August 2008: Rollout Fiction

[Keebler]

The sun set red over Ayan Baqur. On the southern hill of the city, overlooking the coast, an old man and his nephew sat, cross-legged, and watched the western sky. Each bore the dust and dirt of a long day on the trail, but only one of them wore the grime in comfort. Aliester the Loquacious, one of the pre-eminent Isparian scholars of Dereth, was busily dusting off his new traveling boots and complaining under his breath about how dirty they’d gotten.

His nephew, Ardry, smiled indulgently as his uncle fretted about the boots. “Those boots were made to trek through mud and dust, Uncle,” he said.

“Maybe the boots are tougher, or at the very least, of a sturdier construction than your dear old uncle,” Aliester sighed mournfully. He removed one boot and shook a small pebble out of it.

Ardry laughed. “I think you’re tougher than you think, Uncle.” He opened his pack and produced a glass bottle of an amber-colored liquor. “But here’s something to cheer you up.” He turned the bottle in the light so its label was visible to his elderly uncle’s eyes.

“Pwyll’s moldering undergarments! A bottle of Teakston’s Peculiarly Old Hundred-Year Firewater? Where did you turn up such a singular treasure? I haven’t seen one of these magnificent specimens of the distillers’ craft since before we left Ispar!” Aliester grabbed the bottle from his hands and cradled it like a newborn baby.

Ardry sat back and sighed in satisfaction. “I’ve been saving it, Uncle. For the entire time we’ve been on Dereth. I packed it with me when I came through the portal, and it was practically the only thing that survived the journey with me. Today just seemed like the right day to dig it out of the cache behind your cottage where I buried it all those years ago.”

Aliester looked around warily, scanning to see if anyone was nearby. “We don’t have to tell cousin Ulgrim about this. Such a noble distillation…” he smacked his lips in anticipatory bliss. “Yes, I am quite sure our stout-swilling cousin would not appreciate this as he should. There are… earthy undertones and smoky notes that would be lost on his beer-addled palate.” Then he gave the younger man a sly look. “Your resourcefulness never ceases to surprise me, Ardry.”

“I know, Uncle,” Ardry said, looking at his uncle with a smug grin of his own. “I know.”




Halfway across the continent, in a crypt somewhere beneath the great inland A’mun Desert, a very different pair convened to engage in a different sort of recollection.

Lady Aerfalle, the mistress of Aerlinthe Island and one of the eminent remaining nobles of the ancient undead kingdom of Dericost, poured clear water into a silver scrying bowl. Her companion, sometime lover and co-conspirator, Lord Rytheran of Menilesh, watched her through bony eye sockets that glowed a baleful red. When Aerfalle was done pouring, she stood over the scrying bowl and took both of Rytheran’s bony hands in hers, so their arms formed a circle around the bowl.

Softly, she crooned in a language that had not been spoken by living beings in ten thousand years and the bowl began to glow silvery blue. She waved her hand over the bowl and a ripple moved across the surface of the water, mirroring her movements. The water in the bowl turned opaque and reflective like silvered glass, and an image formed on its surface…

Clearly the image that formed was displeasing to Lady Aerfalle. She hissed in rage when she saw what the picture revealed. “How did they hide those islands from us? We were the lords of this land, ancient in our power, before the Isparians were even building mud huts on their distant, ignorant world.”

Rytheran laughed bitterly. “We have always known that Killiakta is full of wonders, my lady. We should not be surprised that the island has deceived us, once again, or that it allowed the Isparians to steal a march on us. It cannot be a coincidence that the Falatacot-tainted witch was the first to send forces to those islands. For all we know, she could be in collusion with the Blight. Now that we have become aware of these events, we must strive to improve our position and take direct action against our foes. The world still bleeds, and the Living Darkness gorges on its blood. We cannot let the Yalain and the Isparians seize control of those nodes. They will make a mistake, as they always do, and the realm will be left defenseless to the depredations of that vile Falatacot beast.”

Aerfalle waved her hand over the bowl. The vision in the scrying bowl changed to a map of all of Dereth. She reached down and touched various points around the map, which glowed when she touched them. “The Yalain bide their time, and do not reveal the strength of their mortal levies. Isparians under the witch’s banner have moved to take control of the nodes on the islands… here… And the witch herself is on this one!” She pointed excitedly at one of the islands on the map.

Rytheran leaned closer to the scryed image. “We will mount the first attack there, then. Send her howling back to her tentacled masters. We must not waste our forces in a strategy of piecemeal attacks. We must bring overwhelming strength to the first assault, and then consolidate our position there. It will be a position of strength from which we can strike at the other sites. Our Isparian proxies can prove themselves and earn great glory with such a conquest. And we will reward them richly for their leal service.”

Aerfalle sneered. “You place too much faith in such fragile creatures, my love. Since they arrived on this island, scurrying out of the Yalaini portals like rats through a hole in the wall, they have been nothing but a nuisance and an irritation.”

Rytheran shook his head. “You underestimate them. We always have. The Hopeslayer underestimated them, as did the Virin’di and the Burun. They are surprisingly effective, for such limited creatures. Now please, my lady, summon Warlord Gorthane to our audience chamber. I will give him his orders, and you can watch as he leads our minions against their mortal kin. I know how you enjoy watching them spill each other’s blood.”

“It would keep me entertained for another ten thousand years,” Aerfalle murmured.



In a small cottage high in the southern mountains of Dereth, not far from the settlements where the Sho people of Ispar had first settled years ago, a wizened little woman entertained a pair of distinguished visitors in her one-room cottage. She bustled about with a platter of tea and sweet bean buns as the older of her visitors unrolled a thick, elaborately decorated parchment map on the brushed bamboo floor of the cottage.

Ben Ten pressed a mug of hot tea and a plate of pastries into the hands of both guests before settling down with her own refreshments to watch the movements on the map. “Very nicely done, Harlune” she cooed to the tall Empyrean mage as small pockets of color appeared, shifted, and disappeared on the map, in a manner that roughly corresponded to the movements of enemy soldiers. “And pretty too.”

Harlune shrugged dismissively and grunted. “It does the job. Enchanting the map to track the movements of our rival Societies was easier than anticipated, because of the rich magical fields of those two islands. And the Queen’s cartographers do have a pleasing hand.”

Ben Ten sipped her tea and looked over the map. “It looks like the Blood has already claimed an island…” She smiled. “The woman moves decisively, I will give her that. Such is the prerogative of mortal creatures…”

Harlune snorted. “She’s not a paragon of caution even among her own kind. She was always the most aggressive member of Elysa’s council. Doesn’t surprise me that she’s the first to try and stake a claim. And we know how much she likes the smell of blood, so she’ll think nothing of throwing away her soldiers’ lives. Especially now, as we see the undead marshalling their own forces…” He turned to glance at the man who’d accompanied him here, a middle-aged Sho warrior dressed in ornate blue armor. “Well, Master Feng? What do you make of it?”

Master Feng Jinsun frowned as he stared at the map. “The others moved and committed themselves too quickly, precipitously. They have engaged on two fronts without securing their supply lines. I suspect also that they have neglected their foraging operations at the other locations… It is good that we had the foresight to recruit more foragers from the citizenry of the Dereth. I suggest we flood the hunting areas with our own foragers, to bolster our own stores and to deny them vital supplies, and send elite teams of scouts to keep the Blood and the Web bleeding each other. Make sure that neither side achieves real victory at either keep. Once they are sufficiently weakened, we can assess our options and proceed judiciously.”

Harlune met Ben Ten’s eye and they nodded to each other. “Good. Let it be done. What will your part be, Master Feng?”

The old man smiled, revealing startlingly healthy teeth and a wolfish grin that made the gentle-souled Ben Ten take an involuntary step back. “I’ll be going to Freebooter Isle with one of the scout detachments,” Master Feng announced, watching the dance of the colors on the map. “To… cause trouble.”



Back on the southern slopes of the hill by Ayan Baqur, Ardry and Aliester passed the bottle back and forth. They drank slowly, treating each sip like a treasure, savoring the depth and complexity of the rare and well-aged liquor. As the last rays of the sun dipped below the horizon, they found themselves pleasantly drunk and almost preternaturally happy and self-satisfied.

“Is a good life, Uncle,” Ardry announced, slurring his words slightly. “Been some tough times, maybe more for me than for you, but is a good life.”

“That it is, my boy. ‘M glad you came to Dereth to share in all our adventures. Must be said, must be said.” Aliester put a hand on his nephew’s shoulder and squeezed him affectionately.

Their reverie was shattered by a voice barking out behind them, “Hey! Is that peat moss and oak-aged liquor I smell? I do believe that’s the distinctive reek of the Old Hundred-Year Firewater!”

Ulgrim the Unpleasant, local sage and town drunk, stepped up to stand between them, glaring down at them both with his hands on his hips. “What’s wrong you two? You conjure such a bottle out of nowhere and you don’t even think to share it with your beloved cousin Ulgrim. I’ll write a letter to your mothers, see if I don’t!”

Ardry could only shake his head and smile fondly. “Have a seat, cousin. There’s still plenty to share.” He passed Ulgrim the bottle of the hundred-year-old liquor and sat back, relaxed for once in his life on Dereth. “We been through a lot here. What d’you suppose the future brings?” he asked idly.

“Same thing it always brings, my boy,” Ulgrim answered, his voice uncharacteristically solemn. “Same thing the past brought us. Ancient powers, fighting ancient wars with new recruits.”