Fate Deals the Cards Temperance

  Chapter 26

  Snap! Crackle! Pop!

  My super early morning, private training sessions were dedicated to practice and mastery of my warclub and its evolving design. This morning I had a lot to work through, once I blinked the annoying golden panel out of my eyes. It was still there, a tiny dot in the corner of my vision, waiting for me to select it again.

  If I looked at it for too long, it threw up a map, indicating the locations of a number of ‘Ineligible Entities’ I was supposed to hunt down and ‘consume’. I wasn’t opposed to the idea, in general. The last ‘entity’ I’d consumed delivered a kick in my pants, mental clarity wise and seemed to be expanding my abilities in general as I digested it… or something.

  As I warmed up and began my routine exercises, my shadow seemed to slowly snug back up and fit again, becoming just a little darker and thicker, even by starlight.

  The latest experimental model was carved of tough cypress wood, weighty and felt solid. It was far too… kinetic a weapon to work with around the runties, even with no sharp bits fitted. My latest iteration featured the inner, cutting edges of crawdaddie claws again, just like my newest woodworking innovations. They were sharp, tough, disposable and plentiful.

  In any case, my warclub was not for the kiddos, not til they were older and less likely to injure each other. Often, I’d catch Thera watching me, though she only joined in with the runties.

  This morning she stepped out onto the lawn with her sword, to follow along with me, as she did with the spear. I’d never been able to pay much attention to her, with all that noise from downstairs ringing in my ears, but I always suspected she had been trained in the art before. A different school and not with the spear, but she had learned arms, at least a little at some point. Not that I could easily ask.

  With a sword, she showed her training clearly. Her balance and footwork were solid, if rusty and unrefined, while her bladework was a bit sloppy, showing vast room for improvement. Working out with me, using a vastly different weapon wasn’t going to help her much, so I held up a claw for her to wait a moment, while I dipped out. I returned with a pair of yard-long, straight sticks from my workshop in a few seconds, ready to begin the sword forms I’d been neglecting for so long.

  ‘Shai would be so dissappointed…’ I thought, before wondering where that name came from, again. I tucked that warm, fond memory away like a valuable trinket just for me, and went back to instructing my new pupil.

  If instructing the kids in the spear was satisfying, sharing the lessons in the sword I’d learned with my spiky haired sensei and red-haired muse was fulfilling. Thera kicked the rust off quickly and began honing those skills as I watched and wondered. She had real talent and a natural gift for athletics, with her native grace and speed.

  Before we knew it, the runties and a few of the ladies were gathered around, watching their king and a slave-girl whack each-other with sticks and laugh like idiots.

  “Go Thera! Whomp him good!” Saphie cheered from the sidelines with her cadre of bloodthirsty ruffians leering and jeering at me by her side.

  “Is why Ghnash hates kids…” I grunted, loudly enough for them to hear, even though it cost me a little bleeding.

  In the end, it didn’t matter.

  Thera wound up exhausted, dusty and slightly battered where she’d left herself too wide open for her instructor to forgive. I was far more advanced with spears and staves than with the sword; but at least I could help her find her own path forward, until she found a legit instructor. She soaked the bruises away in the pool, while I took revenge on the runties with their morning lesson.

  “King-papa… Enough… tired!” Saphie finally yelped, as she sank to the lawn, her spear tumbling from her claws at last. I grinned at my tired, gasping kids, sprawled all over the lawn and loved every minute of it, feeling like I really belonged in this place… If it weren’t for that little glowing thing in my eye.

  We spent a whole week in that cool cathedral of redwoods, ferns and moss. Not that gobbos had ‘weeks’ or schedules… I just kinda felt like more than a handful of days tranquilly slipped by and that was close enough for me.

  Our cue to move again was the appearance of the remnants of Hessen’s clan, wandering around unguided. The old witch had died in her furs, her wizened old heart unable to withstand the awful curse I’d placed on her.

  The three girls that came looking for me were her oldest and most advanced apprentices,and they were relentless and insistent. They wanted the secrets of the awful curse Sarafina had felled their teacher with… Demands she directed toward me, believing that they would leave rather than try to learn from a male, of all beings. She was, sadly mistaken.

  They quickly became a pain in my ass, demanding the secrets; and I wasn’t sharing, not with her former minions.

  “Nub. Is secret art.” Was all I would give them… which went over poorly.

  Sarafina stepped in eventually, when they became so obnoxious that she worried I might slaughter one or more of them… I had to admit, the idea had merit, while busting Sarafina’s chops was fun too..

  “Slaying an apprentice witch out of hand would anger the conclave, my chief.” She warned me sternly as I sat at my workbench, slowly carving a line of text into my latest oar shield prototype.

  “Oh? Is good idea!” I agreed merrily, as if it were a suggestion instead.

  “No, my chief, it is best we avoid conflict with the conclave of witches…” She insisted gently.

  “So secret murder. Hide bodies!” I suggested sweetly, my eyes filled with innocent admiration for her vast wisdom.

  “Good-good plan.”

  “No, mighty Ghnash… if their deaths were discovered, it would bring great trouble on your clan.” She was starting to get frustrated and I was loving every moment of it.

  “Feed to swamp.” I agreed, nodding and smiling like a damned fool. “Sara smart!”

  “Boy, I should hex a boil onto your ass for dragging me through the nettles like that.” She grumbled sourly, when I finished giggling at her and putting my lip back together.

  “Emmie’s tushy.” I reminded the witch, as she combed my hair with my newest technological innovation. My bone combs were meant for the girls, since I kept my shaggy hair hacked off, but they liked grooming each other and me, so whatever.

  “We leave. Head south.” I mumbled quietly as she groomed me and rubbed my ears. None of the girls were suffering tummytime and I wasn’t struggling with my libido, so it felt like a good time to distance ourselves from whatever fallout might be coming.

  The misfortunes the Light suffered in the area could bring someone nosing around and I was certain that they could detect my home at some range, with their wicked murder rituals. So far, the cult seemed pretty incompetent, outside their areas of expertise…

  The ritual they used was intended to detect sources of magic in a few specific bandwidths that seemed alien to this domain. The cloth headband with an orange, crystal eyepiece I’d looted from the ruined warcamp of my spider friend seemed designed to detect those same energies as well.

  When I showed it to Sarafina, she shook her head and sighed. “I am no enchanter of objects, nor do I understand the crafts used to create this thing, my chief. It is a human thing and I am too much a goblin to see it otherwise.”

  My puzzled grunt brought a short lecture from the sleepy witch.

  “There is a thing, the akashic record… Every race has one, an endless array of possibilities and options, subdivided to every nation, clan and family, down to each individual being. Some branches are closed, by culture, or tradition or even by physical state or status, or by level of development that race has achieved. The goblin race has the root and branch of civilization, but we cannot develop further, until we develop further, my son…” She cooed, her formality slipping into real, maternal affection. “At the end, where living people stand and work, new things can be learnt, but only in due time and in the proper ways.”

  That was the secret, I finally understood… The girls couldn’t just follow instructions when presented with a new thing. They had to get accustomed to the new stuff and discover how, when and why it should or could be used by themselves.

  Beryl’s slowly expanding kitchen was one of those things. I’d created mortars and pestles of stone and even showed her how they worked… no luck. She kept wandering out to a shallow depression on a nearby boulder to smush things with a rounded stone. It was the same result, just with more stone chips and grit in the mix.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  Instead, I created a boulder in the kitchen, over in a corner, with a similar depression on top. Made of whatever my house was made of, it worked better and didn’t add nearly as much flavor, texture or bonus mineral content to our meals.

  The next morning, the boulder was smaller, the depression deeper and the pestle fit better… in three days she was using a molcajete to coarsely grind wild rice for simple flatbreads, cooked on the floor of her beloved stone oven. Never showed her that at all, she just ran with it.

  When I got back from my workout with my students that third morning, she was discovering that her pounded grains and leftover meal-cakes could thicken soups and stews, enriching and deepening flavors in the process. Beryl was a jewel, it was certain.

  Each new tool or device I added to the kitchen swiftly became part of her daily life. A soapstone range top over an enclosed firebox created a primitive cooking range, which she figured out super fast, before I even had the chance to fail to explain it.

  Every day was like that; I left a primitive carapace and wooden shovel and a stone hoe near the garden and Amirylis picked them right up, beginning the slow process of creating simple garden beds.

  I mean, they came with us when we packed up and moved, but the innovation was real, even if the soil she worked was imaginary. The plants and the food they produced were real, but the soil vanished away, if taken beyond my boundaries, just like the things I created from dreamstuff and shadows in the house. I gave up being mystified and just decided to go with it, since I had a lot going on.

  We found a wide, secluded island in the delta a few days to the south, far from the scene of my many crimes and conveniently near the sea, by canoe.

  Nothing with a deep draft or wider than a small skiff would have a chance of wending the narrow reed lined creeks and the deep channels held dangers to make any-gob think twice before attempting those placid seeming waters.

  Giant snapping turtles, monster crocs and gators, the everpresent clouds of biting, stinging vermin… Nothing that moved on the open water was safe, yet life was good among the reeds, for those who came prepared.

  My garden’s abundance only grew, as we gradually transplanted new and delicious things into my soil, with variable results. Amirylis had the touch and got the best results, slowly but surely edging up on actual agriculture, one tiny step at a time as I watched.

  I couldn’t suggest anything without causing confusion and setting us back, our minds befuddled by whatever was keeping us in the stone age. I could, however, make tools and devices, so long as they remained ‘primitive’ by whatever standard we were being measured against...

  We had the wheel, inclined plane, lever and fulcrum, but beyond the simple machines things got unreliable.

  My spring-pole lathe, foot powered potter’s wheel and simple woodworking tools were as far as we could get without more work. I suspected that simple agrarian skills might improve our available options… one step at a time.

  /

  “One step at a time, cardinal…” The richly robed pontiff cooed at his subordinate, punctuating his words with a claw clack that shattered the quiet of the dining room. “We find the source of the disruption and we begin the painstaking work of repairing the seals and curses.” He scuttled over and admired the fine meal spread before his waiting pincers. “A dispatch from the grand council of pontiffs warns that the Tarots are sniffing around. Be vigilant, this is likely their work.”

  “At least that anomaly in the swamp is done with.” Cardinal Ferdinand mumbled, distress causing him to bubble and foam from his mouth parts.

  The pontiff nudged the younger cleric with a friendly claw. “We’ll find this new problem with probability soon enough. Eat up, I had this bunny imported directly. She’s unspoiled.” He murmured over the flayed corpse of a young woman with rabbit ears. “A pity the virgin ones are so rare. They really don’t have the same savor if the filthy humans get at them first.” He sighed as he joined his younger brother at the feast, their pincers nipping off morsels while the undead human craniums they wore made expressions of delight and mumbled in mindless pleasure.

  “I’ve never tasted one before.” Ferdinand rattled and purred in crabby pleasure a short while later. “Delicious!”

  “I have a special treat coming in the next day or two… a human girlchild, completely unspoilt and tuned to the highest pinnacles of dread… I’ll share her with you, brother!” The pontiff chuckled at his unhappy subordinate and clattered his claws.

  “These things happen. We’ll just keep doing our work and solve one problem at a time.” He cooed pleasantly while sampling one of the girl’s eyes.

  /

  “So we’ll just keep solving one problem at a time…” Sarafina complained. “Running off to the south among the waterways is no solution…”

  “Islands safe… gobbs fear. Humans stupid.” I answered calmly.

  “We are within a few days’ walk of a human city, dolt!” She grumbled angrily. “This is not safer!”

  “Ghnash has work.” I grumbled, unable to even try to explain the idea of a video game style hunt quest, never mind my supposed ‘dungeon lordship’ situation. It was all a mess and I was limited to one or two simple words at a time, unless I had a beat going; even then I wasn’t exactly eloquent and my freestyle skills were weak… powerful weak.

  “Hunt, three days maybe. No house, three days.” I insisted. “Safe here. Wait here.”

  Working together we built a large thornbush bower, surrounded by tight woven berry bushes and stakes driven in to form a simple palisade around a spacious camp. Building simple shelters and such was well within the girl’s ability, but small groups of furtive women and kids tended to prefer hidden bowers and dim, dark places.

  Any permanent dwelling would eventually draw a wandering male, once tummytime started for one of the residents. Of course, anything large enough to be called a village would invariably attract the cult’s slavers and raiders before long.

  The gobbs’ natural wariness of murky channels and deep waters made them predictable and easy to catch, while breaking those patterns would provide greater safety, once the runties pulled the bridge deck over to their side on cunning bamboo runners, blocking the only opening in the dense foliage and briars. The palisade hidden among the reeds and the local wildlife made the deep water channels a death trap for any swimmer.

  With plenty of food stashed in Beryl’s primitive ‘kitchen’ in the hut; I sailed off in a reed canoe just after dark. Headed south down the narrow creeks in the dark and rising fog my tiny, silent boat kept to the shallow waters, following the current to the sea.

  I’d skulked around the human outpost towns, but this was my first ‘actual city’ and it was worse than I expected. It took three hours to finally see Lightport, glowing in the fog. I smelled it long before, reeking and polluting the waters for a mile upstream with their filth and refuse. The changing tide dragged an awful stew of just everything wrong with too many people in too close quarters and zero hygiene. I poled past bodies, lots of them, floating mounds of fish waste, staggering stenches and festering bogs of… It was gross and I was not going to be keeping my little reed boat after this.

  I beached my boat on a shit-flat, cause it was way more shit than mud for a mile in any direction and made my way for the dim, guttering lights of ‘civilization’ as envisioned by the kind of idiots I was working with…

  The sensory overload was dizzying and none of it was good. Any pleasant aroma, sound or sight was overpowered by a towering monolith of misery and poverty, a construct of inequality and deprivation that made me pause in wonder.

  The place was a literal pest hole. Only the absurd number of castrated goblin slaves roaming the night, eating rats, bugs and any stray housepets they could get their claws on kept the vermin in check. They climbed rattletrap tenements like monkeys and swarmed the dark alleys in hungry mobs.

  Humans walked the streets, always armed and in groups carrying lanterns, while all other folk stayed well clear in the darkest byways and alleys. As to the activities going down in those alleys… I’d murdered a few men recently and cursed a woman to death with a song in my heart. The dirty deeds done dirt cheap in those slums and shanty-towns… well let’s move on, shall we?

  The city had a wall, but it was a joke. Not a funny one either. The slums ran up to and actually up the wall, which meant that the goblins were constantly crawling over, chasing rats, gulls, cats and any other edible creature across the rooftops at night. In that mad swarm, I simply didn’t exist.

  Most of the slaves roaming the night were branded or tattooed to indicate ownership, while many wore collars bearing sun-disk tags of cult property. I snatched one of those wretches and snapped his neck, leaving him floating in the turgid bay; the poor thing was better off that way. His collar fit nicely and I was away, slipping through the darkness of the cathedral town.

  The goblin slaves were invisible to the humans, so long as they stayed out from underfoot. The central cathedral dominated the tidy and well kept town of clerics, clerks, functionaries and bureaucrats, looming over the cult’s subordinates day and night. The main entrance stood so high and wide it would take long minutes to close them and longer to open… so they just gaped wide, like the maw of some hungry, cubist beast. A stream of people moved in and out, even at night, doing the bidding of whatever shit-head ran this dump.

  Only the most cursory checks took place at the great, bronze clad and gilt doorway. Gobbos and other slaves had to enter by a much less imposing portal, tucked behind a grand portico, but still it showed an absurd level of ostentation.

  The guards wore clean white tabards bearing a golden sun-disk, but the men inside were slovenly, dull and vile. They gripped greasy spearshafts with dirty hands and wiped the remnants of whatever street food they were eating on their gray pantaloons. Unless they were lounging around and ogling the sex workers dangling from the windows of the slums.

  Security was another bad joke… even inside. The goblin slaves scuttled about, even in the dim, narrow servant’s halls of the cloistered cathedral of the Light. That meant I was invisible, a non-entity to be ignored or sent running with a kick.

  I was free to wander those dim halls at my leisure, searching for a path that would lead to my quarry; a dim, amber glow blinking on a rather useless mini-map in my eye. In a complex, multistory edifice, a single pinpoint indicating the target was unhelpful. I started with the obvious; towers and upper levels, naturally, but nope.

  I scoured that whole building and finally, down in the lower levels, where the sea intruded and everything was moist, dank and mossy, I found my prey.

  Down in a sunken pool, fed by a channel to the foul sea, something utterly nasty scuttled and browsed the flotsam. A human head roamed the shallow, underground tide-pool on a multitude of crab legs, while the creature wearing that blinking, mumbling cranium fed on rubbish and filth.

  When the undead eyes spotted me, they narrowed with anger and suspicion.

  “What are you doing here? Begone!” The cardinal shouted at me, the intruding goblin slave. When I pulled out three feet of stout blackthorn with a lump of dark green jadeite mounted to the end, he stopped looking outraged and began investigating confused expressions.

  I wound up with my trusty crab-hammer and gave him a nice whack, while he was still trying to figure out why his slave had a stone headed warhammer.

  He was a juicy one! That skull popped and sent crab innards everywhere, while the critter under the broken skull squealed in frequencies not meant for human or goblin ears.

  I’d seen, heard and smelled enough on my journey through this guy’s little shop of horrors to not bother hesitating. I teed off on it for a second time, splooting the pulped mess onto a stone wall across the room in a hilariously degrading manner.

  I left him there, dripping and smashed into goop for his minions as I slipped out of the cathedral, feeling the warm sensation of whatever had run up my arms when I hammered that crab inside out. It was more than just the satisfaction of a job well done. I consumed something from that thing, something indefinable and odd, but now mine. One of my little pips went out on the map as ‘Theoderic Villhiem’ went dark on my target list.

  On the way out, I tore my collar off and dropped it near the corpse of my donor, to sink in the muck and mire, all neat and tidy.

  “Take only lives, leave only memories.” I sighed as I left the reeking, filthy town behind, poling far out into the marsh to change directions a few times and disassemble my boat into an unassuming clot of floating rubbish. I stomped overland a few miles, forded a few creeks and lashed a new boat together from winter brown reeds for my trip home.

  Did I murder that crab guy because a glowing panel gave me a quest? Yes. Was he a complete shit-bag and an undead horror? Yes. Would I have dashed his skull in if he looked like a golden retriever puppy? Oh, yeah, fuck that guy. Fuck him and all his friends, with what, and where they will least enjoy. I had a quest, now it was a pet project. Crab-hammer and my other nasty toys were going to be busy.

  Emmie tackle-hugged me as soon as the knights rolled out the bridge, before Saphie even had a chance to get an armful of her king-papa. It was good to be home.

  /