Jak Koke - The Edge of Chaos

Beaugrat said, “Let’s see … No!”

Duvan heard the sound of swords being drawn, metal on leather, and the cocking of a crossbow. Slanya said, “You don’t want to fight me. I’ve had a pretty bad day, and I’m not in the mood to let you live.”

Beaugrat laughed. “Well, it’s true that I don’t want to fight you,” he said. “But we outnumber you, and you’re both sick or injured. You have surprised me in the past, which is why I’m not taking chances this time. Cedril, now.”

Duvan heard the crossbow spring, and the quarrel made an unusually faint sound as it hit something solid. His mind imagined a lightweight bolt, perhaps hollow. From Slanya’s gasp, he presumed it had hit her. There was movement around him as Slanya attacked. Duvan grabbed for his dagger, but his hands never closed around the hilt.

“Don’t worry, the poison isn’t deadly. It will only put you to sleep for a short time.”

“How kind of you.” Slanya’s sarcasm brought a wry smile to Duvan’s lips. But then her words slowed and stopped. Duvan heard her body collapse to the ground next to him.

“What about him?” The voice floated on the air, but he couldn’t tell who was speaking. “He doesn’t look so well.”

“He looks dead,” Beaugrat said. “Like we’re going to be if that Copper Guard contingent catches us out here.”

Unconsciousness inked over Duvan’s vision before he caught the answer to the question. And then he was falling into the pit of night that yawned beneath him.

Was this what death was like?

Gregor stood on the balcony and shaded his eyes to look across the valley and south along the dirty road coming over the dull green hills. The sun burned overhead, its light fading and leaving the sky a bruised color in the distance where the Plague-wrought Land changed all the rules. The odor of charred flesh drifted over from the funeral pyre on the ground below. Gray smoke was all that was left of the afternoon’s dead.

With luck, Slanya would return soon with the plaguegrass, and the funeral pyre could be extinguished. The elixir would stop the procession of dead and dying.

“Come home, young one,” Gregor whispered to her. “Come home safe.”

For years after Slanya had come to the monastery, Gregor had cared for her as if she were his own child. He had been the one to take her from the orphanage. He had been the one to choose her-the neglected and abused girl. The sole survivor of a tragic fire.

It was the policy of the temple complex to take in children who could benefit from rigorous training, meditation, and adherence to a life of the religious orders. Ideal children showed great internal fortitude and strength of will. They demonstrated passion and the potential for great power. But above all Gregor chose young children who would feel enormous gratitude and obligation.

There had been something about Slanya, a fire inside her, a thirst for knowledge. He saw himself in her, or so he thought at the time. He saw a defiance burning deep in her soul that appealed to Gregor and made them the same in their passionate pursuit to impact the universe.

The young Slanya had needed so much more than the orphanage could ever offer. But Gregor knew that if she was able to maintain her studies, she would be eternally grateful for the opportunity that he’d given her.

Gregor had been a young monk of about twenty when he’d taken her in-young and idealistic and brave. He had fallen smitten with the angel with the smudgy face and dirty, blonde hair. So cordial and proper on the outside, little Slanya’s manners were belied by mischievous eyes and sly glances.

Standing on the monastery balcony, gazing across the field for sign of her return, Gregor smiled. Young Slanya had taken to the monastery life with difficulty. Originally he’d imagined training her to be his assistant, to embrace the life of a monk of Oghma, but the discipline proved too much for her wayward mind. After she’d run away the third time, only to return a few days later, Gregor gave her over to Kaylinn.

Kelemvor had room for her, and the orphaned young woman found her place within his orders. Slanya took to the care of the dead and dying with unusual focus, and Gregor’s influence over her faded somewhat after that. He still cared for her, still checked in on her, but his child of choice had moved on for the most part.

Gregor sighed. Such eventualities always came with the passage of time, he supposed.

Scanning the horizon, he caught sight of horses as they crested a hill to the southeast. And after a brief wait, he could tell that they were the team Vraith had sent out. Beaugrat and his companions.

Gregor strained to see if there were other riders with them, but they dipped into the shadow of another hill before he could discern. When they emerged into the light, however, he did see that one of the horses carried two people, and another horse dragged a makeshift wooden travois upon which someone had been strapped.

Excellent! Gregor thought. Now to see if they’ve got the plaguegrass with them!

The recent meeting with Tyrangal weighed on him. He didn’t want her as an enemy, but he wasn’t convinced that she was right about Vraith and the ultimate intentions of the Order. His vision was so strong, and it had come to him again later that night. The vision showed him hope and a future to strive for-a Faerun where all the pockets of spellplague were stable and mapped. Ordered. Contained.

It was worth the risk to let Vraith continue with the ritual. Gregor would reevaluate after tomorrow’s festival. And in the meantime, he would have to watch out for Tyrangal; he did not really know the extent of her power. He didn’t doubt that she could be a formidable adversary, but as yet she had not made a move against him. Wait and see, that was his plan. Be ready and prepared for whatever might come.

A few minutes later, Gregor descended to greet the travelers. In the lead, Beaugrat drew reins and slid from his saddle. Behind him rode a red-headed dwarf cleric, a halfling rogue, and what looked like a pair of human wizards. Quite the party to capture one thief.

Slanya slid woozily from her saddle. Her puffy, red face was burned, though she did not seem to notice. She came to him. “Brother Gregor, you must-” She doubled over and heaved up blood-streaked bile.

“Blessed gods!” High Priestess Kaylinn stood in the doorway to the courtyard, flanked by two of her clerics. She came up next to Gregor. “You are ill, Sister,” she said to Slanya. “We must get you to the infirmary.” Kaylinn nodded to one of the clerics, Edwaif, who stepped up to support Slanya’s weight.

Slanya tried to resist, but Gregor could sense that she was weak. “Duvan-?” she began.

“Duvan will be taken care of,” he said. “Did you find the plaguegrass?”

Slanya nodded. “In the bag.”

Beaugrat handed down the small leather pack that Slanya had carried with her. Gregor opened it and found the bag of holding inside. Loosening the braided silk cord, Gregor looked inside.

The odor of fresh cut grass, humus, and dirt lingered in the air with an undercurrent of sour oranges. Reaching in, Gregor grabbed a fist full of the wet plants. Such a quantity would not only allow him to inoculate all the pilgrims at the festival, but supply him for many years to come. Slanya had performed exceedingly well.

“Not that it matters now,” Slanya said. “The elixir does not work.”

Gregor stepped back as if he’d been slapped. How could she lie thus? The data clearly showed that it did work. “Hush, child,” he said, keeping his tone positive. “You are delirious.”

“I still have my wits,” Slanya said. “The elixir may have helped some, but it did not provide adequate protection.”