A Grave of Matter Importance

[Chanticleer]

Located within a crossbow’s shot of the docks, the Governor’s office of Trinsic was one of the city’s least impressive sights. A square-shaped, one story building, with a single room incapable of accommodating even a dozen visitors, the office was best-described as a “sandstone hut.” Uncomfortably situated next to The Sons of the Seas (the Fisherman’s Guild, and a far grander structure with multiple floors and rooms), not even the modest row of hedges that clung tightly to its exterior walls could distract one’s eyes from this architectural blemish. Chanticleer Reich, the current Governor of Trinsic, strongly suspected that the fumbled construction of his office (as well as his eight fellow governors’) was the result of King Blackthorn’s unspoken contempt for the kingdom and throne that he had come to occupy.

On this particular winter’s afternoon, Chanticleer sat rigidly behind his wooden desk, listening to Lord Haxley make his latest report. A handsome man with flowing blonde hair and a preference for female affectations and clothing, Haxley was a solicitor by training and trade, with a roster of clientele that included many influential citizens. Prior to Chanticleer, he was Trinsic’s Governor, and he now served as an informal advisor to the city.

“ -- not shy in voicing their displeasure, and it is not limited to the nobility either. One can hardly blame them for discontent, goblins and their stains of urine are a poor fit for our city.”

“Agreed,” said Chanticleer. “Yet the Zog Cabal are the more urgent threat.”

“Then I will strive to mollify their upset, as best that I can.”

“What else then?” The Governor made no effort to conceal his impatience.

“Yesterday, a certain bard visited the city, with a message for you that he claimed was of utmost importance.” Haxley punctuated this statement by pressing his painted lips together. “Of course, he balked at my suggestion to record his words on parchment, insisting instead that I repeat it to you in-person. I am forced to conclude that his hostility for me lingers on.”

His narrowed gaze shifted from the orderly piles of documents covering his desk, and settled on the solicitor’s delicately-decorated face. “What was the substance of his message?”

“It is unfortunate, but he has no updates regarding Orton Stower or the Empress’ mask. Judas did, however, urge you to reconsider Emma’s supper invitation. He even offered to arrange for Tabitha to provide some baked goods, if you agree to attend.”

To this, Chanticleer said nothing.

After a moment’s consideration, Haxley attempted the most reassuring of smiles. “If you wish for my advice, I believe that declining her invitation was the best course of action. Emma is not your mother, and now is not the time for -- ”

“Enough,” the Governor interrupted without any hesitation. “The only advice I seek from you is on matters of politics and law. Now, was there anything else?”

If the solicitor was offended by this sentiment, his reaction did not express it. Without missing a beat, he produced two rolled up scrolls from a small satchel. “The first, a plea from Lady Elwina de Hugh, one that appears related to the aforementioned goblin stains that currently adorn the walls of the Rusty Anchor. But I believe the second may hold even more interest for you.”

“Elaborate.”

“It is a matter that concerns the Grand Paladin of Trinsic.”

“Grand Paladin of Trinsic?” Chanticleer rejected the suggestion with a slight shake of his head. “To my knowledge, there has been no Grand Paladin of Trinsic since … ”

A flash of memory, unwanted and more than two decades old: Alexia Laggat.

“Indeed,” said Haxley. “Since that fateful day the original Emerald Fist visited Trinsic.”

~To Be Continued~

[Chanticleer]

Honor and duty. The Grand Paladin promised sanctuary to the merchant, and the Emerald Fist refused to relent -- whispers of Podrugviati. There could be no compromise.

The Grand Paladin did not fail her oath. She fought until she was no longer able.

Weeks later, the truth was known. There was no Podrugviati. Only Mad Marhault and Niccolo Trulacci and the political ambitions of Sir Neville Holden. Three different varieties of serpent.

Wielding bandages and salves, Ellin and Malcolm acted swiftly. Fingertips-to-elbows covered in blood and viscera. Most of the paladins survived. But not the merchant. And not Alexia Laggat.

The two missives mirrored one other. Different contents but in the same handwriting, sealed by purple wax shaped as a chalice. The Governor handed each of them to the young female guard, and nodded to her. “The first to the Champion’s residence. The second to Emerald Town.”

“Aye, milord.”

Chanticleer barely paid heed to the flash of honor-purple and chainmail armor exiting his office. Exhaled irritation fled his pursed lips: Haxley was right. As much as the Governor had argued against it at that moment, he knew that Elwina de Hugh warned of the larger threat to Trinsic.

Honor and duty. Despite his own interest in the matter, the Grand Paladin would have to wait. A compromise, but only with himself.

~To Be Continued~

*A Letter to Piper Swift*
*A Letter to Emerald Town*

[Chanticleer]

Please note: The events of this story occur prior to the February 11, 2023 EM Event entitled: “The Crimson Army.”

Her husband Alfred, bleeding to death from Thieves Guild daggers on the barrack’s floor. Her son Everett, ripped to shreds by a pack of rabid Socialists. Her daughter Frieda, the hole in her chest crafted by a Technocrat automaton. These were the images that flooded his thoughts whenever Chanticleer gazed upon that sad, crinkled face of Elwina de Hugh.

“Thank you, Governor, for your quick response to my invitation.”

“Of course,” said Chanticleer. “Trinsic owes much to your family. As does the Fist.” Because of this gratitude, he did not voice the fact that this visit was not his preferred priority.

They sat alone in the first floor parlor of her family estate, the window curtains drawn at a perfect angle to prevent the midday’s light from overwhelming the room’s embellishments. His attention continually returned to the portrait that covered the wall behind his host. Fixed in oil and canvas, Alfred and Elwina stood together at the center, with their eldest children, Everett and Frieda, to his left, and their youngest children, Frederick and Alfina, to her right. A vision of familial bliss, at least before half of those depicted had been violently and brutally expunged from this world.

“I am aware of what transpires in the city, sightings of Zog Cabalists and goblin-like creatures. So I will refrain from wasting your time,” she explained. “Something has happened to my son, and it seems as if it may be related to at least one of these threats to Trinsic.”

“Is he …?” Chanticleer regretted that he felt compelled to ask that question.

“He is safe.” A hint of pain to Lady Elwina’s smile. “If my Frederick were at risk, I would have sent my plea directly to Trinsic’s champion. But I believe this to be more of a political problem.”

“I had wondered why you had sent for me instead of Piper.”

“Recently,” she continued, “Frederick and some friends went hunting nearby to the borders of the Spiritwoods. While pursuing their quarry, a large stag with a singular, deformed horn shaped like an eating utensil, the hunters stumbled upon a small clearing, and a scene that is best described as truly horrifying.”

“What was it they witnessed?”

“They saw corpses, some animals but most were human. “Her voice trembled, even though she was recounting something she did not directly experience. “The beast responsible feasted upon the flesh of these dead and wore their bones like trophies. As soon as it spotted them, it attacked Frederick and his friends, but eventually they were able to subdue and even capture it.”

“Your son must be quite the warrior. I assume it was some variation of troll or ogre?”

“Nay,” said Lady Elwina. “It was a child’s size, but as vicious and strong as a monster that was much larger. According to my son’s telling, the beast wielded weapons of bone, as well as fangs and claws. Despite its viciousness and strength, all of their party survived the battle.”

“I am glad to hear this. Yet I failed to see the reason for your urgent summons.”

“You will once you have seen the beast for yourself. The beast and its … victims.”

“The bodies from the clearing? You had them collected?” Chanticleer’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“For identification and a proper burial.” Then she shook her head. “But those are not speaking of them, I am referring to those who battled it.”

“A few moments ago, you told me that all of them had survived their battle with the beast.”

“All of them survived, aye. But some of them, and thankfully I do not include my son in this, were …” Lady Elwina frowned as her words trailed off for a few moments. “As I stated, it is best for you to see them for yourself.”

~To Be Continued~

[Chanticleer]

After being introduced to the savage beast in its cell, and the two victims suffering in infirmary beds, Chanticleer turned to Lady Elwina. “I know of a man who might aid us. A librarian.”

“Do you trust him?” She asked, hopeful for a potential end to a predicament that was far beyond the scope of her typical dealings.

“No,” said the Governor. “I do not.”

********

Three days later, Semidar slowly ascended the stairs from his makeshift laboratory beneath the De Hugh estate. In each hand, the elderly scholar held a glass vial, and a notebook was tucked inside his right armpit. When he met the Governor and their host in her parlor. Lady de Hugh’s reaction was visible -- a palpable apprehension at learning his discoveries.

The scholar stooped forward in his seat, letting the book slip from his armpit and onto the table. His grayed, receding hairline provided little cover for his aged, wrinkled face, and every word he uttered was a display of his gruff, disdainful demeanor. “This here is typical blood,” he raised the vial in his right hand. It was filled with a crimson liquid. “This comes from that thing below.” The second sample had a similar consistency to the first, but it was more blackish in color.

For over two decades, Chanticleer had suffered Semidar’s presence, in all his incarnations:

Ally: The Emerald Fist first met him when he was the personal librarian of the infamous Stowers of Magincia. He aided the group against the demon Abbadon and during their quest to locate all of the Titan Seals, even opposing his masters in the process.

Enemy: But then he betrayed the Fist to seize the power of the Titan Seals for himself, causing Chanticleer and his friends to slay him. Semidar was briefly restored by a cabal of Stowers, only to fall again to a ranger’s arrow. Later, the scholar’s spirit sought revenge against the Fist, and even later still, he was resurrected for a second time by an aspiring Time Lord.

Prisoner: Fleeing his former masters, Semidar asked the Fist for sanctuary, and his request was reluctantly granted, and he now served as their own librarian and advisor.

Chanticleer despised Semidar, but even moreso, he loathed these occasions when the scholar proved himself to be useful. “What is the difference between the two?”

“That creature is diseased,” Semidar explained, somewhat impatiently, “and its illness was then passed onto the two young noblemen I examined. Probably through its bite or scratchings.”

“Those poor men.” Lady de Hugh was horrified. “Can they be cured?”

“That is a bit beyond me,” said the scholar. “I bled out most of my old healing skills.”

“Bled them out?”

“Ignore him, good lady,” The Governor answered before the other man could. “He is perverse and preys upon the misery of others. Librarian, how grave is this sickness?”

Semidar carefully laid the vials onto the table. “You must understand something. Orcs, goblins, lizardmen, and similar, they do not occur naturally. They’re the product of magical experiments by sorcerers like Mondain, his apprentice Minax, and even my former mistress. Because of this, they have no true place in the natural world.” With a dramatic gesture, he flung open his notebook and pointed to a hastily scrawled diagram on the twentieth page. “There are green and gray tribes that live within the Underworld. There is the red tribe that attacked Trinsic, and the, for lack of a better term, “Urine-Tribe” that infests Britain. You also told me about some of the female goblins that you and the Fist recently met.”

“Of course,” said Chanticleer. “There are different goblin kinds. As there are different kinds of human. One can hardly compare a True Magincian to a Yewian.”

“No, you fool!” The scholar slammed his notebook shut. “You are missing my point entirely! This is not due to naturally occurring diversity, like the sort celebrated by your short-sighted King. For years, these creatures had hardly any mainland presence to speak of, and now, after only a few months, there are at least half a dozen strains. If my findings are accurate, this number will only grow as they continue to interact with their environment.”

Lady de Hugh gasped in horror as comprehension settled in. “So what you are telling us is ...”

“That creature below eats human flesh and spreads sickness to its victim, but it’s not diseased.” Semidar’s mouth formed a thin, pained smile. “It is the disease, all of its filthy kind are. If nothing is done soon, then I expect it’s going to get even worse.”

~To Be Continued~

[Chanticleer]

There had been blood. Blood splattered in the King’s chambers. Blood spilled across sandstone streets and island dirt. Human, elven, gargish, goblin. And there would be more blood to come.

“Only two weeks?!” Lord Haxley’s question sputtered, the widening of his eyes accentuated by dark purple eye-liner and long, thick eyelashes. “How can we possibly ready Trinsic for another attack in only two more weeks?!”

“The beasts were promised two weeks,” said Chanticleer. “Two weeks to depart Barrier Isle and find their new home, whether in Britain or elsewhere. Two weeks then the fighting resumes.”

The midday sun overhead, the two men stood on the mainland side of the bridge leading to the city’s easternmost territory, Barrier Isle. As they walked the length of the sandstone span, still littered with cracked weapons and broken armor, dried fluids, and pieces of goblin, the Governor paid little heed to where his footsteps fell. Meanwhile, his companion moved cautiously, avoiding any possibility of spoiling his expensive, red leather thigh-length boots.

“It is curious,” Haxley noted, “how we care for our own dead, and they abandon theirs.”

“A curious sentiment from a follower of Blackthorn’s philosophies. Has that changed?”

“Nay,” the solicitor shook his head. “It was only an observation, and hope that one day soon, we can elevate them as equals, like our King has long championed.”

Chanticleer did not respond to that, and they soon reached the opposite side of the bridge. For days now, Barrier Isle had been occupied by a clan of red-skinned goblins. Their initial attack was incited by agents of the Zog Cabal and led to the creatures building a large fort. New Pitmuck, the invaders called it. When the Governor led an effort to dislodge them, long hours of battle ended in a temporary, two-week truce. More fighting was inevitable; Trinsic demanded their departure, and New Pitmuck’s representative insisted that Britain’s Governor, another of its insidious kind, take part in the negotiations for their new home.

Silently, they searched for signs of activity, but the only ones they observed were from the fauna that dwelled upon Barrier Isle. True to their promise, the red-skinned goblins remained at their fort. After more minutes passed, the two men headed back to where they had come from.

“I personally do not condone your actions at the recent council meeting,” Haxley suddenly spoke up, a reference to Chanticleer’s slaughter of the de Hughs’ flesh-eating, goblin prisoner in front of the King and his fellow governors. “But most of Trinsic seems to approve, as do others throughout the kingdom. Once again, many question Blackthorn’s leadership in all of this.”

“I care not for anyone’s approval. It was necessary.”
Haxley pouted his thickly painted lips. “I also have unfortunate news from Lady de Hugh. Her son’s friends that were bitten by that forest goblin are growing sicker with every passing day, and she fears they will die soon. She asked that you find Semidar at the Lycaeum, he is doing research that might help them.”

The Governor nodded once.

When they reached Trinsic-proper, Haxley paused again. “I do not wish to trouble you, but …”

“What now?”

“I received a second letter concerning the Grand Paladin Alexia. I am aware that as of late, you have been racing from one crisis to another, and I was not sure if you had forgotten.”

His eyes narrowed as the memory resurfaced: Honor and duty. There could be no compromise. The Grand Paladin fought until she was no longer able. Fingertips-to-elbows covered blood and viscera. Alexia Laggat. “No,” said Chanticleer. “I have never forgotten.”

~To Be Continued~

[Chanticleer]

~Interludes, Interludes~

“I want to kiss you. I want to caress your long, pointed ears with my tongue. I want to press your small, skinny body against these bookshelves and spoil every single page with my desire.”

But those were not the words that left his lips. What he actually said was,

“I want to hurt you. I want to grab your ugly knife-ears and bash your hideous, ill-shaped head against these bookshelves until every dribble of forest sap has fled your crumpled body.”

Semidar spoke louder than intended, his gruff voice carrying his words to the nearby wing of the Lycaeum, Britannia’s Keep of Truth and preeminent library. Immediately, three of the librarians stationed inside shushed him. His reply, a rude gesture, was silent enough for them to ignore.

“I’m not surprised the Fist’s working with a racist,” said the elven object of affection and hatred. Small and thin, her spiked hair and eyes were bright green. “You’re lucky I like Lady de Hugh so much, or I’d just leave before handing over anything.”

“Hrmph,” Semidar scowled back. It was more than two weeks since he traveled to the Lycaeum, attempting to find solutions for Britannia’s recent goblin-related difficulties. At the behest of Lady de Hugh, the Emerald Fist arranged for this merchant to collect the materials he needed for his research. He did not know what to expect, but he had certainly never expected HER.

“That’s all you can say?! After everything I did to get this stuff?” She then threw the bag at him. “I’ll get my payment from Lady de Hugh -- I hope I never see you again!”

Semidar caught the bag and watched helplessly as she escaped him. Once again, alone in the dark, holding a sack of goblin trinkets and body parts.

********

One book closed, another one opened. Lord Haxley yawned loudly; the candle at his desk was in the midst of its death flickers, his eyes heavy with reading-induced exhaustion.

During the past day, he had read an annotated copy of the Treaty of Unification, a history of the Kingdom of Britannia, a biography of the long-lost Lord British, and finally, a treatise discussing the limits that a monarchic republic places upon the powers of its sovereign ruler. Alone, none of them resolved the underlying question. Together, they formed a path towards an answer.

With ink and parchment, he began to record his thoughts,

“The Kingdom of Britannia was a covenant between the throne and its member city-states. Each participant under this compact agreed to certain conditions. The cities ceded levels of authority over their lands and their people, and in exchange for this power, the crown became responsible for protection and maintaining peace. If a party failed to uphold its obligations, what remedies does the law provide? Of course, we must begin by looking at the terms of the contract.”

“Nay,” Haxley mumbled, irritated with himself, “I am approaching this simplistically. I should not compare the founding of a kingdom with the sale of a cow. But if not a cow, what is it?”

He yawned again, replaced the candle, and returned to his research.

********

The truce was violated. Skirmishes on the mainland side of the bridge. Sandstone and wooden barricades erected across the prospective battlefield. Streets littered with fire and garbage. It would be war with the red-skinned goblins after all.

Governor Chanticleer Reich walked Trinsic’s walls alone. Below, paladins and guards readied defenses. Citizens refused to evacuate and sought shelter within sturdier structures. Soon, both residents and visitors would flock to the city and participate in a battle to determine its fate. Long ago, when Trinsic was mere wood, an orcish siege burnt it all to ash. For Chanticleer, death was preferable to allowing the invaders even a minor victory. He was confident the people agreed.

A couple hours past, a messenger informed the Governor that one of these creatures was spied within the city. Notably, this one goblin was described as green, rather than red. This confirmed his long-held suspicions that the tribe occupying Barrier Isle was connected to the one currently governing Britain. But matters of intrigue, vermin-control, and retaliation would have to wait.

Now, it was time to fight.

********

Twin emeralds rested on a satin cushion. Twin emeralds overheard a conversation not intended for others. Twin emeralds stared back at them. One wore boots, the other shoes.

“There’s already been two letters, and nothing has happened.”

“I’m surprised, should we send a third one?”

“No, our agent mentioned more urgent distractions.”

“Then as always, we’ll be patient. More than ever, time is our ally.”

“Grand paladins and grander schemes. Fallen knights and unclenched fists.”

“Eventually, it will converge to our advantage.”

~To Be Continued~

[Chanticleer]

From across Sosaria, they converged upon the City of Trinsic: paladins and rangers, bards and mages, knights and witches, humans and elves and gargoyles. After this third and final battle, a conflict that was lengthy in hours and bloody with casualties, that clan of savage, red-skinned goblins was destroyed, and Barrier Isle was finally freed from their taint.

A few days passed, and Governor Chanticleer Reich returned to his office. Outside, sunny skies heralded the incoming spring, and sounds of repairs filled the city. Guards hastily disassembled the wooden barricades and sandstone fortifications. Debris was removed from the streets, their surface was scrubbed clean of goblin blood. Merchants returned to their shops, the harbor filled up with ships, and wooden sticks swung at imaginary monsters as children played out a more innocent version of the city’s defense. And across the bay on Barrier Isle, paladins and rangers burning the remnants of the goblin occupation.

“At last, some semblance of normalcy has returned to Trinsic.” Lord Haxley was already waiting for him, and he greeted the Governor’s entrance with a warm smile.

Chanticleer seated himself behind his desk. He removed his helmet, and placed it on its surface along with his weapon and shield. “Slowly, but yes.”

“If more resources or assistance is needed, we can request it from the crown.”

“A hypocrisy considering recent discussions.”

“My research?” Haxley asked.

“That, and after the red goblins’ defeat, I suggested we turn next to the goblins that have seized Britain. Most of those present agreed.”

“That is a dangerous suggestion, Chanticleer.”

“Will your research support it?”

Haxley pouted his thick, painted lips. “Aye, a kingdom is not so different from a cow after all.”

The Governor narrowed his eyes in confusion. “Pardon?”

“A stray thought, nothing important. If necessary, I have my legal arguments ready, but I ask that you approach this matter with utmost caution. It is not something to be considered of lightly.”

“Worry not of that.”

“Lady de Hugh also wanted me to ask about Semidar and his plague cure.”

“We are still gathering ingredients. Do the plague-afflicted yet live?”

“Aye,” said Haxley, “but their suffering increases each day. Hopefully it will end soon, and from a positive outcome.” He then paused, carefully considering his next question. “I have not received anything new about the Grand Paladin. Does that mean you finally resolved it?”

Chanticleer shook his head. “Too many distractions as of late.”

“So what do you intend to do?”

The Governor gestured to the war axe resting on his desk. “Dispense with the distractions.”

~To Be Continued~

[Chanticleer]

Weeks confined to a makeshift laboratory beneath the de Hugh estate. Sprinkled across an old, splintering wooden table were the various ingredients the Emerald Fist collected on his behalf: goblin blood. goblin bones. goblin eyes. goblin hearts. goblin teeth. half-dissolved goblin guts wrapped within a giant spider-sac. a totem shaped like a spiked goblin phallus. If Semidar never uttered or heard the word, “goblin,” again … well, he would still complain, but not about that.

On the twenty-fifth day, which felt like the two hundred fiftieth day to the scholar, and with the aid of the kind of healers affordable only to Britannia’s elite, he finally administered his concoction. They were scions of Trinsic’s nobility, bitten and infected by a savage, flesh-eating variation of the creatures that Semidar had henceforth deemed unmentionable. Months of his research and their months of hallucinatory feverishness, seizured-vomiting, and blood-stained urination, all culminating in this very moment. Would he succeed, or would it end in failure?

Above, in the first floor parlor of the mansion, three individuals waited for the scholar to deliver the answer: Lady Elwina de Hugh, the kindest and saddest of hosts. Her son, Frederick, a friend to the afflicted and burdened with determining his family’s future. Chanticleer Reich, Governor of Trinsic, a man whom Semidar loathed yet also depended upon for his foreseeable future.

He said it plainly, without any effort to cushion the news. “The Casper boy will live, but it was too late for Selbin. Maybe if I’d finished a week or two earlier, but I was not able to save.”

As the de Hughs exchanged sorrowful expressions, Chanticleer said to him, “I am confident you attempted your best, librarian. My thanks on behalf of all of Trinsic.”

The scholar nodded at the unexpected praise of his once-enemy and current-keeper. “If more of the beasts appear and infect anyone else, my potion should be able to cure them.”

“Thank you, good sir,” Frederick’s voice cracked behind a smile born from etiquette and custom, rather than genuine emotion. “We are forever in your debt.”

“Indeed,” echoed Lady de Hugh. “If there is any reward or compensation that you desire, name it, and it shall be yours.”

Briefly, Semidar’s imagination flickered with thoughts of a pointy-eared woman, small and thin, her spiked hair and eyes bright green. But instead, he shook his head, thinking about the station he once held with the Stowers, one of Magincia’s most influential families. “Nothing, good lady, I have always considered service to be its own form of reward.”

~To Be Continued~

[Chanticleer]

Two months passed without further word, and Governor Chanticleer Reich of Trinsic was neither pleased nor un-pleased. The City of Honor had survived its recent goblin crises -- Barrier Isle’s occupation by the red skinned tribe, and a plague spread by one of their savage cousins -- but new threats were waiting on the horizon. The Grand Paladin Alexia Laggat. She was a memory, and the imperfections of Chanticleer’s past were poor rivals to the obligations of his present.

Marhault’s information named the merchant as Podrugviati. An assassin, affiliated with Nujel’m, and a master of faces, identifiable only by his intermittent coughing. His transgressions against the Emerald Fist were many, and it was little wonder that they failed to consider the accuracy of the accusations. Manipulations, impersonations, and the deaths of Jackson, Dannik, Wilhelm, and the Duke. (This was before he slew the orc Trug’clog). When it came to Podrugviati, swift action was the most reasonable and predictable response.

As always, Lord Haxley encouraged caution and duty. “Nay, I have received no further requests, and perhaps that is for the best.” His painted lips tensed as they struggled with his phrasing of his next words. “With everything ongoing, your presence is needed in Trinsic.”

The Governor nodded his agreement. “You speak of my plan to re-establish the council.”

“As well as my research on the Treaty of Unification, the ongoing attacks by the Zog Cabal, your philosophical challenges to the King, and various other matters.”

“The safety of Trinsic is paramount,” he said half-heartedly. He knew this was not always so.

As day faded into evening, they met at the bridge to Paladin Isle. The Emerald Fist demanded the merchant, and the Paladins of Trinsic would not rescind their offer of sanctuary. Words led to blades and spells, and in the end, vengeance triumphed over Honor. Ellin and Glade struggled to save the victims of their comrades’ outrage. Most of the defenders survived, but their quarry, whose name was lost to history, and the Grand Paladin, were beyond their efforts. Alexia Laggat died for her duty, and Chanticleer and the Fist were responsible.

In the months since receiving these missives, the Governor read them more than a dozen times, and every time, they gained more tears and crumples from the force of his clenched fingers. An unexpected plea from an unlikely source. A man who never even met the former Grand Paladin buried in the now-desecrated grave. “Help me find those responsible.” Yet, in his own way, the sender was as culpable for Alexia Laggat’s death as Chanticleer and the Emerald Fist.

Later, the truth was discovered in a hidden journal. It was a pair of serpents, entangled in a brief alliance. The first serpent, armored in silver, craved the throne of his absent king. The second serpent, cloaked in emerald, embraced madness and darkness. Sir Neville Holdren and Niccolo Trulacci had manipulated Marhault into naming the merchant as Podrugviati. Holden viewed the Paladins as an obstacle to his ambitions, and Trulacci suggested the Fist as the ideal pawns.

Two months had passed without further word. Until that early, late-spring morning, and a sudden knocking interrupted the Governor’s review of recent guard reports. He grunted in annoyance, and then lifted his gaze to the room’s only entrance. “What is it?.”

The door opened, and a tall, bearded figure clad in chainmail tentatively crossed the threshold and into the Governor’s office. He looked at its sole occupant, but waited before speaking.

Chanticleer grabbed his war axe as he rose from his chair. “You know well my contempt for you, yet you enter my office unbidden.”

“You never replied to any of my letters.”

“For once, you have no defenders. Not Piper, nor Faeryl, nor any of the others.”

“Are you going to kill me?”

“Not today,” the Governor shook his head. “Today, I will listen.”

~To Be Concluded~

[Chanticleer]

Together, they journeyed north, west and away from the City of Trinsic. Two figures armored in metal and leathers, their footsteps heavy as they traveled the King’s Road. In the skies above, the sun was its peak, marking the midpoint of that mid-spring day.

His companion suggested that they ride, but Governor Chanticleer Reich insisted upon walking. Minutes later, as the brisk wind brought with it the dank stench of the nearby Fens of the Dead, he turned to the other man. “Tell me again of the Grand Paladin’s grave. How did it come to be desecrated? Have you any suspects?”

A mouth emerged from the tangled growth of reddish-brown facial hair, repeating his tale of old shames and new-found obligations. As Chanticleer listened, he imagined his war axe cleaving that monstrous beard from the rest of the face, leaving its owner bloodied and clean-shaven. As with Semidar, the antipathy had been earned.

They were uncertain times; Lord British was absent, and his former rival Blackthorn transformed himself into an automaton and traitor. Sir Neville Holden desired the throne, but it was a desire cloaked in the well-respected banner of the Silver Serpent, and a call to restore Britannia to its rightful glory. Danforth and his sister Deniah eagerly joined him, eventually becoming knights in this twisted version of the Order of the Silver Serpent. Holden’s mad quest to fulfill the prophecy of the Titans Seals eventually became an even madder journey to the Titans’ world of Pagan.

It was there that the siblings were separated, perhaps forever. Deniah followed Holden and the trail of the seals to that elusive, contradictory place known as Everywhere, while Danforth was captured by the sinister Sorcerers of Pagan. He was soon committed to the Bowels of Lithos, an interdimensional prison accessible only to the Titans and their most loyal followers. Among the knight’s fellow captives were Bacchus, a founding member of the Emerald Fist; and Morgaelin, a dissident Sorcerer of Pagan.

For almost a decade, Danforth remained aloof from his fellow prisoners, a conscious aversion to friendships and enmities. Until the arrival of Faeryl Tyra’them, an elven shard-traveler and future member of the Emerald Fist. Near-comatose and helpless, he tended to her needs and ensured her survival. But after the Titans’ second invasion of Britannia was thwarted, Chanticleer and his comrades traveled to the Bowels to rescue Bacchus. Without the power of the Titans, the prison began to break apart, and Danforth had no choice but to join their escape. Once again, he was separated from the only person he cared for. His Pale Princess, he called her.

“.. which was why I kept watch over the Grand Paladin’s grave,” explained the former knight. “Another effort to redeem myself for all of my sins serving Lord Holden.”

“I heard tell of the mother and child succubi,” said the Governor, his forehead glistening from the thick summer air. “And I recall your erroneous assault against the sorcerer Morgaelin of Pagan. Both committed in the defense of Trinsic.”

Danforth nodded, the pace of his footsteps increasing as he did so.

“What is your hurry? I ignored your pleas for months. An extra hour makes little difference.”

“Maybe, I’m just eager to find those responsible.”

“I must confess,” said Chanticleer, now matching his companion’s speed. “Perhaps it was spite, but I never told you I met your sister Deniah in Everywhere. She yet lived, the last I saw her.”

“That is …good to hear.”

“My concealment does not anger you?”

“I can’t blame you,” the former knight shrugged. “I know I’ve done much worse to you.”

For a time, all conversation ceased, the only sounds their armored footsteps and the whistling of a crisp autumn breeze. Until they reached the bridge leading to Britain, and the Governor asked. “Do you still speak to Faeryl? I have not in some time.”

“No, we lost contact.”

“What was that name you gave her? Your Eternal Elf or White Woman or some such?”

“Something like that, yes … but it’s been a while.”

Halfway across the bridge, Chanticleer stopped. A moment later, his war axe was pointed at the other man.

“Governor …?!” An expression of genuine disbelief, as Danforth raised his hands defensively.

The Governor steadied the angle of his war axe, ready to strike in response to any unexpected movements. “I never found you acceptable. But I was capable of recognizing your merits.”

“I don’t understand. That almost sounds like a compliment?”

“Nothing stirred you. Not your sister. Not your Pale Princess. But the most glaring mistake …”

“You checked the city records,” the man claiming to be Danforth conceded the point with a small smirk. “There was always that risk.”

“A poor risk, I have a Haxley. Trinsic has no records of the Grand Paladin’s place of burial. But your bait was deliberately chosen. Where is the true Danforth?”

“He’s unharmed, but we’ve kept him far away from Trinsic.”

“To what end?”

“It’s time to establish some rules.” The imposter lowered his hands. “First, you can’t harm me.”

The Governor chuckled at that. “Then you know me not.”

“On the contrary, we’ve met you before. And we’ve been aware of you long before that. Of you, the Emerald Fist, the Lord Haxleys, Renthar and Jolicia, all of you. It took us time and plans and lies, but we’d almost achieved it all. Until you deprived us of one last secret to behold.”

“Elaborate.” A puff of cold breath accentuated his demand.

“Our vault. We had one of the Haxleys and Renthar trapped, until the Fist interfered.”

“You are a Stower!” His weapon hand tensed slightly. “And you believe I will not harm you?!”

The false Danforth turned his wrists until his palms faced upwards. He opened his right hand, revealing a perfectly-shaped emerald. “As I mentioned, that’s the first rule.”

The Governor immediately recognized that gem. Once, it belonged with eleven others, adorning the mask of the Emerald Empress. His mother, Emma Reich. He growled as he swung his war axe. “Die, foul Stower!” But his attack failed to connect, missing his opponent by more than a few paces, even though the false Danforth had not moved at all. A winter wind whipped swiftly around them, carrying with it a trail of falling snow.

“I warned you about that. Now, for our next rule. None of this …,” his free hand made a circular gesture “ … is real. At least not how you see it. These moments are out of sequence, no longer chronological. You’re trying to attack me today, but I won’t be here tomorrow.”

Chanticleer’s mouth twisted with rage. “You unlocked the powers of the mask.”

“One last rule. No more interference. If our ambush had succeeded, we would’ve bargained with the rest of the Fist, and traded you back unharmed. But now, we’ll be forced to fight harder for what we want.” The Stower squeezed his right hand, and then his closed fist was shining with a blinding white light. Both men and the entire bridge were immediately devoured by it.

A white light, then darkness, and then the dullness of candlelight. Governor Chanticleer Reich found himself in a small, sandstone chamber. In the center of the room, there was a silver-hued altar. On its surface lay three items: an emerald mask, a librarian’s guidebook, and the portrait of a gypsy with a bemused smile.

From within the portrait, a woman’s voice spoke. “Their brother weeps at mother’s feet, but the Twins are never how they appear.”

The candlelight flickered, and something manifested next to the altar. Twin bodies, amorphous and entangled. They had no eyes, and yet Chanticleer could feel their stare as they whispered,

“Everywhere and back again.”

~AND THEN, AN EPILOGUE~

The Governor opened his eyes. It was an early, late-spring morning, and a sudden knocking had interrupted him as he sat at his desk, reviewing guard reports. He grunted in annoyance, and then lifted his gaze to the room’s only entrance. “What is it?”

The door opened, and the familiar figure of Lord Haxley enthusiastically crossed the threshold and into the Governor’s office. A warm smile dominated his face, and he said, “Even though it was expected, I wished to congratulate you on your re-election.”

Chanticleer’s eyes narrowed in confusion, and after a few terse moments, he nodded once.

“Is something wrong? I hoped we could begin this term without any pressing urgencies.”

“Nothing worth any discussion.”

“That is heartening.” Haxley then seated himself on the other side of the desk. “Yesterday, I was thinking about those peculiar pleas from Sir Danforth about the Grand Paladin. It has now been months without any new letters, nor have there been sightings of him.”

The Governor half-shrugged, but said nothing.

“Then I suppose we must consider the matter concluded, or at least until he reappears. Without an actual grave, an actual body, or any actual desecration, there is no crime to investigate. With everything else that occurs in the kingdom, we have greater problems to contend with. The Treaty of Unification, the Zog Cabal, and everything else leftover from last term."

“I suppose so,” said Chanticleer. He glanced at the war axe resting on his desk. “I suppose so.”

~The End~