A Record of Ash & Ruin: The Grieving Lands - Book 3: Chapter 16: Falsehood

The pursuit of the ultimate, perfect justice, above all, will simply lead to just more injustice.

– The Human Question by Gideon de Salavia 378 AC.

It was an emotional reunion. Abas Yar ran up to Pakum and gave him a gruff hug before ruffling his head proudly. Seeing this, I had to stop myself from doing the same to Dumuzi’s mop of hair as he, too, ran up to me. A second later, Catalina threw herself at me, disregarding the dirt and smell, and crushing herself against me. Relief filled me then, and almost for a moment, it felt like I had come home.

“You’re back… I always knew you would be back,” Catalina whispered passionately in my ear.

For some reason, her words brought me back to the reality of my situation. That I was stuck in this barbaric world, forced to fight, to risk my life… for what? Bitterness found its way, seeping in through the cracks of my heart and staining the happiness of this moment. A bitterness that I could feel growing into a sharper, more deadly emotion. Hate.

*

Optimism. It ran irresponsibly through the air of the train, infecting all of the workers with renewed vigor. People moved a touch faster, carried a little more, and all without Laes haranguing them to greater effort.

To survive an encounter with a Guardian was a heroic feat, to ride one, a thing of legends. Men looked at my companions and I with new respect, bordering now on awe. If there had been any doubt that I was a servant of the Goddess before, it had been laid to rest now.

From the general mood and snippets of conversation I overheard, my return was overwhelmingly viewed in a positive light. Except for some obvious outliers, it had convinced most of the Ravens that the gods were watching over us. I liked to convince myself that, had Laes decided to press on and abandon me, he would have faced a mutiny. In the coming days, I would have much time to mull over this, the thought stewing in my mind.

*

The next day the caravan set off, with two of the larger bull Xaruar at the front to trample down the new growth of giant cottontail and ferns that had seemingly sprung up overnight. The going was slower now as the lead animals were rotated, and the larger obstacles were moved aside to allow for easier passage.

Where the Xaruar failed to trample, white five-petalled flowers had begun to bloom along vines that ran across the ground. If one strayed too close to these blossoms they would explode in a burst of pollen, staining one’s clothes with yellow powder. Apart from being a source of mirth for the children, these flowers were uncharacteristically harmless.

The name of these flowers was False-Dusters, for they resembled the fabled Dust Flowers of the city of Al-Lazar. Indeed, every now and again an enterprising merchant would take samples of these plants and try to grow them with some measure of success. However, unlike the real Dust Flowers of Al-Lazar, their pollen produced no lucid dreams, and in fact, had no real alchemical properties at all. Still, it did not stop some of the more unscrupulous from trying to pass it off as real Dust.

All of this I heard from the people of the Ravens. They came to me now, with greetings and snippets from their little unimportant lives. I welcomed them all with a false smile and a few words of wisdom, stolen from my old world. This was enough to satisfy them for now, but I found the incessant interactions grating at times and it was a sore test for my patience.

Catalina, too, had begun to test me. Her attachment to me had become clear, and she no longer made a show of hiding it. Indeed, she made a little show of it, using it to gain social standing with the other womenfolk of the caravan. This, in turn, made her bedtime ramblings a little longer, her questions trickier, as if she was seeking a form of commitment, trying to trap me. I hated it when people tried to force me down a path I did not travel.

Hopefully, she would warm my bed until Al-Lazar, at least, but until then I had to simply put up with it. Now, I finally understood the universal complaints of men who just wanted a simple life.

When I grew tired of spending the evenings with her, I would make an excuse that it was, in fact, my duty to patrol. Using this gifted time, I would instead spend it with the men of the guard, playing cards and gambling with dice. Initially, I of course avoided the poisonous alcoholic beverage arag whenever possible, only drinking the foul stuff when forced to.

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However, as time passed, I found myself drinking it anyway as a form of escape. Was this a simulation of married life? A nagging harpy waiting in my bed and a child that was not mine? I was far too young, of course, to be thinking about these things.

The night patrols were uneventful, and I was often paired up with one of my companions. I took this time to learn a little more about them, in particular, what they could do. Elwin, was a dab hand at ‘gray arts’, what this world called the art of the assassination. He knew his way around most weapons, and more importantly, he knew ways of dealing with armored opponents. Where to run a knife to cut a leather strap, and the weak points of certain styles of armor. He told me of the blindspots, the restricted movements that plate, scale, or splint mail gave its users, and how a man might unhorse another. He reminded me that it was still a difficult feat, demonstrating the various techniques on me. They were at times painful lessons, but the knowledge that he imparted to me was valuable nonetheless.

So valuable, in fact, that it caused my Heavy Armor skill to evolve into Improved Heavy Armor and gave me an additional point into Medium Armor. A most welcome bonus.

Since we could not stop for a good length of time, I had to settle for the Raven’s smith, Garven, to cold hammer out the dents as best as he could. More importantly, however, I was able to acquire a new quiver for my fancy crossbow and a new supply of iron bolts. He asked if I wanted a replacement for my lost shield, to which I refused, causing him to simply shrug. I had taken to wearing my mace-flail, Tsengelt-tum, on my hip in addition to my dagger.

With my new ‘toy’, I spent quite a few of my evenings firing off and experimenting with one of my new abilities, Inferno Bolts, at the innocent wildlife, burning a few of them into charred husks. Testing revealed that it served like a sort of magical shortcut for using Rust on a projectile weapon. I could hold a throwing spear with an iron tip, cast the spell, and unlike Rust which activated immediately, the exothermic reaction would only start when it left my hand. Likewise, when cast on a crossbow bolt it did not begin to burn until it was launched. Once, I even nervously passed my fancy crossbow, after casting the spell, to Elwin. The bolt released did not undergo a fiery reaction, which I found to be odd. It looked like I would not be able to make a living from imbuing weapons with magical properties.

Knowing how the magic worked now, the bolts flew from my crossbow like tracer rounds, lighting up the darkness with their incandescence. Regrettably, I was not able to hit as many as I would have liked. Most likely because I was relying on the added functionality of my Identify spell tracking my targets and my low-level Blind Fighting to even have, as they say, a shot in the dark.

This was, however, a rather expensive hobby, and it was eating into my funds. Also, thanks to my pyrotechnic display, the local fauna was learning to stay clear from the presence of the train. However, a long Sandgorger had been slow on the uptake, and the lone bull attacked one of the guards. An Inferno Bolt through the monster’s left eye made sure that we were eating frog that evening.

Despite the Raven’s chef adding a lot of spice to the meal, I could not help but feel that it could have done with a bit more punch. It would have been boorish of me to have commented such, and I held my silence. The meal was still filling and good, and by the looks of satisfaction on my companion’s faces, a cut above the normal fare that we were used to.

It was a shame that the bolt also caused the guard, a man called Khasim, a few second and third-degree burns. Once I was sure there were no other easy targets, I decided to heal the man. I found myself in a good mood, for I had gained a point in both Inferno Bolt and Blind Fighting. Smirking to myself, I absently wondered that, were my Charisma higher, would it have been possible for me to even charge the man for my services in this gamified world? One might argue that it might have been partially the guard’s fault for getting in the way of my bolt, after all.

As always, the people of the Raven just took this all in with awe, my near-mythic status, and by proxy my companions, growing even more. Could I say that I had finally maxed out my reputation? Khalam, as always, was sour-faced and dour, giving me the worst shifts, the middle watch. I could not blame him, as I would have done the same in his position. Still, it was a little petty.

However, to balance this, I was not without supporters among the Ravens. One particularly vocal example was Abas Yar, who walked now with new dignity and authority. The mark of my divine healing was clear for all to see. He was a walking monument to the grace of my blessing, and he would often sing my praises and proselytize my cause.

More importantly, I think that he could, with his wealth of experience and social standing, actually replace Laes and Khalam if push came to shove. A new original notion that had a certain appeal to it. After all, I owed Laes next to nothing. For the moment it remained simply a hypothetical. For the moment, at least.

The encounter with the Sandgorger was an ever-present reminder of the danger of hidden enemies. To this end, whenever I was paired with Kidu, I would always seek his advice and question why he did what did, and what he observed. It was rather educational, but due to Kidu’s taciturn nature, much more difficult to elicit.

Larynda, being a child, would, of course, not join us. Her time was spent studying the deeper mysteries of her element from the old witch, Ankhset. Any free time she had during the day, either Elwin, Kidu, or Cordelia would train her how to defend herself. That, or she would play with the other children, which in itself, was a form of training.

The childish games of long ago were more violent than the typical things we enjoy in our modern times, and these games resembled a barbaric throwback to such times. Children would, and did, get hurt. However, pain is a swift teacher, and I could see that Larynda was growing faster, if not just a little stronger.

On occasion, Cordelia would bless us with her company. A welcome thing indeed, for she was strong and skilled. A rare thing for a woman in this world, or my last one. Her sword, when she had occasion to draw it, flowed with efficiency and grace that were at odds with her youthful appearance. They were moves that one would associate with a master at the peak of their craft. It was more than the magic blade that she wielded, it was something that was intrinsically her.

There was nothing in our path that she could not cut down, and she did so with neither anger nor joy staining the clean movements of her blows. It was a beautiful thing to watch.