Inns and Invocations

Inns and Invocations

Chapter One

by Blind_Justice

Author's Notes:

This is the beginning of Rhys' second story arc. I hope you've brought some patience, because things will take a chapter or three to gain momentum.

Big thanks to: My lady love for inspiration and criticism in equal measure; fellow author LoquiSordidaAdMe and beta reader Fireball for help and insight; bikoukumori for his editing skills and of course you readers out there, for even bothering with my strange little fantasies.

All people depicted in sexual activities are adults. Also, this story once again will tackle mature themes of tyranny, betrayal, racism, violence and abuse. If you are triggered by this kind of material, leave now.

* * * *

"Second Scout Detachment, Squad Conall reporting in," the weary soldier said, rapping his fist against the golden axes-and-goathead sigil fastened to his black leather breastplate. His two squad mates followed suit, albeit a lot sloppier.

Major Grenthal, bald and sporting a thinning iron-gray chin beard, looked up from his papers. He managed half a smile - the left side of his face failed to cooperate ever since a poisoned Elven arrow had permanently burned and disfigured it.

"Ah, Conall. Back so soon?" The Major examined Conall and his men, his smile vanishing as soon as it had sprung into existence. "Please tell me you have some good news."

Conall saluted again. "The good news, sir, is that we managed to survive a Stalkerite ambush. At least Reece, Liam and I did. The bastards waylaid us on route to staging point A, near the great Hollow Tree. Their arrows took out Roddy and Henrik before we knew what was happening."

Reece bared his teeth. "Once we knew where the blighters were firin' from, we tossed our fire pots their way. Took out their cover and set at least two of them ablaze. We stormed their position where Adrian got himself shiv'd to death but, while he had the Stalkerite's attention, I managed to shiv them right back." He pulled a string from his pocket. Half a dozen elf ears in varying states of decomposition dangled from it. "After that, we managed to rout them proper like."

"You are certain they were Stalkerites?" Grenthal asked.

"Stalkerites, elven rebels, what's the bloody diff'rence?" Liam asked. "We gave them pointy-eared bastards what for and that's good enough for me."

"You 'specially," Reece leered. "Liam 'ere was real thorough interrogatin' that pointy-eared bitch we didn't kill outright. Probed all her cavities real deep."

Conall tried not to scowl. Orders were orders but he hated the zeal with which his men visited all manner of cruelties upon their prisoners.

"We found the usual Stalkerite equipment," Conall said, reclaiming the reins of the debriefing. "Green scarves to cover their faces, matching cloaks and arrows fletched with green feathers. Also, a few phials of their favorite poison." He patted his belt.

Grenthal winced, his hand touching his scarred and lifeless left cheek. "Did the interrogation bear anything noteworthy?"

"Nah, jus' the usual 'death to the despoilers' rhetoric," Liam snarled. "Until we cut her tongue out."

"According to our standing orders, we fell back to camp after the incident," Conall said. "Nothing else to report."

"Nothin' to report my shapely ass," Reece cut in. "Ain't ya forgettin' somethin', Sarge?"

"What is he talking about, Conall?" Granthal asked.

"On our way back to camp we came upon those adventurer-lookin' people, dead in the midst of fuckall," Reece said. "Some skinny lad and one blazin' looker of a dark elven cunt. They sent us on a bloody wild goose chase, they did."

"Yeah, I'm half of a mind to go back out there and have a few choice words with that lass," Liam added, caressing his crotch. "Made us chase a fucking Devourer what wasn't real. Spent three hours pokin' bushes and nearly crapping our pants every time some squirrel rattled the branches."

"If I remember correctly, it was you asking 'What's a Devourer head worth, Sarge?'" Conall said, mustering every bit of his patience. "The boy looked like he was in pain with a mightily busted knee so I did what every honorable soldier should do. I offered to help."

"A quick knife to the throat would have helped more than the pep talk ye gave 'im," Liam snickered. "Stupid waif prolly got eaten by the next hungry beast what happened upon him while we traipsed on our merry way huntin' a Devourer what wasn't there to begin with."

"We made it back to camp after ensuring there was no Devourer in our assigned quadrant," Conall said through gnashed teeth. "End of story, nothing else to report."

Grenthal watched Conall over steepled fingers. "Any idea why a human and a dark elf were collaborating? Did she by any chance wear House Dree'vex colors?"

"That's a solid 'no,' sir," Reece said. "Skin-tight leathers leaving very little room for the imagination and a silver disk dangling 'tween her titties. Moon Maiden, sir."

"Did you at least find out where they were headed?" Grenthal asked.

"Yes, sir." Conall forced himself to stand at attention. His weary bones ached and every fiber of his being yearned for a bath, hot broth and a lifetime of sleep, all things he knew were hard to find in this decaying camp in a forlorn nook of the Elven Woods.

It's just three more months. Then my tour of duty is over and I can go back home, hopefully with a mostly intact body and a fat bag of gold like Lord Carver promised when he hired me.

Aloud he said: "They mentioned the 'Dancing Dryad,' sir."

"Funny thing was," Reece added. "We were at least three days out from the 'Dryad' and that boy looked like he could barely walk more than five paces before floppin' over." He turned to Conall. "I told you they smelled fishy."

"In the end that encounter amounted to nothing but a friendly chat with a wanderer in need," Conall growled. "End of story. No elven conspiracy, no new discoveries in regards to the Dragon Stones. We're here to recover and regroup. I'll be awaiting your new orders tomorrow morning, sir." The sergeant saluted once more, hoping his men would get the hint.

Grenthal leafed through his papers. "Well, I'm glad you suddenly find yourself with three vacancies in your squad. Lord Carver saw fit to bless us with reinforcements. Quite a rowdy bunch this time. Some of them might be scout material, if a firm hand were to mold them properly." He pulled three sheets from his stack and handed them off to Conall. "Says here they know their way around bow and axe already. This 'Stilty' has done some time for poaching, so I guess he'd be a half-decent tracker too. Not a bad bunch, all things considered."

"Thank you, sir." Conall took the papers. The usual recommendation slips written up by Lord Carver's scribes. Name, place of origin, skill set -

most likely embellished

-, former occupation, the lot. And, as usual, a rather lengthy list of crimes. It seems in order to bolster his armies, Lord Carver was intent to pardon every rapist, murderer, poacher and highwayman willing to take up arms in his name.

"All right," Conall said, glancing at the papers. "Reece, you and Liam head over to the mess and find me this... Stilty, along with his pals Stokey and Bokney. Seize a table and get to know the boys. I need to talk to the Major some more."

"That's music to me ears," Reece said, waving his gruesome trophy around. "Am I allowed to order somethin' good to drink? After all, we want to spoil our new brothers in arms a little on their first day on the job, right?"

"Sure, what does it hurt? I'll be with you in a few." Conall waited until his men had left.

"Anything else on your mind, Conall?" Grenthal reached for a new stack of papers, his face half a mask of disgust.

"Sorry to complain, sir," Conall said. "I was hoping there would be some... proper recruits this time. Maybe someone with a military background for once. It can't be that you, me and Lieutenant Orgauth are the only former Guardsmen in the entire Scout Detachment."

Grenthal sighed. "Can't help you there, I'm afraid. All I'm hearing from my contacts back home is that the Four Cities are hiring every mercenary outfit they can get in preparation for the day Lord Carver finally makes his move. That leaves the bottom of the barrel for us. I know you don't like scum like Reece."

"Damn right you are. If I hadn't left the Lordehome Guard, I'd be happily hunting his kind to extinction."

"Well, so the both of us have to deal with unpleasant truths. You're stuck drilling the scum of the earth while I'm stuck behind this desk, sorting papers instead of burying my blade in the guts of our enemies." Grenthal touched a small icon of Desire sitting on his desk. "How long do you have until you're free to leave?"

"Three months, sir. Then it's back to the farm. If there's a farm left, after this miserable year."

"Your village is under Lord Carver's protection. Unless the peasants start trouble, they have nothing to fear."

Conall glanced at the crumpled papers in his fist. "With people of Reece's ilk acting as my family's protectors, finding peace of mind is... hard. Sir."

"All the more reason to make sure Reece won't put any fancies into the new recruit's heads, right? Make me proud, Conall. If anyone can turn this rabble into proper soldiers, it's you."

"Thank you, sir." Conall saluted one last time and left the tent.

* * * *

The base camp was slowly turning from a fortified collection of tents into a proper fortress. The sound of hammers and saws was a constant heartbeat punctuating the shouts of the few drill instructors trying their level best to shape criminals and farm lads alike into proper soldiers. Conall spotted some carts piled high with lumber and granite blocks, waiting to be turned into even sturdier buildings or fortifications.

Seems like this little expedition is about to become a lot more permanent,

Conall thought as he hurried through the aisles, looking for a particular shack. The smoke curling from its fieldstone chimney was laced with unsettling colors, purples and greens.

He knocked and entered.

The smell of exotic herbs and strange concoctions assaulted his nose instantly. Something in the air seemed to crawl down his spine, between his butt cracks and back up the front, causing a sudden and rather unwelcome stirring in his crotch.

"Ah, Conall. How are you this fine afternoon?" A slender dark elven male turned away from a bizarre apparatus, some gleaming insect-like contraption made of crystals, glass and metal tubes sitting at weird angles atop a fireproof table. He sported an eccentric face tattoo, three acid-green wedges on each cheek, points towards his mouth. Contrary to most elves, dark or otherwise, this particular man had his hair shaved down to an icy fuzz. His ears seemed that much larger for it, with pronounced, flaring tips. Conall couldn't help himself - whenever he saw Phentar, he felt reminded of some bat-like abomination.

"What hellish mixture are you cooking up this time?" Conall asked, not unfriendly. "Are you sure an aphrodisiac is a wise choice in a kennel such as ours?"

"Well, I did drop a phial of Ecstasy Ephemera meant for my cousins back home. I'm sure if Lilith were here, she'd do unspeakable things to my ass for that, but thankfully she's Below and I'm up here, providing alchemical services for the fine men under Grenthal's command. As for this," he pointed at the apparatus devouring his work bench, "I'm working on something to help you long-range scouts stay awake and warm. It's going to be one hellish winter, even under the ancient trees."

"Just make sure it turns out better than your last attempt at a combat drug. We don't want any more... colorful mutations, you hear?"

"Well, I thought orange went particularly well with your black-and-gold attire." Phentar snickered. "What's on your mind today? The usual?"

Conall pulled three phials containing the Stalkerite poison from his belt. "If you could get it done by tomorrow morning, I'd be in your debt."

"No problem," the dark elven alchemist said. "The antidote should be done by the time you're leaving for your next patrol." Phentar claimed the phials, placing two on his work bench. The third vanished somewhere on his person. "Did you find anything else?"

"Your mysterious Moon Maiden cleric is indeed out there," Conall said. "We met her two days ago."

Phentar sighed. "If you could do me a solid and kill that bitch the next time you 'meet' her, my gratitude would know no bounds. Drugs, company, whatever luxuries House Dree'vex can provide. You know what Moon Maiden believers do to our couriers?"

"I don't know how your kind wages war but my orders were to gather information in regards to the Dragon Stone, not murder every wanderer I come across. Maybe you should ask your Matron Mother to set up a permanent portal so your couriers don't have to walk all the way from Below."

Phentar chuckled. "Setting up such a portal would cost more than this whole damn operation's worth. Jhaless is a crazy, murderous bitch but she ain't that crazy." He shrugged. "Well, if you see Miss Moon Maiden again, put an axe in her face. For me?"

"

If

we meet again and

if

she acts hostile." Conall turned to leave. "I'll see you tomorrow."

After visiting the alchemist, Conall lined up at one of the wells. Even if a full-on bath was out of the question at the moment, he could at least wash the grime of his latest patrol away. When it was his turn, he hauled up a bucket full of water and removed his helmet, armor and shirt for a quick rinse. In the light of the low December sun, his reflection looked back at him from the bucket. His once lustrous chestnut hair was streaked through with gray, his eyes sat deep in their sockets and he looked so incredibly

tired.

The ice-cold water chased the worst of his fatigue away and with what felt like half a ton of mud and grime washed off, he made his way to the far end of the camp, his helmet tucked into the nook of his elbow.

The mess still was one large pavilion tent, easy to replace or remove entirely in the hot summer months. In the midst was a big fireplace, surrounded by a circular bar. Cooks worked like men possessed, cutting ingredients and chucking them into large bronze pots filled with what went for "stew" around these parts. It was hot and supposedly had veggies and meat in it but the taste was unidentifiable. The best thing they served was bread but only because it didn't carry a vague taste of something long dead and burnt with it.

Arranged in neat rows were long tables cut from halved tree trunks where most of the rank-and-file took their meals. Tables had been crammed into the corner, along with a few stools and here the senior commanders and their hangers-on had a place to rest. Conall heard Reece's goat-like laughter before he saw the man, wildly gesticulating and slapping his chest. Stilty, Bokney and Stokey, the newest additions to his squad, had been given fresh sets of black-and-gold uniforms, along with bows, axes, gauntlets and shin plates. But no matter the uniform, they looked, talked and moved like the criminals they had been until a week or so ago.

Stokey seemed like a taut bowstring, hand on his weapon and eyes on every exit, ready to bolt at the slightest upset. Bokney, with a ghastly scar running down his bald temple and vanishing down his neck, sat like an immobile rock, the only movement his grinding jaw and darting eyes fixed on the few women who hadn't fled the camp by now. Stilty wore an eye patch with an embroidered heart on it, his long hair icy white and bound in a tight braid. His mouth had a cruel twist to it, marring an otherwise handsome face.

Conall sighed and joined his men at the table. "Last I checked, invalids are not allowed to join the military," he said, moving a stool towards the table with a casual nudge of his boot. "How are you going to snipe with a bow with just one eye?"

Stilty looked at him. His remaining eye was of an unsettling purple, confirming the half-elven ancestry Conall had suspected.

"I passed every test with flying colors," the half-elf said calmly, his voice barely audible over the roar of the mess tent. "Including the archery range, with targets at twenty-five, fifty, a hundred and two hundred paces."

"Ya might be a better shot than Sarge himself," Reece said, grinning. "That one of the perks of being half a tree hugger yerself?"

"If you want to put it that way... yes, it's part of my cursed ancestry," Stilty said. "Never had any formal training but put a bow in my hand and I'll make the shot."

"Oi, there's a wager right there," Liam said. "See the racks in the kitchen over there? I bet you can't hit the Abessini pepper shaker, the red one, from here."

Before Conall could even open his mouth to remind his men that using weapons inside the camp was forbidden, Stilty had grasped his bow, nocked an arrow and let fly. The missile hissed past Conall's head and a moment later, there was the sound of vicious sneezing and coughing, accompanied by the screams for the head of the idiot who'd destroyed a valuable spice box.

"What did I win?" Stilty asked, sitting down again.

"If it were for me, three days in the brig and a good lashing on top," Conall said. "You could have hurt someone."

"I wouldn't and I didn't," Stilty said. Turning to Liam, he added. "Well, since you didn't say anything specific, I'll name my price thusly. You and I will enter a tent later this evening and we're only leaving once you've thoroughly pleasured me."

Reece brayed with laughter at Liam's surprised face. "That's what you get for foolishly throwin' wagers around. I hope you like your ass drilled. Say, Stilty, can I watch?"

"No one gets his ass drilled tonight," Conall said, taking a platter with stew bowls off a passing server. "After we've had our bowl of grub, the six of us will head out for a wee bit of sparring. One trick shot isn't enough to convince me of your qualifications, so we'll go through a few routines. Afterwards it's lights out. We leave tomorrow at dawn. And Mercy protect you if any of you slobs isn't up for fifteen miles of hard march."

* * * *

"Here you are," Phentar said while neatly lining up half a dozen phials on his counter. "My special antidote, adapted to take the edge off that Stalkerite poison. Depending if you drink half a vial-"

"I know, I know," Conall said, taking a phial and lacing it to his belt. "Half a phial in the morning to diminish the effects of any toxin, a full bottle to completely nullify it." The others went into his pack. "No idea when I'll have the chance to restock, so I'd better make every drop count."

"You know, I could commission a Ring of Nullify Poison back home," Phentar said. "On the house even."

"Oh?" Conall stopped halfway to the door. "A custom magic item... isn't that horribly expensive?"

"Nothing is too good for the few people who treat me with a modicum of respect," the dark elf said, grinning. "Also, remember the favor I mentioned yesterday? Bring me the head and holy symbol of that Moon Maiden maniac and the ring shall be yours when you return."

Conall sighed. "So much for 'on the house,' you sly bat. As much as I appreciate the offer, even a ring to take my mind off the ever-present threat of deadly poison won't turn me into a murderer for hire."

"One could say you became one when you offered your sword arm for cold, hard coin," the alchemist said.

Conall turned around and strode back to the counter, fixing Phentar with a long, hard look. "Being a soldier and being a hired killer are two very different things. I fight other soldiers while the assassin does not care who his targets are."

"I wouldn't call most Stalkerites 'soldiers,'" Phentar argued. "Most of them are civilians who are - admittedly - very good archers. The Stalker doesn't have an organized army, only a clergy."