”

  Within 2 days, the crowds of Balthian carpetbaggers had calmed enough for Bhoural to walk the streets of his own city. His mind had been transfixed on Kalla’s proposition, and he figured a walk would help.

  Without really intending to, he’d stumbled upon Marham Bazaar, its Sandstone Obelisk casting shade upon him. Suddenly, he craved passion fruit: he looked for the first stand that peddled it, finding a soldier-titan vendor who hailed him very warmly: “Our new Lord Bhoural!” cried the female fruitier.

  Bhoural acknowledged his subject with a curt nod: “I’ll have however much passion fruit a half-piece of silver will get.” The Vendor nodded and began stuffing the fruit into a canvas bundle.

  Suddenly, Bhoural noticed a little soldier-titan boy reading what looked like a grammar folio, scribbling on it with a piece of graphite. “Is he yours?” asked Bhoural.

  “Oh yes,” chuckled the vendor, “That’s Lay, fate has blessed me with a son with a capacity to read. I’m obliged to nurture that. That book he’s working on cost me an entire week’s wages.”

  “Does he want to learn to read?” asked Bhoural.

  “More than anything else in the world. He wants to become a physician. I’ve never met a physician who couldn’t read.”

  Bhoural, stunned by Lay, clasped his own chin. “How are his studies going along?”

  The vendor sighed, “We’re worried about the Throng in the north. If it invades too far South, I feel like We’ve really got no choice but to evacuate to the countryside, but of course I won’t be able to buy him his learning books there. My boy needs peace if he wants to learn.”

  “You won’t have to worry about that,” announced Bhoural suddenly. “I’m joining the Crusade in the North. By the Law, I’ll get rid of Oluns for you, your son, and everybody else that depends on me. You can rest safe in Bursual.”

  A pleasant relief bloomed on the Vendor’s face. Bhoural reached into his pocket and gave the lady 2 gil for her trouble. “Buy some books for the lad, on my dime.”

  Bhoural’s footsteps echoed in the empty chapel at Kallan Stronghold. He’d been warped here, in the city of Duquesque, to be inducted into the Emerald Empyreans. There were cushioned kneelers everywhere within, but no benches; you either stood or got on your knees before the Crusader-God Cheeth. At the chapel’s head was a special spot for the chaplain to kneel, surrounded by fearsome statues of bears and legionnaires. Bhoural arrived at the spot. He knelt and made ready to commune with his new god.

  Bhoural’s sixth sense for the divine had been sore and acute for the past few days. It hurt to sever his ecstatic link from Janxan and reestablish it with this new Cheeth. He’d felt irritable and impatient, especially annoyed and angry at the shortcomings of his inferiors, but he assumed these were all growing pains with the redevotion to Cheeth. When Bhoural meditated at the sanctuary’s heart, however, his divine sense could detect Cheeth everywhere. The god manifested to Bhoural as a smothering, omnipresent immaterial force. Bhoural could feel the God’s vision invade every inch of him. He could sense the God’s irritability, his impatience, his annoyance with everything. Cheeth could erupt at any moment. Cheeth was Overwhelming. Cheeth was Terrible. Cheeth was a gripping hand against one’s neck, and a thumb resting against one’s carotid, waiting.

  Welcome to the Legion, Bhoural, crowed Cheeth in Bhoural’s soul.

  It is my pleasure, Lord Cheeth.

  I am told by Kalla that your Father passed at a young age.

  Yes, Lord. I was 12 when he died.

  That is shameful. To lose a father at the transition from boyhood into manhood. Do you miss your father?

  Bhoural was very confused by this line of questioning.

  You will answer me. Bhoural felt his carotid pressed by Cheeth’s divine essence.

  No. My father was busy with my older brothers. How could I miss a man I seldom saw?

  Shameful. Shame on you for not caring for the Man you owe everything to. Shame on your titan father for ignoring you. Without a father, you have no foundation. You are not even half the man you could be right now, Bhoural. You are not even a man. You have imitated manhood and triumph like a parrot imitates words. Mimicking without understanding. You will remain weak and worthless for as long as you are fatherless. I will be your father. You will owe everything to me. You will behold me as a sunflower does the sun. You will cast out all that is worthless and effeminate in your soul, every cancer of character, every blemish. Before you will bring ruin and revenge to everything that is wrong with the world, you will bring ruin and revenge to everything that is wrong with yourself. I shall raise you to stratospheric heights, heights that would be impossible without me. Is that clear to you?

  Yes, my Lord-

  Father. You will address me as Father forevermore.

  Yes, Father.

  You will commune with me, once per week, for the rest of your service to the Emerald Empyreans. We shall discuss your behavior and your progress during each communion. If you sin against me and stay a child, I shall bring wrath upon you. If you embody my virtues and become a man, you shall be rewarded. I shall be watching you all week. Nothing about you will escape my eyes. I shall note every deed and every thought. You will hide nothing from me, child. Do you understand?

  Yes, Father.

  Now, let’s begin by discussing everything that is unacceptable about you.