Jak Koke - The Edge of Chaos

Finally, as the sun was growing low again, he came over the last hill and stared down into the valley that housed Ormpetarr. Half of the old city had been destroyed by the Spellplague long before Duvan’s time. That half still lay behind the hazy veil of the Plaguewrought Land border.

Looking down into the valley, Duvan marveled at the proliferation of tents and makeshift shelters. Pilgrims were arriving and staying in numbers he’d never seen before.

Ormpetarr consisted of a central thoroughfare surrounded by a bustling merchant district with the Changing House just to the side closest to the border. To the city’s south there was the only recently-built stone building-a temple complex of all things. And crammed cheek by jowl across the spaces around and in between were hundreds upon hundreds of pilgrims’ tents. Ormpetarr was a boom town. Lots of coin to be had, but wild and quite dangerous. Just the sort of place where people like Duvan thrived.

He grinned and made his way through the gates and into the city. One of Tyrangal’s guards-he recognized the guard’s burnished red chainmail-hailed Duvan.

Duvan waved the man over. “Well met,” he said.

“Well met, sir,” the guard said. “You’ve returned?”

“Yes, and I have news for Tyrangal, for her ears alone. Tell Tyrangal that the ’scarred man she hired, Beaugrat, is a spy for the Order.”

The man’s eyes went wide. “He passed this gate no more than an hour ago, sir. Looked tired. Nearly fell off his horse.”

“Too bad he didn’t,” muttered Duvan. He jerked his head in the direction of Tyrangal’s abode. “Go, now.”

The guard bowed slightly, then turned and made his way along the road that led up the hill. Tyrangal lived in an old stone mansion overlooking the city. The better to keep an eye on its inhabitants, Duvan supposed. Duvan would pay her a visit later in the day, but first he wanted to get some dreamless sleep. There was only one person he knew who could help him with that.

Thus, a few minutes later, as the sky grew light, Duvan found himself the sole patron of the Jewel. He sat at the polished wood bar, whose numerous knife and burn scars were more of a testament to its less-than-savory clientele than to its age.

Duvan ran a hand through his shoulder-length black hair. He needed a bath, he knew. The dirt of the road stuck to him like dried sweat, and his leathers were permeated with travel grime and the blood of the past evening’s events.

A bath and a shave, he thought. Now that would feel good.

Duvan downed the last of his ale. Moirah could help when she got in. Ah, Moirah. “Another tankard, Pritchov,” Duvan said.

The half-orc nodded and slid a freshly filled tankard down the bar to him.

Duvan sipped the ale. Not as bad now as the first half-mug. The Jewel didn’t have the best food and drink, but they made up for it in the quality of their other offerings. He set a silver coin on the bar. “Just keep ’em coming, Pritchov. At least until Moirah gets in.”

“I’m here.” Moirah’s voice was the perfect growly blend of raspy and sweet, like honey over toasted seed-bread.

The stale-beer-and-piss-pot odor gave way to jasmine perfume as she approached. If he weren’t already intoxicated, she would have done the job at one sighting.

Moirah was a slight woman with an elf’s build and raven curls. Her dark eyes gazed dreamily at Duvan. It was a look, he knew, that was either calculated or drug induced. Still, he pretended there was some sincerity. Their interaction was a performance, a dance, and a business exchange. He rarely let himself lose his edge, but when he did, he went all the way.

Duvan found himself smiling, his gaze tracking over Moirah as she walked toward him. Her slow saunter agonized him. Her over-red lips and her eyes said, “Come and get me.” But Duvan waited. He’d played this game before, and she had to dictate the pace. Slow was good, he knew. Slow was exceedingly good in the end.

Gauzy blue and purple silks wrapped her body, layered enticingly to hide all the most desirable parts. Her navel was showing, and below it was her spellscar, nearly translucent, trailing down and disappearing into the sash at her waist. That scar, and the ability that came with it, was a good part of why Duvan always asked for Moirah.

She reached the bar and pulled his head down to breathe into his ear. “I’m ready when you are,” she whispered.

Duvan looked at Pritchov. “No interruptions,” he said, lifting his pack. Then he let Moirah lead him by his belt down the hall and into a room.

Slanya awoke well before dawn, donned her travelling leathers, ate a quick breakfast, and left the temple on foot. She walked past the hospital tents and the smoldering funeral pit, heading into the city. Gregor had said that Tyrangal was expecting her at dawn, and she intended to be prompt despite her doubts.

Chances were slim that the guild leader would know of anyone willing to guide her into the changelands, let alone someone capable. Slanya figured such a guide didn’t exist. Who would be stupid or desperate enough to risk his or her life like that?

Slanya skirted the main thoroughfare, which was already awake with locals and eager pilgrims. She fought down a surge of disgust. These people sought power and uniqueness but were unwilling to work hard for it. Greedy for their spellscars and whatever abilities that came with them, the pilgrims risked their lives for an instantaneous transformation.

Sighing, Slanya reminded herself that she was here to help the pilgrims, not to pity or despise them. Fools would always exist, would always hasten their own deaths. Such was the way of things. If she succeeded in gathering more plaguegrass for Gregor, perhaps the elixir would help give some of them a second chance.

Slanya walked up the ancient road that led north out of Ormpetarr and up toward Tyrangal’s mansion-away from the Plaguewrought Land. Slanya had never been to the changelands before, nor had she seen the border from closer than the city’s main thoroughfare. It was danger enough living so close to the edge of the wild magic.

Tearing her gaze from the border veil, which stretched up into the sky, Slanya passed through the once-grand city gate and out of the city. The cool pre-dawn light cast the city walls and structures in deep indigo and cobalt.

Tyrangal’s home stood just up the hill from the northeast corner of Ormpetarr and was easily the most expansive and commanding building in the whole city. As she climbed up the winding road toward the mansion, Slanya realized that she was being watched. She caught glimpses of burnished red armor-members of Tyrangal’s Copper Guard, which kept peace in Ormpetarr as well as protected Tyrangal’s interests, whatever those were. But nobody approached or detained Slanya. The benefits of making an appointment, she presumed.

Slanya passed through an old iron gate hanging crookedly on rusted hinges. Then she picked her way across an expanse of pitted rubble and collapsed stone buildings. Huge craters gaped where house-sized chunks of earth had been uprooted.

The smell of soot and blackened pitch mingled with the odor of brine blowing in from the dry mud flats on the far edge of the ruins. Ormpetarr had been a lake town in its heyday-a bustling commercial port. But the huge lake had dried up decades earlier, drained into the Underchasm like the seas themselves.

Finally, Slanya reached the doors of Tyrangal’s mansion. Gargoyles leered down from the gutters and cornices of the clean and sturdy masonry. A gemstone amongst trash, Slanya mused-and a well-protected gemstone at that. She knocked on the carved wooden door that towered in front of her, filling a stone archway at least three times her height.

The door opened to reveal a high-ceilinged vestibule. “Please come in, Sister Slanya.” The voice was melodious and deep for a woman’s. “I won’t bite, I promise.”