Savage Divinity

Chapter 319

In all his years, Jorani had never seen anything like it. They must have picked it up during their trek through the tall grasslands of Central, with plains so dense they needed blades to hack through it. Silent and stealthy, who knew how long it’d hidden within their midst, hitching a ride on Ral’s pants with no one the wiser. With a round, fat torso and a rounder, tiny head, the creature flapped its wings so quickly Jorani could barely make them out, a lovely blur of dark emerald and inky obsidian. Long as a finger and at least three wide, the six-legged creature flailed about in futility and clicked its... mouth or arms, caught between Ral’s fingers as the dumb oaf studied it with unbridled interest.

Knowing what was coming but unable (or unwilling) to stop it, Jorani watched in a mixture of abject horror and morbid curiosity as Ral tilted his head back, opened his mouth, and popped the still-wriggling creature in without hesitation. Chomping down with a juicy crunch, Ral wore a contemplative expression as he parsed through the taste. Recoiling in disgust, Jorani couldn’t close his eyes or look away, unable to even blink. Slurping the still writhing legs into his mouth, Ral’s floppy ears flapped back and forth as he absently checked his body for more of the edible passengers, chewing noisily all the while. Smacking his lips, Ral gave Jorani a bashful grin, displaying the bits of the creature still stuck between his teeth. “Yum... Tastes like pine nuts Jor. You think we can find more? I’m real hungry...”

Repressing a shudder, Jorani finally closed his eyes and convinced himself the creature wasn’t still moving. It was broken up into a thousand pieces, how could it still be squirming about? “I’ll spread the word to keep an eye out for em,” he said, unable to look his friend in the face. “Won’t be but a thing.” What Chey saw in the big oaf, Jorani would never understand. He was happy for Ral, he was, but also incredibly jealous.

So. Very. Jealous.

“Thanks Jor.” Sucking his teeth, Ral asked, “What did I eats?”

Now he asks. “Can’t rightly say. Ain’t ever been to this part of the woods before, we on a whole new playing field.”

Nodding sagely, Ral said, “Right Jor. Like them big, hole-diggin’ ground squirrels we saw. They looked real soft and fuzzy, pokin’ out of the grass like they did. You think we should go back and grab a few? For the boss, I mean. He’d like em lots.”

And so would Ral. That’s all the big oaf did these days, play with the bossman’s pets, fool around with Chey, and train. Motioning for the squad to fall in behind him, Jorani snorted softly. “Even if we had the time and means to grab a few, they’d be fer stewin’, not snugglin’. Yer’s ain’t the only belly rumblin’ around here.”

“Ah, sorry Jor, I forgot to share. You eat the next one.”

“Don’t you worry ‘bout it.” This time the shudder got away from him and Jorani banished the memory from his mind. Think about something else, like a nice, plump, chicken stewed on a bed of radish and bamboo shoots, with a big bowl of fragrant fried rice to go with it. Or a juicy cut of venison garnished with onions, cloves, and ginger, slow roasted over coals and washed down with a jug of honeyed wine. Hell, Jorani was so hungry, he’d even entertain the notion of eating one of them giant squids the other squads went on about. His crew never got a taste, since they’d been busy guarding camp while the others enjoyed a delicious, professionally-cooked meal paid for with the bossman’s copper.

The bossman promised to make it up to Jorani and his crew, but with the way things had gone, that didn’t look likely to happen anytime soon.

Truth be told, Jorani was more than a little miffed at the bossman, downright peeved in fact. Falling Rain didn’t understand the concept of rest and he pushed his people too damn far. After a month of hard travel, where they woke at dawn, travelled till dusk, and crammed in as much training as humanly possible, Jorani thought their suffering had come to an end when they finally reached Nan Ping.

How wrong he was.

While Jorani skipped dinner to catch up on much needed sleep, the bossman wasted no time pissing off the locals, accepting an eight-against-one duel and winning in his customary, domineering fashion. Jorani heard all about it the next morning, after being woken bright and early by the guttural curses and hard knuckles of Bulat and Ravil. Turns out, after a month of ‘rest’, Mister Rustram wasted no time getting back into the habit of their gruelling and painful training. Suffering in silence, Jorani endured the verbal and physical abuse for the time being, counting down the days until he was strong enough to stand up and tell the world the bossman was crazier than a sack full of rabid weasels.

He didn’t have to be stronger than the bossman, he just had to outrun him.

Adding piss to sour wine, not only did Jorani never get a taste of Nan Ping’s fine cuisine, he’d been stuck eating dry travel rations for a month now. Time was he’d be happy enough with a full belly and a place to lay his head, but that was before he knew how good food really tasted. The day after they arrived, the bossman brought Dastan’s crew into the city and they came back with tales of all the mouth-watering delicacies they ate, things like salt and pepper crab, spicy spinach noodles, chili prawns, and more, instantly becoming the envy of the camp. The next day, the bossman stayed outside and ate the same travel fare everyone else choked on, and the day after that was when the Guardian Turtle of Ping Yao wrecked a merchant house and got Falling Rain exiled from the city.

That’s how the story went, and while Jorani hadn’t seen the incident first hand, one look at the sluggish, docile turtle was enough to know it was a load of crap. It didn’t take a tactical genius to figure out the bossman had a deep-seated hatred for bristleboars and sent the turtle in to do his dirty work. Though there were stories going around about the bossman’s darker nature, Jorani still had trouble imagining the friendly kid angry enough to lay hands on Mister Rustram. Ruthless and intimidating as he was, the bossman rarely let the smile slip from his face, so whatever them bristleboars did to him, it must have been bad. Ravil opined the bossman’s hatred had something to do with the Bekhai grudge against the Society, but Jorani thought otherwise. If the bossman could make friends with Situ Jia Zian, a man he fought a duel to the death against, then why would he harbour hatred for a bunch of half-breeds he’d never met just because they all hailed from the same ancestor?

There was more to it but damned if Jorani was about to go digging around. Poking about in a man’s past was a quick way to get yourself a one way trip to the Father’s maw, and he wanted nothing to do with whatever set the bossman off. Instead, Jorani smiled, nodded, and set out to follow his orders, inwardly grumbling the entire time. Destroying the merchant house wasn’t enough, now the bossman wanted Jorani and the others to inspect the properties belonging to the Canston Trading Group without saying why, but his purpose was easy enough to guess.

The bossman was in the mood to help the bristleboars lighten their pockets, and Jorani was happy to oblige.

Well, not exactly happy, but pleased. He’d be happier if their circumstances weren’t complete horseshit. Then again, horseshit might be an improvement, because that meant they at least had horses. Bossman didn’t let them take any quin’s either, nor any wagons, armour, bows, crossbows, or Spiritual Weapons. He didn’t want them carrying anything which might identify them as Bekkies, which was everything, and ordered them to blend in with the locals, which was stupid. There ain’t anyone more mistrustful than isolated village folk. They’d mark Jorani’s crew as foreigners the second any of them opened their mouths, if not before, but the bossman speaks and Jorani obeys.

So without horses, quins, or proper equipment, they set out with what supplies they could carry, but those barely lasted long enough for two days and today was day three. They weren’t strangers to living off the land, but everything in Central was unfamiliar to them, not to mention the challenge of hunting with makeshift bows, crude spears, and slings made from loincloths. In a strange twist, Jorani found going back to his roots somewhat relaxing, bringing back memories of simpler times, when all he had to worry about was filling his belly and sleeping safe, when a quick tongue and quicker wits were his greatest weapons, and when Ral had his back no matter the odds.

Now, the hierarchy went Chey, the bossman, then Jorani, a sad, sorry place to be.

If Jorani had his silver cord, it’d be easy to round up a couple of them woolly, two-horned, bull-looking creatures hanging about. They looked like good eating and even if they weren’t, at least there’d be plenty to go around. Being fighting fit came with a cost as each of Jorani’s crew needed three times more food than a common farmer, and they didn’t all share Ral’s impenetrable iron stomach. With their rations all gone, every meal was a roll of the dice, wondering if the stinky, striped ferret and white, spotted mushrooms he ate for breakfast was gonna give him the runs, or if it’d be the sharp, leafy plant and wrinkled, naked rat he had for lunch. No matter how lucky you were, all hot streaks eventually come to an end and then you’re stuck crouched over a ditch and trying not to whimper too loudly, praying for an end to the ass-spurting misery.

At least Jorani was free to lead as he pleased, instead of being stuck under Ravil’s thumb like Wang Bao. Chey was smart enough to stay out of trouble and Ulfsaar had his wifey Neera to keep him in check, but Wang Bao was too hot headed to leave unsupervised. Make no mistake, he played the part of disgraced noble like he was born to it, all stiff-backed and starched collars like Mister Rustram. Problem is, you can take the wolf out of the forest, but you can’t take the forest out of the wolf. Wang Bao was a Butcher through and through, which meant he was one of the biggest and baddest bandits around, a low-down, back-stabbing, throat-cutting bastard to the core. If Jorani had a choice, he’d sooner fight Ulfsaar than Wang Bao; At least Ulfsaar would make it quick and painless.

Of course, the scariest bastard yet was still their dark-skinned despot Ravil. It was his eyes, those pitch-black, soulless orbs which almost twinkled when he smiled...

Hoping to never again be on the receiving end of said smile, Jorani picked up the pace. By nightfall, their target was in sight, a winery north of Nan Ping and far off the beaten track. Hell, it was so remote, the place wasn’t even on the maps. Mister Rustram only learned about it after bribing a wagon driver who’d done a delivery out here, a last-minute stand in which paid well for his silence. It wasn’t exactly unheard of for wineries to value their secrecy, fixing to keep their recipe and ingredients a mystery, but one look at the compound was enough to make Jorani’s stomach drop in despair.

Secrecy or not, what kind of winery needed armed guards patrolling stone walls and steel-reinforced gates?

“Something’s off,” Jorani muttered, speaking to no one in particular. “Shoulda seen it before we set out. Only road leadin’ here is a one-wagon dirt trail. Stupid. How’s a winery supposed to get supplies and make deliveries with a one-wagon trail?”

“They could take turns Jor,” Ral supplied. “You know, one day for supplies, the next for deliveries?”

Rolling his eyes, Jorani resisted the impulse to snap. “Possible, but probably not.” Retreating from the underbrush, he picked out his sneakiest bastards. “Jinoe, Ronga, Siyar, you’re with me. Rest of you, back up ‘bout half a kilometre and sit tight. No fire, no tents, and double sentry duty fifty meters out. Someone stumbles across y’all then send them off to Mum real quiet-like, ye hear? Rest light and ready to bolt, we gonna be awhile, but not the whole night.” As the others retreated, Jorani gave Ral a pat on the arm. “You too, c’mon now, off with ye.”

“Don’t you need me to watch your back, Jor? Them guards look real big and scary...”

Patting the concerned giant on the arm, Jorani grinned and winked. “Don’t you worry bout it. We just goin’ in to sneak a peek, then we’ll come right on back with no one the wiser. Hell, maybe we’ll even filch a little wine to celebrate a job well done.”

“All right Jor.” Brandishing his borrowed lumber axe, Ral added, “If you need me, holler real loud okay?”

“You just worry ‘bout keepin’ quiet. Ye snore loud enough to wake the dead.” Shooing the big oaf away, he turned to his chosen sneak thieves. Jinoe and Ronga were the finest cut-purses he knew and Siyar could make a Wraith look clumsy, so Jorani was confident they’d be able to slip past a handful of bored guards. Hell, Jorani himself was no slouch at cloaks and daggers, having pinched his fair share of wineskins and coin-purses back in his heyday. “Okay then,” he said, faking confidence as he looked them each in the eyes. “You heard the deal. Night won’t last forever, so let’s get to it.”

It took two hours for them to mark the patrols and three tries in another hour for Siyar to scale the eight-meter high wall unseen. While any one of them could’ve easily made it over, Siyar was the only one confident he could do it quickly and quietly in complete darkness. Thankfully, the entire winery was pitch black and without a flame in sight, so it wasn’t too hard for the others to follow. With blood pounding in his ears, Jorani climbed up using the rope dropped by Siyar, grateful for all his practice on the obstacle course back at the Bridge. Crazy as the bossman was, there was a method to his madness and it was finally showing.

Once onto the parapets, Jorani paused to take in the lay of the land before slipping over the other side and down a second rope to join Siyar. Jinoe soon followed while Ronga hid topside to lower the ropes again when it was time to leave. With Jinoe staying in place to coordinate with Ronga, Jorani and Siyar set out to investigate the compound. Following behind the former smuggler, Jorani marvelled at how the slim, unassuming man slipped into the shadows and all but disappeared. This wasn’t Concealment with Chi, but practised skill and seasoned experience, knowing exactly how the darkness would envelop him and how to use it to his advantage.

Moving deeper into the compound, they cut a meandering circuit through what looked like the living quarters, a series of squat, wooden shacks sized for four people each. From what he’d briefly seen atop the parapets, a layer of these shacks lined the wall, followed by a layer of ragged tents, then a central square of four, large, windowless buildings made of stone, which he marked as their destination. Whatever secrets this place held, they’d find them there.

Siyar’s hand went up in warning a heartbeat before the man melted out of sight and Jorani scrambled behind the closest cover, a collection of barrels sitting next to a shack. Pulse racing and head light, Jorani crouched and listened as the footsteps steadily approached, the ponderous gait of men thick with muscle and sinew. Catching bits and pieces of their conversation, it took him a moment to realize they weren’t speaking Common, using a guttural language which sounded like a medley of grunts and snorts.

Closer and closer the sounds came until they were right atop Jorani, hiding beneath his hands because he was too scared to look. With a scrape and a grunt, the barrel next to him lifted away and Jorani cracked his eyes open to see a pair of gnarled hands wrapped around the barrel’s midsection. Hefting it high, the guard turned about, grunted something in reply to an unseen speaker, and walked away, his vision obscured by the large barrel in his arms and none to wiser to Jorani’s presence. Now crouching in plain view, Jorani blinked in surprise as the guard turned the corner and disappeared from sight, a narrow escape if there ever was one. Stepping out of the shadows, Siyar’s scowl said it all as he signalled for Jorani to head back. Seeing wisdom in the suggestion, he retreated to where Jinoe waited and took cover beneath an awning, grateful for the darkness which hid his shame.

Next time, Jorani knew to pick out his experts and, more importantly, trust them to do the job.

Almost an hour later, Siyar appeared out of nowhere and frantically signalled for Ronga to drop the ropes. In short order, the four of them were off and away, slinking back to where the rest of the crew waited. Gathering them all, Jorani beat a hasty retreat, running back the way they came for three hours before calling for a break. Breathless, exhausted, and hungry, Jorani finally got around to asking Siyar, “What’d you find?”

“Nothing good.” With a sour grimace, Siyar horked into the grass, as if trying to clear his mouth of an unpleasant taste. “Them tents be packed with slaves, a right sorry lot if I ever seen one. Ain’t no call to treat a man that way, even less a woman.”

Never a pleasant sight, but them’s the breaks. Freeing slaves was the bossman’s hobby, not Jorani’s. “Anything else?” Jorani asked, impatient to get some rest. If that’s all there was, then they’d have to go back and look around again.

“Dunno. Slipped into the warehouse. Ain’t no winery, ain’t even wine storage.” Reaching into his pouch, Siyar pulled out two copper vessels, wrapped in silk to keep them from making noise. Shit, when did Siyar find time to meet the local ladies and win their favour? At least two ladies no less, life just ain’t fair. He wasn’t even handsome or strapping, just an average looking schmuck. “Ain’t no one selling wine in tiny sippy jars, much less ones caulked shut with resin. Smells like dog farts and rotting entrails, it does. Had thousands of them all boxed up, nice and neat.”

Taking one of the receptacles to study, Jorani looked it over from top to bottom. Each one about as thick as his thumb and twice as long, they were half-filled with liquid sloshing around inside and sealed to keep it from leaking out. He was about to crack it open when he remembered his hard-learned lesson only a few hours ago. Handing the container to Ronga, he ordered the sneak-thief to open it. With a small crack, Ronga twisted off the containers top and a dark, oily liquid spilled out onto his left hand, stinking to high heavens like rot and death. Waving a hand to disperse the smell, Jorani congratulated himself for learning to delegate and asked, “What is that?”

“No clue,” Ronga replied, using grass to wipe the gunk off. “It’s cold though. Tingles too. It’s kinda nice.”

“Taste it,” Jinoe suggested.

“You fucking taste it, ye rotter.”

Undeterred, Jinoe asked, “You think it burns? Like the stuff the Coalition used back in Sanshu?”

Holding a hand up to forestall everyone’s curiosity, Jorani shook his head. “No light. We’ll leave this for the bossman to find out.” Nodding at the opened copper vessel still in Ronga’s hand, he added, “Toss that somewhere far from camp and get some sleep. Four hours rest, I want us gone by daylight.”

Walking away from the stench, Jorani found himself a nice little patch of grass and settled in with Ral, falling asleep the moment he closed his eyes.

And opened them again almost immediately after as a muffled scream tore through the camp.

No, not immediately, it was daylight, faint as it was. Running towards the commotion, he found Jinoe and Ronga grapping on the ground as the former kept the latter’s screams to a subdued level. “It’s his hand,” Jinoe hissed. “It’s burnin’ up somethin’ fierce.”

Burning was right, though neither flame nor smoke could be seen, patches of charred skin spread across the sneak-thief’s left hand and up his forearm, exposing tender blackened flesh beneath. Wrapping his hand with a spare shirt, Jorani grabbed Ronga by the wrist and wrestled the poor bastard onto his back with Jinoe’s help. Wrapping a belt around his bicep as a tourniquet, Jorani straightened the arm and hissed, “Ral, chop!”

“Gotcha Jor.”

Before the words finished leaving his mouth, Ral’s axe flashed through the air and cut Ronga’s arm cleanly off at the elbow. Checking to see if the burns were still spreading, Jorani tossed the ruined shirt and severed arm aside and set to tending Ronga’s wounds, who’d mercifully passed out. “No worries,” Jorani muttered. “You can always grow yerself a new arm. Least you didn’t taste it.” Passing the work off to a more experienced hand, Jorani stood up and stared at the severed arm, well on its way to ashes. “What happened?”

Eyes wide with worry, Jinoe answered without looking away from his wounded friend. “No idea. He woke up screamin’ like a stuck pig with a hand black as ash. It was that stuff which dunnit, had to be.”

With Jinoe’s help, Jorani tracked down the broken vessel Ronga discarded before going to sleep. Laying in a patch of blackened grass and cracked stones, the intact half of the copper vessel sat less than twenty meters from camp, the pitch black liquid now a hardened, sticky mass. Whatever it was, it was a real piece of work, the bane of flesh, grass, stone, and probably more.

“Welp,” Jorani said to no one in particular. “Least we didn’t waste the trip.”

Chapter Memejosei