rix_scaedu

I wrote this to kunama_wolf's prompt.  It follows on from Might Have Beens.

Tala was returning home with the Third Swordlord’s reply to her master’s message when she came across the fight on the borders of her master’s demesne.  Angel versus vard, one on one, with spears.  Tala didn’t recognise the brown winged angel but she did recognise her master’s symbol on his shoulder brooch.  She didn’t know much about fighting either but she thought her unknown brother was in serious trouble.  She wanted to help but she didn’t have a weapon and didn’t know how to use one anyway but as she looked at the fight she got an idea…

“She yanked on its tail,” Gadiah told Dorthiel and Lasrial while Tala stood to one side in admonished silence.  “Threw its balance and guard off so I could kill it but I don’t know how she managed to pull it off without getting herself hurt.  I didn’t see or hear her coming and I’m sure the vard didn’t either but getting away without getting its spear through her, that was just sheer dumb luck.”  He looked at the much younger, female angel severely and she looked down at the floor.

“Tala is a very fast, quiet flier,” observed Lasrial.

“She is,” agreed Dorthiel.  “Do you remember those close-order, flying combat drills Hadural used to insist on?  Tala would have been good at those.  She can turn inside half her wingspan at full speed.  I don’t know how she does it.  Well,” he corrected himself, “I’ve seen how she does it but when I tried it I nearly broke my wings.”

“She shouldn’t be jumping into fights if she doesn’t know what she’s doing,” Gadiah said severely.

“But you’re my brother and you needed help, what was I supposed to do?”  Tala looked at back at him with her dark, silver-speckled eyes.

“Go for help,” he snapped.

She crossed her arms and snapped back, “I meant more useful help than driving that thing away from your body.”

“Do you have any idea what it would have done to you if it had gotten its hands on you?”  Gadiah was beginning to lose his temper.

“Nothing worse than it would have done to you.  I have actually read the texts with the educational pictures of those things in them.”  Tala was fired up as he was.

“Enough!  Both of you!”  Dorthiel held up his hands and spread his black wings in emphasis.

“You both have a valid point,” added Lasrial, “and I have another.  What if the vard find out Tala is our lord’s messenger?  They might well target her.”  The looks the three older, male angels gave her chilled Tala to the bone.

“So?”  The question came out in a very small voice.

“We teach you to protect yourself,” said Lasrial cheerfully.  “Gadiah will give you your first lesson this afternoon on the practice lawn.”

“I will?”  Gadiah’s question had a bewildered air of ‘how-did-this-get-to-be-me?’ to it.

It balanced out Tala’s response of unequivocal delight beamed at all three of them.  “Thank you!”

Tala was sitting on a bench outside the entrance to the Third Swordlord’s sanctum.  She had delivered her master’s message and the Third Swordlord had sent her out here to wait for his response.  From here she could see everything that was going on in the great, open hall.  She assumed either the Third Swordlord did not care what she saw or wanted her to see what was happening.  She didn’t mind either way.  This vast, sunlit space was very different to her own master’s halls and although it was a pleasant place to visit, she was not so certain she would want to be in service here - there were so many angels she could not see how most of them would ever be able to speak with their master as often as she spoke with hers.

“Tala?!”  She thought she knew that voice and turned to look.  Not one of her cohort-mates stood there but two.

“Jalira and Menifi!”  She stood up and smiled at the golden and teal winged female angels.  The three of them had received their robes together and their voices had a similar range.  For the short space of time before Tala was told for the first time that she did not suit a Choir Master’s requirements they had hoped they might all three be picked for the same choir.

“What are you doing here?”  That was Jalira, surprised but pleased.

“And what are you wearing?”  Menifi was intrigued.  The other two were wearing sandals and robes very like the ones they’d been given when newly created.

“My master sent me here with a message for the Third Swordlord and he bade me wait out here for the reply.”  She looked down at what she was wearing.  “Menifi, do you mean the trousers or the boots?”

“Both really,” the teal winged angel clarified.  “I haven’t seen even the warrior phalanxes wearing boots.”

“My brothers don’t wear them either,” Tala shrugged, “but I got sick and tired of having bushes whip my shins when I came in for a landing.”

“Then land on the paths, not in the garden,” suggested Jalira.

“Oh, it wasn’t a garden,” explained Tala.  “I was out in the world carrying out a task for my master and I did a lot of landing and taking off in paddocks and overgrown places.”

Her cohort-mates looked at her with dawning respect.  “You carry messages and go out into the world?”  Menifi was wide-eyed.

“You don’t?”  Tala looked at them and was puzzled.

“We’re not experienced enough,” Jalira told her.  “We sing His praises in the Choir, of course, but we don’t have other jobs yet.”

“Our masters must organise the work differently,” said Tala calmly.  “So, you sing.”

“Yes.”  Both of them beamed with pride then Menifi startled.  “Practice!  We’ll be late!  Sorry Tala, we have to go!”  With that the two of them dashed off.

Tala waited till they were out of sight and then sat down again.  There might well be much to be learnt in a large Choir, she reflected, but such duties seemed flat compared to her master’s taskings.

I wrote this to ysabetwordsmith's first prompt.  I may have to work on getting shorter ideas...

“And Lasrial,” the darkly clad angel who had already turned to pursue his divine master’s orders paused and turned back to listen to the rider that was being added to them, “when you have finished, return here and spend some time with your new sister.  I believe it would be good for you.”  The rhythmic sound of whetstone on steel filled the spaces between the words.

“As you wish, Lord Thaladeneth,” Lasrial bowed again, turned for his running take off and was airborne almost as soon as he cleared the balcony door.  As he neared the metaphysical borders of his lord’s domain his mind was already on the task ahead.  Murder was always unpleasant but, then it was supposed to be.

The secret priest was, like all of his kind who tried to do good in the world, not nearly so secret as he believed.  For the matter to have gotten as far as Lasrial or another of his brothers the man had to have ignored divinely sent warning dreams and some fairly unsubtle rebukes from the priests of all three surviving Swordlords.  They were down to their last option for dealing with the man and that option was Lasrial.

The house was dark and everyone asleep.  Lasrial liked that.  It always seemed better for the survivors if they believed the victim had died in his sleep.  A few suggestions in the right ears usually saw any dependents into suitable new lives.  He just needed to find the right-

“Ho villain, put up your weapon!  This house is under angelic protection!”  The figure that stepped around the corner radiated light, its golden hair and the gold band of feathers on each wing the only relief from the unrelenting pure white of its appearance.

“What are you doing here, Outcast?  And keep it down,” hissed Lasrial, “or you’ll wake the entire household.”

“I am here to defend a righteous man whose good works enhance the lives of all around him,” proclaimed the white and gold angel.

“He worships a dead god and won’t listen to common sense and reason,” Lasrial told him flatly.  “I’m what you get when common sense and reason run out of time.”

“Who are you and why are you in my house?”  The sleepy man in the doorway was Lasrial’s target and obviously had no idea what was going on.

“I am here to defend you from the dark powers that would silence your light,” proclaimed the white and gold angel.

“I have to concede that,” admitted Lasrial, his blue-grey wings held in tight to reduce his profile.

“Angels fighting,” a fourth voice growled into the conversation from behind Lasrial, “if I’d known I’d have brought rat-on-a-stick.  By the way, I don’t want the priest dead either.  What you going to do, tough boy?”

The whiff of sulphur and the expressions on the faces of the other angel and the human together with the sound of that voice told Lasrial everything he needed to know.  He said conversationally, “There’s a vard behind me, isn’t there?”  The human and the other angel nodded, the angel beginning to draw the sword strapped to his side as he did so.  The sword blade glowed, of course.  Lasrial shifted his grip on his spear.

From behind him the vile voice commented, “Oooh, pretty boy’s got a sword, but tough boy’s going to make his move first.  What’s he gonna do?”

From the sound of its voice, their normal proportions and stance, the vital point in that baboon-like body with double bat wings and a donkey tail should be-.  The spear rotated in Lasrial’s hands faster than thought and he lunged backwards.  The resistance and weight told him he’d met his target.  Lunge forward to pull the spear free and rap the other angel on the side of the head with the butt, hard enough to knock him out.  Pivot the spear round its butt and take out the third target.

And it wasn’t a clean kill.  Lasrial wrenched out the spear, dropped it on the ground and caught the dying man before he reached the floor.  Once the angelic weapon was removed from the wound there was no mark in the mortal flesh.  “I’m sorry.”  The rusty emotion in Lasrial’s voice was compassion.  “That was supposed to be instantaneous, I must be out of practice.”

“But why?”  The man was bewildered as his life ebbed away.  Lasrial was acutely aware of other voices but this was the important one right now.

“I fought in the Death War.”  So many painful memories.  “I saw my lord, our lord, the First Swordlord fall under the weapons of the Vardmasters.”  The dying man’s eyes widened in surprise and wonder.  “I helped recover his body after the battle.  I helped clean it and lay it out.”  Pain and tears.  “He was gone.  There was no bringing him back.  No resurrection.  We cannot worship or serve a dead god, it’s too dangerous to the world.  When you wouldn’t listen, my brother, we still had to cut off your conduit of faith.  I’m sorry.”  The man’s eyelids fluttered, all tension went from his muscles, his eyes dulled and he was gone.  Lasrial dropped a kiss on his brow and gently put the corpse down.

“My husband…?”  The woman inside the room, who must have heard if not seen everything, was sensibly terrified.

“Is dead.  I’m sorry.”  Lasrial was brusque but he thought sympathy from him would be unwelcome.  “I’ll leave now and take the other angel with me.  You should summon assistance from the authorities – your husband is dead and you have a slain vard in your hallway.”

Lasrial collected his spear, resheathed the Outcast’s sword and picked up the unconscious angel under one arm.  Then he left.  The entire affair had been messier than he cared for and there was still to dead man’s family to consider.

Later.  “The affair was messier than usual, my lord.  My apologies.”

The sound of whetstone on steel continued unabated.  “Sometimes these things cannot be helped.  One of the Outcast rescued from himself, a vard dead and the worship of a dead god ceased.  All in all, I believe you should consider that a good result.”

“I caused unnecessary distress, my lord.”  That, that stung his pride.  Lasrial prided himself on doing his job cleanly.

“Distress can bear desirable fruit.”  His divine master continued with his eternal task, honing the edge of a sword.  “Now, go spend some time with your sister.  And Lasrial,” the tone said ‘look at me’ so Lasrial raised his eyes from the floor to meet his master’s, “she has never been in a Choir.  She’s as ignorant as that fool we’ve just packed off to Ashrenat’s Choir to be socialised, though less foolish.  She needs you and your few brothers to teach her the things she should know.”

Lasrial’s wing’s flared in surprise and interest.

“Now,” Thaladeneth paused his honing to consider the edge of the blade in his hand, “go make friends and be about your tasks.”

I wrote this to ysabetwordsmith's fourth prompt.  It follows on from Forewarning.

Birgenes hadn’t told anyone where he was going, what he was doing or why.  He had a real fear that if he did, he’d be stopped and detained.  As a religious candidate, former religious candidate in his own mind, there was a real chance he’d wind up in a corrective retreat being prayed and chanted to, over and about.  The example of Brother Laerches at the seminary was all too clear in his mind – once you were subject to that you were never the same again.  There was no appeal to the civil authorities either, the business with the dam had proved that.

It had also been Birgenes’ decision point.  He’d had doubts before, raised by the religious texts he’d been studying, but the sheer callousness and feeling of entitlement that the dam scheme demonstrated had made him reject membership of both the priesthood and the people of his birth.  If the Benarian hierarchy thought the murder of thousands in a pseudo-miracle of the most macabre sort was appropriate, then Birgenes would uproot his life so as not to be a member.

He tramped westward through the spring night towards the nearest border, consulting the navigation stars when he needed direction.

*************

Archaeology in The Wash, as the glacial rubble that covered the ancient ruins of Senlor was called, could be very profitable if you went the right way about it.  Birgenes had carefully opened up an entrance into the mound with a crowbar, spade and a saw, for the tree roots, while Saprista stood guard.  Now Saprista thrust the lantern into the hole before her and, when the flame didn’t change colour, followed it with her drawn sword, her head and then her whole body.

“Nothing’s moved in,” the voice of the Gelharine swordswoman who was now his full partner floated back out of the opening to him.  “Looks like a temple – this’ll be another donation.”

“Ah well,” Birgenes joined her inside the relatively intact building, holding a second lantern.  “The good will of the clergy means no-one interferes with us.  Being respectful costs us nothing,” the beam of his lantern caught the intact altar and he bowed to it while Saprista saluted, “and the temple tells us where to look for the other interesting buildings: libraries, prominent houses, town treasury.”

“Blacksmith, goldsmith and potter,” Saprista finished off for him with a laugh.  “Whose temple is this anyway?”

Birgenes let his lantern beam wander further beyond the all-around glow given off by Saprista’s.  “Thaladeneth’s, by the look of things.”

“I’ve never heard of him,” Saprista admitted.  “That theological education of yours is very useful.”

“Of course you’ve heard of him,” Birgenes corrected her.  “He’s The Thirteenth Swordlord.”

She turned towards him, slowly and in place, “This is The Black Scabbard’s temple?”  Her face was pale.  “Have we set off any of the traps yet?”

*************

The two middle-aged men looked at each other.  No-one built houses like this one anymore, but it went with the story they’d heard.  The building, none of it more than two stories tall, rode the crest and spine of the hill and was all white walls and red tiled roofs, purposely windowless because the rooms looked inwards to courtyards.  Orchard groves, pastures and fields of vegetables and grain surrounded it.  It was the home of a rich family, a rich Gelharine family, and the two Benarians did not expect it would be easy to rescue their long lost brother from his servitude here.  It was probably best that their sons had not accompanied them today.

The long lost brother in question was looking up at them in surprise from his seat at the table in one of the courtyards, books spread in front of him.  “Orges.  Leodes.  I wasn’t expecting you.”  Birgenes carefully closed the book in front of him.  He turned to the Gelharine girl beside him, “Apina, please go and tell your mother that two of my brothers will be joining us for lunch.”

“Of course.”  She made a courtesy obeisance to Orges and Leodes, then left.  She was, Leodes noted, quite pretty with almost Benarian features even if her skin was the Gelharine olive rather than the darker, god-blessed Benarian hue.

“Now we can talk,” Orges said with relief.  “Birgenes, the priests who attended the convocation at Iboshoer brought us news of your enslavement.  We’ve come to rescue you and bring you home.”

Leodes added, “Forgenes, your old friend from the seminary, told us how your owner kept you away from the Benarian delegation.  You must have wanted their help.”

Birgenes sighed.  “Perhaps I shouldn’t have been so careful to avoid talking to them.  I didn’t realize he was there but Forgenes still doesn’t get out much, does he?”  Orges and Leodes looked at each other askance.  Birgenes took pity on them.  “Come and tidy yourselves for lunch,” he coaxed.  “Lunch will give us time to talk.”