Chapter 4 - Commander Peshka

Guttering torches burned low and hungry in their sconces, painting the room in somber orange tones and long shadows. A somewhat portly man paced back and forth at the head of a wooden table, a goblet of wine sloshed around in one hand, while the fingers of his other hand twisted furiously at one of the tips of his bushy, orange mustache. His eyes were so fixed on the table as he paced, he didn't notice them enter the room. Malfus watched the man with some amusement, stomping with each step like a sullen child, albeit a slightly drunken one. He wore a breastplate that may have fit him at one point in his military career, but now it seemed more like a comical metal bib than a piece of armor, covering only the top half of his belly and bouncing with every step. He had thick eyebrows that rivaled his mustache in bushiness and a receding crop of orange hair on top, sprinkled with plenty of white amongst it, maybe more than was fair for his age. One of the tips of his mustache seemed slightly shorter than the other, the one that he had been nervously twisting at. As comical as certain aspects of his appearance may have been, he still carried a stern air of authority about him. Or at least the air of drunken aggression and sour wine.

The table between them was big enough for a banquet, its surface was covered completely in maps. Malfus looked at the map sprawled across the table as he followed the Inquisitor. Well, I'm no cartographer, but this line must be the fort, there are the trees we rode through, and some lovely cliffs to accentuate this forsaken shithole. Amidst the maps were some empty, toppled-over cups of wine, and several blocks of wood, painted white or black. The blocks were strewn across the map like a spoiled child's toys. The black pieces were greater in number and surrounded the "fort" line enclosing the scarce number of white blocks. Ah, these must be the good guys. There was another small pile of white blocks toppled over to the side of the map. Malfus would have liked to hope that was the pile for reinforcements, but the fresh graves he saw outside gave him his share of doubts. Malfus swallowed, the dire implications of the wooden blocks were a lot more severe than any child's game.

Malfus's stomach growled, taking his mind off the map. He walked by a neglected platter with some leftover pieces of meat, bread, and cheese. Some flies buzzed around it, already having established their claim and it had a faint, pungent odor, even so, he wasn't ashamed to admit it still made his mouth water. He wondered for a second if anyone would notice him pocket a few pieces for later.

"Blast it all!" The man kicked at the leg of the table, scattering the wooden pieces across the map, sending several clattering to the floor and bouncing across the room. One white piece rolled across the floor, stopping by the Inquisitor's black boot. The Inquisitor reached down and picked it up. "You should be more careful with your toys, sir." He said, setting the piece of wood on the table.

The man looked up at them blinking his eyes, he looked at his half-empty wine glass then back at the two figures, deciding only to address them after they still remained upon a second inspection. The man spread his arms out dramatically, speaking in a stage voice like a street performer. "And on your darkest hour, a black brimmed rider will appear to ask questions three. If your answers don't come truthfully, not even the gods will come to pity thee." The man gave a mirthless chuckle, "Isn't that the nursery rhyme they tell children about the Inquisition? And yet here you stand. A black brimmed inquisitor, in the flesh, and on my darkest hour. Let's hope I'm not found wanting, eh?" The man raised his glass of wine in a salute, then took a long drink, followed by another. Malfus saw the man's gaze linger on his manacled wrists as he swallowed. Yes. Let's hope you aren't found wanting like this poor sap, it is entirely no fun, I can assure you.

The Inquisitor took a step forward. "I am Inquisitor Diego Deza. I find myself at your mercy while on the holy business of the church of Vesenia... and in need of what aid you can render."

"Ah, yes. Let me not forget my manners, quite unbefitting an officer," his speech slurred slightly as he spoke, "I'm Commander Gregor Peshka." He bent forward in an ostentatious bow that nearly hit his head on the table. "I am the Commander of his Majesty's army here, and you have come at a dark hour indeed." He took a drink from his wine glass. "Although, a member of the Inquisition is the last thing I would have expected making it through the gnolls and showing up at my doorstep. We've already had our annual inquisitorial inspection to show we're upholding Soloteim's Law, you'll find no half-elves or other sub-humans amongst our ranks. Nor worship of any pagan gods. Doesn't matter the god, they've all seemed to have abandoned us out here." Commander Peshka paused. "No offense, Inquisitor."

The Inquisitor cleared his throat tersely. "No, Commander. Soloteim's Law is not why I'm here."

"And I don't imagine you come bearing any news of any reinforcements, or better yet bring some with you?" Commander Peshka resumed his pacing at the head of the table as he talked, bobbing around like a fisherman's lure.

"No, I'm afraid it's just the two of us." Malfus could hear the Inquisitor's glove tighten as he clenched his fists.

"Well, how in the hells did you make it through the gnolls then?" The Commander took a long drink. "Or do even the bloody gnolls know to fear the Inquisition?"

"I encountered, then dispatched a smaller scouting party before overwhelming numbers forced us to retreat, only making it by the grace of Vesenia. Now I find myself here to get resupplied before continuing my duty to take this prisoner to Castillea for justice."

"Well, the gnolls may be bringing him to justice a lot faster than you think."

Inquisitor Deza crossed his arms and looked at the Commander. "What exactly is the situation here, Commander?"

Commander Peshka paused looking at his glass. "Glass of wine, Inquisitor?"

"Thank you, but no, Commander."

Malfus licked his lips. I certainly wouldn't mind a glass, but no one ever cares about what I want. Peshka's gaze lingered over Malfus for a moment. "And none for my prisoner, either." Inquisitor Deza snapped.

"Suit yourself. Perhaps you'll change your mind after you have assessed our current situation properly." He waved his glass toward the maps, wine sloshing from the top and spilling on one. The drops glimmered like little beads of red glass, before being absorbed, staining where they had fallen like blood on a bandage.

The Inquisitor looked at him, waiting for him to continue, with all the patience and emotion of a marble statue. If the Commander noticed, he gave no sign, resuming his pacing at the head of the table.

He took a deep breath, then sighed. "Gnolls have always been a pest out here for years, ever since I've been posted here. They've always just been a menace, never a real problem, just the occasional ambush of one of our scouting parties or the like." Peshka stared into his wine cup. "But now some albino, the men are calling Ghostface, or some other such drivel, has managed to unite enough of the other scattered gnolls to become a formidable threat." Peshka waved his hand absently over some of the toppled wooden pieces. "I sent some men to deal with him, but they walked right into a trap. They're a lot more cunning than you give them credit for." Whom? The gnolls or your men? Peshka frowned into his wine glass. "Lost a lot of good men that night." Commander Peshka took a long drink from his glass of wine, paused, then let out an impressive belch. "Lost a lot more since. Now the savages outnumber us easily by three to one. Probably more. Hard to tell when they only attack at night." Commander Peshka turned and looked at the smoldering logs in the fireplace. "They've just been picking away at us like crows on a corpse for the last month and by Vesenia it's been a long one. I don't even have the men to afford to even send out scouting parties anymore. Too many men dead, too many men injured. Only one man returned from the last scouting party I sent out. Lucky the lad made it back at all. His days of standing watch are over though."

"Vesenia has mercy on the fallen and the wounded in the line of duty." The Inquisitor bowed his head slightly as he touched the holy symbol hanging from his chest.

"No, no, not injured, not physically.... Too rattled to be of good to anyone anymore after... whatever it was he saw. Had to lock him up in the holding cells. He was a danger to the men and morale, and trust me, morale is bad enough already. I'm sure the men I have left that aren't limping would desert if they could, but they know better than I do that there is nowhere for them to go."

"Is there anyone else coming to your aid Commander? Have you not sent for reinforcements?" The Inquisitor asked, impatience, not compassion, seeping into his voice.

"Of course I bloody have! I've sent word for reinforcements a month ago when all of this first started, then again a week later once I didn't hear anything, then again a week after that. I don't know if my messengers have even made it through. No word has returned, and neither have any of the men I've sent. You two are the first damn sign of anyone without fur or fangs that didn't want to kill us. Commander Peshka lifted the cup, frowned when he saw it was empty, then walked over to a decanter sitting on a wooden shelf. "I'm afraid it's safe to assume we are left out here alone, our fates... in our own hands." The cup rattled against the pitcher as he refilled it, his hands shaking all the while. Malfus wasn't sure if it was the shake of an alcoholic drunk, or the shake from the nerves of a man staring death in the face. For all his bluster, the fear in his eyes was evident, the same hollow, distant look all his men had. The look of a man standing before the gallows. A look I'm intimately acquainted with as well.

"A third of my original garrison is dead, half are in the infirmary too injured for combat, then I have, well... whatever is left after that." A sixth you drunk idiot. "Anyway, one more organized attack could..."

The Inquisitor held up his gloved hand and cleared his throat. "I feel for the plight you and your men find yourselves in Commander, I do, but we all have our duties. Mine takes me and my prisoner away from here. I fail to see how the state of your garrison is my problem."

"Then perhaps you have not been listening to me Inquisitor. We're surrounded by a damn army of bloody, infernal gnolls! If you haven't noticed!" Commander Peshka smashed his hand down on the table, toppling the few wooden pieces that remained standing. "I don't know how you managed to get past the gnolls the first time Inquisitor, but I'm afraid you have condemned yourself... and your prisoner, to share the same fate as us. You certainly won't outrun them with a horse, not in this terrain. And even with all that black you're both so set on wearing, I doubt you'll have any better luck sneaking past them either."

"Doubt is a chink in the armor that the faithful can ill afford, Commander." Inquisitor Deza snapped, and then paused. "However, it appears my path is no longer as straight and true as the arrow flies. Vesenia often lays challenges to test the faith of her servants."

Commander Peshka saw an opening in the armor of the faithful and went for it. "Perhaps your goddess saw fit to protect you from the gnolls so that she could deliver you unto us in our greatest time of need."

Inquisitor Deza paused and frowned. Well played Commander. Well played indeed. He really is quite a sucker for this piety stuff. Pile it on. The thicker and stinkier the better. Malfus wasn't too invested in staying versus leaving, but thought it was decidedly better facing the gnolls behind a wall of stone with others, than alone out in the wild with this demented zealot.

"My mission remains of utmost importance... but, your words give me pause to think Commander Peshka. I will have to pray to Vesenia for guidance."

Commander Peshka saw his opponent was still reeling from his last hit and pressed his point forward. "If you do decide to leave, at least take the time to lead the men in a prayer Inquisitor. One last prayer to Vesenia to ease their troubled souls, should you go tomorrow."

Damn he's good. He could have been one of the best wine merchants of Akkadia. In another life perhaps. He may be a miserable drunk, but he's damn good at sizing people up. Malfus looked down at his soiled robes, wondering what impression could be gleaned from his own pitiable appearance.

"Yes, Commander Peshka," the Inquisitor sighed, "regardless of my decision tomorrow, I can see to it that I lead the men in a prayer."

"Well, I shant press any further." Commander Peshka said. And there's no need, the seed has been planted, the blow has been struck.

"I daresay though, the thought of seeing an inquisitor in battle stirs some excitement in this old warrior's bones. We've all heard tales of how deadly the Inquisition is with a blade."

"It is true, we are trained in combat from an early age and only a few candidates surv... finish their training. Sharp must be the blades of the righteous." The Inquisitor's hand dropped to his sword hilt. "However, I caution you from putting too much faith in my abilities. I am but one man, just a humble servant of Vesenia, not a worker of miracles."

"Well, having you on our side may not turn the tide of battle single handedly, but it will certainly help with the men's morale. Sometimes it's morale that wins a fight, not the numbers," Commander Peshka took a drink, "then again, sometimes it's just the numbers." He looked over at Malfus. "What about your uh... prisoner there, he any good with a blade?"

Malfus scoffed, having to stop himself from laughing out loud. A sword strapped on a scarecrow would pose a greater threat than me. He must have a fantastic imagination, or truly be more desperate than he already looks. Malfus knew he certainly couldn't have looked the part. He was already a scrawny, spindly specimen even before being chained, half-starved, beaten, and covered in mud. Although, he guessed he didn't look too much worse off than the rest of the soldiers.

The Inquisitor looked at Malfus down the bridge of his nose. "He is too much of a coward for honest combat," he isn't wrong, "he has probably never held a sword a day in his life," just once, but it's not like I knew what to do with the thing, "he is a foul sorcerer. A necromancer." Malfus bowed low, his chains scraping against the stone.

"A sorcerer you say?" Peshka's eyes burned bright like the embers of the logs in the fireplace. "Now that could change things."

"Not just a sorcerer," the sharp cadence of Inquisitor Deza's Castillean accent cut out each syllable like a knife, "a vile necromancer. A spellcaster of the most wretched order, creating unholy perversions of life. Violating Vesenia's divine law."

Commander Peshka smashed his fist onto the table. "I know what a bloody necromancer is dammit! I'm not asking for him to raise an army of the undead. I just want to know if he can drop a fireball or two on top of a bunch of bloody gnolls or not?"

An embarrassing, snivel of a voice squeaked from the room. "Well, nothing quite so crude I'm afraid, but-"

"Absolutely not! He is a prisoner of the holy church. I am taking him to Castillea to be tried for his despicable crimes, I refuse to allow them to be replicated under my watch. He is far too dangerous and untrustworthy besides. Just as likely to turn on us as the monsters at your gates." The Inquisitor and Commander locked eyes, staring at one another for several seconds before either of them spoke.

"We all want to live Inquisitor, even a necromancer I suppose..." Commander Peshka looked back over at Malfus.

"No!" Inquisitor Deza slapped his palm onto the table.

Malfus spoke again, his voice no less snivelly than the first time. "Inquisitor please, if it's as bad as he says it is, then I can help..."

"No!" The back of the Inquisitor's hand shot out in a blur of movement and then Maflus's ears were ringing and his cheek burned. "Silence! And I curse myself for leaving you ungagged." Malfus spat blood on the ground and glowered up at him, his voice dripping with venom. "Yes, Inquisitor..."

Inquisitor Deza rounded on Peshka with the same speed. "Commander Peshka, I will need a room for myself, a stall in the stables for my horse, and a cell for the prisoner. You said you were keeping one of your soldiers under lock and key, correct?" Inquisitor Deza continued before Commander Peshka could respond. "I will store the prisoner there too. I need some time to clean and prepare, then we will discuss strategy Commander Peshka. However, freeing the necromancer is out of the question. He is too dangerous."

Commander Peshka sighed. "Very well Inquisitor... We will trust in your wisdom." Commander Peshka took a deep breath before yelling, "Corporal Farris! Private Morten!"

A side door opened and two young soldiers entered the room, snapping to attention and saluting Commander Peshka. By the gods why are they all so young?

"Men, this is Inquisitor Deza and... his prisoner." The two soldiers looked at the Inquisitor and the chained man warily. "Corporal Farris, escort the Inquisitor to one of the empty rooms in the officer's quarters. Private Morten, take his prisoner to the cells and secure him in an empty one." My very own cell? How wonderful! The harder, darker, and damper the better, as long as it is far away from this bastard.

The soldiers saluted again and then reluctantly approached the Inquisitor, but he raised his black gloved hand, stopping them cold. "Thank you, Commander Peshka. I appreciate you sparing two men. One can take my horse, but I will escort my prisoner with your other man myself." Inquisitor Deza looked at Malfus, his cold gray eyes narrowing ever so slightly. "I must assure the... suitability of the prison cell. He cannot be trusted."

Commander Peshka waved his hand in the air. "Yes, yes, Inquisitor. I believe you've been very outspoken about that. As you wish. Corporal Farris, take his horse to the stables. Private Morten, take the Inquisitor and prisoner to the tower where Private Giles is locked up."

"Yes sir!" The soldiers made their way to the door.

"Once I am assured the prisoner is secured and I have seen to my own needs. I will return to get a more detailed appraisal of the tactical situation and we can discuss what changes in strategy need to be made moving forward."

"I will joyously await your return." Commander Peshka poured himself another drink.