Interim Growth

Wisdom has increased by 5 points.

Strength has increased by 2 points.

Agility has increased by 3 points.

Endurance has increased by 2 points.

Dexterity has increased by 3 points.

None cared to give the group of twelve a second look as they rode into camp. Hundreds of tents of blue and purple sat amidst a morning fog, the camp's inhabitants like ghosts as they performed their duties.

Bleary eyed and yawning, Alden slumped forward in his saddle, paying little mind to anything but the path of his horse.

It had taken them days to find news of the camp again, and days more to find their trail. In better times he would have felt relief, perhaps even joy at the thought of his future prospects. He had completed his mission, after all. A great success. Yet at the moment, Alden only felt a sense of unexplainable consternation.

A holy day, today marked the final day of the fourth month of the Imperial Calendar, in honor of the God Quenha, the God of Growth. Fitting such a day, the devout followers of Quenha could be clearly seen traversing the camp in their gold and green gowns, offering prayers and well wishes. And, of course, receiving tithes from those less devout than themselves. None went against the demands of the Gods of the Council or their priests, after all.

Except for Alden, it seemed. Twice he refused to tithe the priests who approached him, and twice they and those around them had given him strange looks, as if they were seeing a wild animal in human clothing. Alden merely shrugged and rode along the path toward the center of the camp. They were not his Gods.

He found his men on guard as they traveled to the center of the camp. Beside the religious fervor that permeated the camp was a dark tension, the common jovial mirth one expected of soldiers having long since disappeared. The tension was (as one found when looking upon the dour, dirt stained grimaces of the Drygallis soldiers) seemingly close to a breaking point, ready to engulf them all in some unspeakable danger.

Whatever it was, Alden had only wished it had come on a week later, or perhaps two. All-Maker would be ready once more and his head swirled with half-baked ideas fighting to become reality. Now he could only hope he could manage without it, for the time being.

Commander Dhatri’s tent, which had first belonged to the late Baron Kent, sat as a mountain among hills. Counting ten knights surrounding the perimeter of its entrance, as well as some fifty or more armed and armored common career soldiers, it had become the closest thing to a fortress as could be managed in a mobile camp.

Saluting, Alden requested the Commander’s presence then, after some minutes of waiting, entered the tent.

Clerks and scribes and mages littered the interior, pouring over a bounty of scrolls and tomes, the weathered papers therein crinkling as pages were turned and words were scrawled on parchment anew. At the center sat Commander Dhatri.

Dhatri gave him a cursory glance, returned his eyes to the paper before him.

“Who is she?” he asked.

Amice had entered with him; the others had remained outside, nervous. He didn’t blame them.

“This is Amice Witchester, sir. I’ve convinced her to defect.”

Commander Dhatri continued to read his papers for a long moment that seemed to stretch for hours. Finally he put the paper aside, stood, and rounded the table, observing this new variable known as Amice. There were times when Alden felt the man could, in a literal sense, see through the lies of others. Now was such a moment.

“You are Amice Witchester?” he asked her.

“Yes,” she replied, curt.

“And you wish to defect?”

“Yes. I have no qualms about killing Hilvan soldiers, if that is your question. I have done so already, to prove my loyalty.”

Dhatri looked at Alden. Alden nodded. “It is the truth, sir.”

“Give me the details.”

He recounted his ventures, of coming across the village, killing the men, the ambush on Amice and her men, his imprisonment. The betrayal of his men. He left out only some important things. Cultivation, for one. The peryton was another thing he left out. He was uncertain how others would react to the creature, and so he had ordered it to stay a good distance from the camp. Not that the beast would travel far—its injuries had not yet fully healed. Only enough for it to live.

The Commander gave him a suspicious look. He had noticed Alden’s admissions, it seemed, but pressed Alden no further. He turned away, went back to his seat. Leafing through his papers, he pulled one out, glanced over its contents, then set his attention on Amice.

“Whether or not I believe you, it is standard practice to imprison defectors such as yourself,” Dhatri said. Alden did not protest, as much as he would have liked to. He had expected it. It was what he would have done. “You will be treated well, will have personal quarters with all amenities one can expect such as food and water, clean clothes, books, and the like.

“But, as per the law, you will be required to remain in your quarters at all times. You will be kept at Fort Dolansgrove, under the command of Commander Sigebert. You will have several guards stationed near your quarters at all times, and speaking with anyone other than myself, Sigebert, or anyone either of us allow you to will be forbidden. Am I understood?”

“Yes,” Amice said.

“Then I will have a group of knights assigned to transport you to Dolansgrove. At this very moment, if that is acceptable.”

Alden looked at her. It was too soon, too abrupt. Yet, despite the reflection of his feelings he saw in her, he also saw the necessity of the situation. Laws were laws, and Dhatri, above all, was not one to break them.

She nodded to him, gave him a look that said I understand. It would have to be enough.

After Amice had been escorted away Dhatri congratulated him, then explained the details of his reward, his tone overly professional throughout. He was suspicious of what had transpired, that much was clear. Understandable. And unfortunate. Dhatri was not a good enemy to have.

Land ownership was, by all accounts, the first step toward wealth, and with it the nightmare of bureaucracy. Alden now could, had he had the wealth, purchase land to do with as he saw fit, from farming to mining to building. Any incomes derived from said land would be his own, minus a percentage of tax. Financial records were a requirement, it seemed, even for the illiterate.

He would be able to purchase land in any territory of the Drygallis Empire, including vassals (and excepting Hilva, at least for the time being), and the tax rate would be dependent on the location of the land (Titemore being a modest ten percent of all incomes). That was, of course, discounting the Imperial Business Tax, which sat at five percent for businesses and would be in addition to any local tax incurred.

This was all assuming, of course, that Alden could afford to own land in the first place. Even a small building in most cities was worth over some twelve-hundred impera, almost his entire fortune. To then make use of the building would cost even more. Business was not to be trifled with without preparation.

Finishing his explanation, Dhatri handed him a piece of parchment.

“A new mission, I take it?” he asked.

“Yes, though optional, as your last assignment was.”

“I had intended to take a short leave of absence, sir, as we’d discussed before. To see Doctor Elmswood.”

Silently, Dhatri sucked in a noticeable breath, looked away. “It pains me to say this, Alden, especially after what you’ve done.” He paused. “But that isn’t possible. I can’t give you leave, and even if I could, it wouldn’t amount to anything. Regrowing limbs… well, frankly, it just isn’t possible with magic.”

Heart beating in his ears, Alden steadied himself as his legs weakened, barely keeping himself upright. That couldn’t be, he thought. Surely that wasn’t true.

But, he found, there was no sense of denial in him. He understood implicitly what what had heard was the truth, had perhaps expected. Healing did, after all, require knowledge on top of mana. But to regrow a missing limb, including all the tiny bones and tendons and ligaments of the hand? Merely healing cuts and scrapes could drain a healer dry.

“I understand,” he said, trying to hide his disappointment, failing.

Supportive, Dhatri offered words of kindness. Words Alden could barely hear behind the hard, bitter anger swelling inside of him.

“I can postpone our talk a day or two, if you’d prefer. Let you come to terms with it all,” Dhatri said.

“No, we can do it now. Better to keep my mind on something else.”

Alden unfolded the paper, pushing back his anger. Short, the clean lettering of the page detailed a series of events. Events that made Alden’s stomach sink.

Quest Created

Ensure the safety of Titemore supply lines.

Requirements: Kill the Hilvans responsible for attacking the supply lines.

Reward: 8,000xp, 10 bonus points to Strength.

Advanced Requirements: Kill the Hilvans responsible for attacking the supply lines & capture their leader.

Reward: 10,000xp, 10 bonus points to Strength, 5 bonus points to Charisma.

Alden glanced over the blue screen, then the parchment. Small rewards for what would not be a simple task, if the reports were true.

Over fifty Hilvans were gallivanting about Titemore and raiding villages, caravans, and lumber alike, stealing what they could carry and torching the rest. Alden wouldn’t even be the first assigned to kill them either, it seemed. The last group had numbered over a hundred men, having set out shortly after Alden’s quest for Amice had begun, only to be found dead a week later.

Mage’s work, he suspected, though the report was short on the necessities. The only detail was that the Hilvans, once chased, would soon disappear.

“How many more men will I be getting?” Alden asked.

“Fifty.” The word hit him like a wall. How could that be? It didn’t make sense. A hundred men had already gone and perished, and now he was receiving half that number.

“Fifty?” he repeated.

“Correct. I can’t spare the men. Trust me when I say I very much would like to.”

“Why?” he asked, regretting it immediately. Too close to sounding like a challenge of the orders he’d been given. Worth five lashings, had Dhatri cared to give them.

Thankfully, the Commander was understanding.

With a sigh, Dhatri sat and rubbed his temples, and for the first time Alden could see the tired man that he was. Always clean, always professional, Dhatri had always been more of a statue than a man. Seeing otherwise made Alden feel oddly numb.

“Orders from above,” the Commander said. Odd. Commanders were, by and large, left to their own discretion in the field, excepting when a noble accompanied them as Kent had done. But Kent was dead, and Sylvana would not have left the comfort of her manor.

The question was who, then?

He did not ask. It would be improper, reprimandable. He had already stepped out of line once, been forgiven. He would not be forgiven a second time.

Instead he said “I understand.”

“Good,” Dhatri replied. “In any case, I imagine you can handle it, considering your past feats.”

He heard the tent flap flutter behind him, along with the clinking sound of armor and, strangely, a sense for who had just arrived. Turning, he saw that he was correct.

Peren and Frenna stood as impressive as always, Peren with his standard grimace and Frenna with her sly, easy smile. Opposites, in a manner.

“See you’ve made it back in one piece,” Frenna said. A twinge of anger flashed through him at her words—cruel jest or not, they served only as a reminder for his misfortune.

Frenna, however, was unbothered, his rage unnoticed.

The two passed him by, saluted Dhatri.

“You wanted us, sir?” Peren asked.

“I did. There’s been a change in plans, and you two will need to be debriefed. Before that, however, there’s a new knight candidate I’d like you two to test out, assuming he’s willing.”

“Who?” Frenna asked.

“Why, our friend right behind you.”

The two knights turned and Alden went cold.