Chapter 3: A Wounded Leg (Click here to access Chapter 3)

Chapter 3; A Wounded Leg

/Unith, Loazer

Isolde and Muriel were sitting in Isolde’s home in Unith. He had a small place and lived as a commoner in the D’Wani leagues to be discreet in his business. 

They were sat in the topmost chamber, the one where he slept, for it had the least bit of the foul smell of D’Wani. The drainage systems of the whole of Unith passed through these leagues. It made D’Wani far too pungent, yet the smell made it affordable. 

‘Yes, exactly.’ Muriel said to Isolde, who was sitting by the window. 

‘I can guarantee one thing—they’re Kaandorian vicers. While they may come across as ill-equipped, they are well trained and know their route. Be discreet on your business.’

‘Sir Muriel, may I ask you something?’ 

Muriel raised an eyebrow. 

‘What exactly do spies do? Not be discreet?’ 

‘Oh, spare me from the rubbish.’ 

‘Thank you for the tip. I’ll keep it in mind.’ He said, giving Muriel a wide smile. ‘But on a serious note, what are the names of the vicers whom we’ve got to capture?’ 

‘Izaak, Yuron and Sajh. However, from what we’ve found out, you’re to capture Izaak.’

Isolde frowned. ‘Why him?’

‘Heed not in business that is not yours.’  Muriel smartly said. 

Uncomfortable, Isolde got off his chair and stared down at him, ‘I am getting out of my chair and going to the bloody brothel to capture someone on another’s command, and so I have the right to know why.’  

‘Calm down Isolde,’ Muriel said. Isolde hated when he said that.

‘Only Izaak because…I like his name.’ 

‘…What?’ 

‘I like the sound of his name, Isolde, what else must I say to you?’ 

‘What about which one is equipped with a vaster knowledge? Something far less eccentric a reason, perhaps, for me to go after this “Izaak”, do you not think? Maybe one of them is a commander?’ 

‘Kaandorian vicers are not given a commander. That is how they are able to lay hidden and waste their time in brothels. Even during a mission,’  Muriel said, ‘but if you are to throw such a fit, I will come with you, as a mere showing of my compensation.’

‘So you’d rather come with me all the way down to a mission than just…give me the freedom to choose which vicer to capture?’ 

Muriel rolled his eyes in frustration, ‘Oh, Krilin save me! We only have information on their names, capture whichever one you want, as long as at the time that you’re doing it, make sure that no one is watching. Except me of course!’ Muriel laughed. 

Isolde showed Muriel his wide smile, lips going edge to edge; he always had a funny smile.

‘I’ll be done in a sixth.’ Isolde said. A sixth meant two hours, in the Loazian common tongue. Isolde turned towards the rickety wooden door that was broken on the edges. He stopped for a second to fathom how terrible his chamber was. 

‘Oh, Isolde?’ Muriel said, ‘Who is the third one coming with us?’ 

‘Pires.’

‘Oh not him. Why is he even with us anymore?’ The knight said, irritated.

Isolde liked Pires; he was a sincere worker even though he didn't get half as much of the appreciation as he deserved. Though he was a great worker, he was far too tall to be an efficient spy, and yet he managed to be one anyway. 

‘Calm down, Muriel. The man is a good spy.’ 

***

Isolde and Muriel were standing near the Smithy, waiting for Pires. The smithy was in the middle of the marketplace of D’Wani—the same dirt poor market the whole of Unith were accustomed to using. It was a very vast market place, carrying on for nearly seven leagues, and nearly all of Unith bought their supplies here. 

Isolde turned his focus to the smithy’s shop while they waited; there were all sorts of weapons, from small butcher’s knives to larger, sharper swords. The grated metal of the forging plate stood vast and proud among a crowd of poorer tools in the shop. Its shiny yet rustic look caught Isolde’s eye—as did things and people built around functionality, much like the forging table. There were defensive weapons, shields and hand-guards. Isolde bent in further to see something hung up on the wall of the shop: a scripture. It had writings of the great war of the East of Erhin—between the Rolans and the Tanshas. The Tanshas were the rulers of Arlonar, which was a vast kingdom extending throughout the Eastern edges of Erhin. It had writings about how Georgon Rolan built an entire army on their rival kingdom’s coast, flanking the Tanshas out of some sick thirst for world conquest, killing every citizen in the East. The memory of the war was still quite fresh in the minds of the people, and so the glory of the victory was preached among the commoners.

Isolde flinched to see a minor detail further written—something about a tremble felt in the lands during the war—

‘Eight feet tall and he’s still he’s nowhere to be seen. Incredible, isn’t it, my friend?’ The short Muriel said, ‘And yet you say he is not incompetent.’ 

‘Sir Muriel, he may be a late fellow—’

‘Probably because of all the weight he has to carry,’ Muriel interrupted. Isolde ignored him and continued to speak, ‘But he is a competent worker.’

‘Yes, my sir, only time will tell.’ 

A few moments later, Muriel and Isolde spotted the him looking for both of them. Once he saw them, he put on a smile and walked towards them. Muriel grimaced. Pires found a bench by the smithy and took a seat. After sitting he was about level with Isolde’s height.

‘I sit here, wondering how in Krilin’s grave Sir Muriel is a knight, and yet I forget that we live in a world in which a giant like yourself, Pires, is a bloody spy!’ Isolde joked. All three mutually shared the laugh. 

‘Well a man so white and pink as yourself would know better, would he not?’ Pires said back, poking him with jest. Isolde had pale white skin, and so he would get pink under the Erhinian sun, which was known as wiola. In Loazer there was no such discrimination between different skin colours, unless of course one was a vicer, as dark as night itself, and as tall as, perhaps, Pires! It was ever so rare that a human were to be mistaken for a vicer. 

‘Well, giant, at least I would not make a vicer look like a child!’ Isolde joked wincing his eyes as he laughed.  

‘Alright now, we have frittered away far too much time,’ Muriel said.

‘Indeed. Let’s get on. Come on now Pires, carry your big arse along!’ Isolde said.

  ***

A third ago

Theren was joined by the pleasant company of her family, save for her brother Lothar, who was always unpleasant to be around, and Nathanial, who was still on his expedition in the lands of Gr’Erhin—the northern shores of Erhin. They were sat by the large dining table in the common dining room downstairs in the manor. The large room’s walls were long and were in consonance with the high ceiling, which was painted with depictions of the finest war victories of the Rolans. The vast richness of Rolanian history stretched across the walls, bringing a royal presence to room. The whole ordeal between the Tanshas and the Rolans, the taking over of the Erhinian realms—all of it—was depicted within the walls of that very dining room. It was a sight truly worth seeing.

 Keran sat at the Lord’s chair, on his right was his wife Arabella. On the left his eldest son Rothrin, and on the opposite side was Theren. She was twenty-four years old, six years older than her brother Lothar, who always made a fuss about being the youngest one—inheritor of nothing. 

All five of them were felt mellow—rather sad—about how Nathanial had been away for so long; he’d always brought a presence of joy and spirit to the family which they sorely missed whenever he was gone on his expeditions, even though he would venture out quite often. And so silence ensued across the dining table, allowing for the chatter of forks and knives alone, until Rothrin, Keran’s oldest son, opened his mouth, ‘Father, an interesting circumstance developed yesterday,’ 

His father turned towards him, a goblet of wine in his hand. He was not a drunk, leastways hadn’t been one until his fifties.

‘Arra wo?’  Keran asked in Corr. It meant, “What happened?”

‘Quor el calisar, q’ar arr co koche ci def rong, burray!’ Rothrin said. “A friend of mine drank a one-fourth rundlet of ale yesterday!”

‘Qerra?’ “Who?”

‘Griffa Kora!’ Rothrin said.

‘It cannot not be… Griffa Kora… but that would make him the son of Aldin and Josine! Krilin’s grave! That’s not good.’ Keran said. Aldin was the man that Keran appointed as main commander in Werro, a city many leagues outside of Kenneth, in the opposite side of Unith. Werro was a place of true magnificence, and the entire province was under Aldin Kora.

‘How fares he now?’ Keran asked, looking concerned.

‘Well the bloody bloke’s gone and gotten himself poisoned for the lot of the month!’

‘Fekhin Krilin couldn’t have thought! Son, I’m going to let Aldin know to get his child under control! How did he possibly drink a fourth of a rundlet? That’s about 50 pints!’ Keran sniggered, ‘Bloody hell.’

Keran was smiling—kind of impressed at how he managed to drink so much—and looked toward his wife, who just sat there, slowly eating her food and staring at the table. She looked around and noticed Lord Keran watching her. She blinked a few times and then smiled at him, but Keran could see it was a troubled smile. He could understand why she was like that. She had gone through a lot.

***

‘I hate Unith.’ Isolde said in revolt. The three of them were walking on an unbuilt road on the way to the brothel, where they had to capture the vicer. It was at the break of dusk, and the roads were empty. Darkness befell each turn and the corners crawled into a flameless abyss, devoid of wiola’s light.

After walking for a few minutes, Isolde was about to enter the brothel when he saw a man with a shade of skin so dark that he could be invisible in the peace of night. He had a long, deep scar on his face, which was a trademark of a Kaandorian vicer. Isolde looked at Pires and smiled. Pires smiled back. 

He walked up to the vicer. The vicer was deep into smoking his pipe-weed. 

‘Ho, m'ro!’ Pires said.

‘Yes?’ The vicer kindly responded.

‘Can I know your name?’ Pires said. 

The vicer hesitated but said, ‘Izaak.’ 

‘Izaak. Ho!’ And Pires was off. He yielded his sword—rapier, rather. It was a  well forged blade, sleek and new, gifted to him by Theren. It was long and had no house’s ren-call, as Pires did not belong to a lordship family. He swung it wide and fast, going straight for the his gut. 

The vicer was fast. Izaak yielded his blade not a moment later, and blocked an incoming blow from Pires coming straight down on him. 

‘Kurra! Y’o Mastacha!’ Isolde said. “M'ro, we want him alive!” 

Pires nodded at him and took a step back. He positioned himself in the common stance, left leg in front, his knee straight, right leg at the back, knee bent slightly. This was a Wielding stance—commonly used for fighting—also called Mistac.

The Fekher’s skilled! Pires thought. He kept himself concentrated, focused on nothing but the attack. 

He’s oddly… not savage or irregular, leastways for a Kaandorian vicer! 

Pires turned around, blade raised over his head, and in the motion of facing Izaak again, rotated his blade parallel to his body, striking hard at the feet. Izaak’s thick yet unworked blade had jagged edges, which easily handled the high momentum of Pires’ blow. As soon as the swords parried, Pires took a step back and without taking his blade too far back and struck again in quick succession. It was an odd strike, for he didn’t actually cut through his torso, but instead faked his blow and struck at the legs again. Izaak did not anticipate this at all; Pires’ fine blade sliced right through his left leg. 

Izaak screamed like he never had before, with more agony than he had ever felt. Pires looked behind at Isolde who seemed content and said, ‘The fekha’s skilled!’ 

Blood squirted from Izaak’s leg all over Pires, who grimaced and punched him. Izaak screamed, flying to the ground. The brothel full, but the streets were empty. Before he lost too much blood, Pires picked him up with ease and put him on his shoulder. He continued to scream at the top of his lungs, but did not try to attack Pires. Blood was squirting from his leg all over Pires’ back. 

‘Eh M'ro, by Krilin I swear, he won’t last the journey!’ Pires squealed. 

‘We will take him to the brothel.’ Isolde said.

Pires’ frown deepened.

‘Are you insane? We cannot!’

‘Oh, by Krilin’s grave, do you want him to die? Pires, it is risky, but we cannot take any chances.They must have some commodities, a rag, something!’ Isolde said. Muriel wore a face of disgust, yet smiled at the same time.

Isolde took a knife out of a small leather sheath buckled to his belt. 

‘Follow my lead.’ Isolde had a look of concern. Izaak did not stop screaming, and so Pires gave him a hard punch right on his face. He was knocked out. Isolde started to run towards the brothel. As soon as he found the door, he opened it and saw a man sitting by a table. He raised his knife and put a finger on his lips. The man understood. 

‘I need a rag, or anything to tie this man’s leg down. Give it to me now.’

‘There is an ailment assessment pouch on the table! Right there!’ The man at the counter pointed behind. Izaak ran, Pires followed and Muriel casually strolled along. The man looked at Muriel, who mockingly put his finger on his lips, and the man frowned in confusion as Muriel smiled back.

 Izaak found the pouch kept on a small table against the wall, right next to a narrow staircase. 

He opened the leather lace that bound the cloth sack to the cover. He found many different types of herbs in small pouches. 

Odd that a brothel has so much assessment, Isolde thought. He took out the rag, and beneath it was kept sap. He looked back at the man and raised the sap, it was in a small glass container. 

‘Of poppy?’  Isolde said. The man nodded. 

Why does he have poppy? This kind of equipment is never in a brothel… 

He took the rags and tied a tight knot on top of the cut leg. The blood flow from the cut end of his leg reduced. Isolde then tore off a long strip of the rag and placed it aside and then started looking for some other substances. 

‘Is there any spirit?’ The man rushed over to Isolde and took out another small, identical bottle, but this bottle had a transparent fluid inside of it. 

He took the bottle and opened the cork and said, ‘He’ll wake up.’

 He emptied the entire bottle on the open part of Izaak’s leg. In an instant, he woke up screaming in terror. Without a second thought, Pires smacked him a few times and knocked him out again. 

Isolde then fished for another bottle inside the bag, for he definitely needed more, and he found another. He opened the bottle, poured it, Izaak woke up, and Pires knocked him out again. Isolde used the torn rag and tide it around the cut-off leg.

Good. At least it wont get infected now. He thought, hurrying to clean up.

‘Here, carry him m’ro.’ Isolde said, looking towards Pires, ‘And keep his leg on your shoulder.’ 

Pires lifted him up and did so, and not a minute later Izaak woke up again, screaming. Isolde grimaced and forcefully fed him sap of the poppy. 

‘Let’s hope the fekha won’t wake.’ Isolde said. Pires laughed, and the three began to exit, until two men as dark as night and as tall as Izaak walked down in confusion. They too had scars across their faces. This meant one thing only.

Yuron and Sajh.

First to move, Isolde quickly unsheathed his knife and threw it with blazing pace. His arm flared past his head lightning-fast as the knife launched right out of his hand and pierced through the left eye of the vicer to his left. He let out a few squeals, and stopped breathing. Blood leaked from the spaces of his eyes, in thin lines, resembling a few water falls, smoothly flowing down his face. He fell not a moment later as the other man watched in terror. He then charged towards Isolde, who got into a stance. 

‘It’s okay m’ro! Mine!’ Pires exclaimed. He put Izaak down and stepped up to the man. 

‘Are you Yuron or Sajh?’

The vicer, used to being the tallest in the room, felt condescended in front of Pires. Swallowing, he said, ‘Yuron.’ 

Pires sniggered, ‘It’s okay. I didn’t even need to know.’ 

He held the man by his throat. He gripped his throat and squeezed it with all his force until Isolde intervened, ‘We can question him too!’ 

Pires let go. The vicer fell to the ground before he knocked his head with his boot.

Isolde walked over to Sajh and took the knife out of his eye. Blood leaked as there was a sick, deformed mess of an eye inside his socket, full of red. 

He took the knife, and with the same throw, threw it at the man who sat by the table.

Isolde looked towards Muriel and Pires, shrugging his shoulders. ‘No one can know we were here.’  The two of them accepted that, making their way out of the brothel, Izaak on one of Pires' shoulders, Yuron on the other. Muriel laughed at the sight as they walked out of the street and made their way to Isolde’s home. 

***