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The Bonds

That Bind Us

By Corey Blankenship

The farm boy wore a thick layer of sweat. Mud crusted his boots,

bored under his fingernails, and tanned the frayed hem of his pants. The spring never looked

more inviting to the farm boy than after a full day of plowing and seeding the first rows of his

father's thirty acres. The lad began to remove his tunic before diving in...

"Ah, better leave him be."

The morning exercise was over. Alastar enjoyed watching the lives of common people,

and such probes into the sheet of shimmering water also refreshed him to do more taxing

divinations. Without such lighter studies, he would wear down the most precious tool he

had: his mind. As the only person to survive the transition across the Veil, Alastar was the

Order's sole eyes on the other side of the Well of Time’s domain.

The water’s cascade misted his dormitory-sized grotto, thin tendrils of milky air rising

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from the pool of liquid that consumed the bulk of the space. Pillars jutted up from the

pool’s center, forming a tiered landing where Alastar could sit and gaze into the falling,

glittering wall of water. When not there, he would immerse himself in the brisk depths of

the pool. Alastar would descend through the luminescent water, its azure tint focusing the

brilliance of his iridescent scales, to the rocky bottom below: his stone quarry.

He eyed the square slate before him. Thirty two figures stood frozen on the flat

surface. Half of them lurked in a coarse midnight, their shapes vaguely discernable upon

the smooth stone. "Who shall probe this malady's heart...?” The chant of the water did not

say. Turning from the board, the oracle focused two sapphire eyes on the fluid barrier. His

glow faded into the whisper of a candle as clouds welled in the twin orbs. Then, the storm

broke into a center of clarity as he returned to the array upon the rock. His eyes latched

onto a single piece resting dormant behind a row of pawns. A hazy grey drifted around the

crudely shaped horse's head. Stretching out with his will as much as his hand, Alastar

dropped his psyche into the aspect of the knight before him, rustling through shadows and

phantasmal matter to the sleeping form hidden in the Deep Ethereal. The bond lasts long

enough for him to utter a single phrase, "Tenet, a shadow is coming..."

The oracle then turned his sight to a white chess piece - a bishop, crafted lovingly

from seashells. Alastar began to turn the piece over in his hands, reaching out with his

mind to the waters beyond and below Crown. He knew this piece well, for the blood of the

alônn ran through Alastar’s veins, too; he knew that this piece would be ready and willing

to serve, unlike so many of their brethren. Calling out with his mind, the oracle stuck the

seashell-formed piece into his pool, piercing the water’s surface with the bishop’s mitre.

Dark liquid spiraled from the point, as if Alastar had drawn blood from the water’s surface

itself. Nodding, the oracle whispered, “It is coming.”

Now, if only Alastar's rook could be located so easily...

Moss drippedMoss drippedMoss drippedMoss dripped from drooping jaws. Better than brick-hard

loaves and stagnant moat water, fungus had become a staple of the oltreggan's diet. He

reached up a mammoth hand to redirect the olive juice back into his cracked lips. Seven

days a week he repeated the same process: sleep, eat, and sleep again. The guards didn't

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show any leniency toward the muscular creature after the second day of his imprisonment.

Though the swarthy oltreggan had been dumped here for his lack of finances, other

prisoners sought to jibe the smelly brute at the main mess hall. That is, until he proceeded

to yank up the whole lot into the air, hurling their wiry frames against the stone walls and

hardwood tables. The guards had to call in a mage, who ensorcelled the wailing barbarian

before he killed the entire chain-gang bunch.

Now imprisoned in his double-barred cell, the oltreggan wasted his astounding

physique, his revelry for adventure dampened by the dank hole and inactivity. "Gritgut hate

diz place."

"As ye should, ye mound o’ blubbering garbage."

Gritgut glared at the callous guard, tendons snapping taut in his throat. He no longer

lunged at the bars, swiping with his powerful hands in vain. The desire to squash the cruel,

wiry sentry hadn't vanished; rather, the restraint to act had only condensed the barbarian's

rage.

Giff me un shot 'n he'd be pok'n jibs at ze 'rats.

Guessing the savage’s thoughts, the guard leaned near the bars and spat out, "Eh, a

plague ‘pon ya, ye overgrown piss pot. Ya ain't no better than them wererats: rot-hide sewer

suckers what foul th’ bodies of goodly folk.” The guard was close enough that Gritgut could

smell his breath: a vile combo of cheap whiskey and smoked sausage. Too close. Femur-

sized finger bones leading the way, Gritgut unleashed his fury upon the mangy sentry's

gullet, shattering the stunned jailer's jaw and larynx in a single swipe.

"Now dee rats’ll git u."

Gritgut only lamented that the body, and the jailer's keys, had fallen out of reach

once more. How many guards would it take until he was free?

A muchA muchA muchA much fatter jailer spun the oiled lock open, eyeing the oltreggan with a

gruff indifference. "Don't know what friar hooted yer name, but ye'r free. Now, get outa me

cell!"

Rubbing his sore haunches, the bite of an iron-shod whip still cursing his

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indomitable nature, Gritgut leaned forward to squeeze through the slim seven-foot

entryway. Few men could stand next to him for long without growing uneasy, but the jailer

merely shrugged and walked away, leading the gruff inmate down the shadowy corridor.

The passage slid through the rock walls in a meandering fashion, more confusing due to ill

maintenance than design. When the pair reached the oak door, its iron bolts withdrawn,

the wispy watchman began tugging at the frame. Gritgut placed two fingers in the crack

and lightly slid the barrier wide, generating a sigh of relief from the weary guard. "Thank

ye."

The oltreggan shrugged. "Me freed faster tha way."

The plump jailer chuckled heartily as the wiry lad turned bright red, glaring as the

brute ambled by him. Gritgut breathed in the open air and stretched his long-cramped

limbs. Freee... At that moment, he noticed the diminutive man in navy robes. The figure

seemed to hesitate before moving nearer to the massive oltreggan.

“Greetings. You must be Gritgut. Many call me Jerrin. Follow me; your master has

orders for you."

"Me master?” Gritgut hadn't heard from his Whispering Lord in a long time, not since

the Voice had led him to becoming a ship's mate.

"Ah, he'll speak with you shortly. As for now, follow me."

The duo wound through the sun-swept streets of the Old Temple Ward, Gritgut’s

bootless feet slapping loudly against the smooth cobble. He barely ducked beneath a sign of

a weeping woman, her eyes filled with omen: the well-known signpost for The Prophet's

Tears. Gritgut wondered why the lady-in-the-sign looked so sad, but he continued following

Jerrin through the massive structures of the Ward and into the alleys of the Flats. Gritgut

eagerly sunk his feet into the muck, savoring the sensation of grime running between his

toes; too long had stone bruised his heel! The other man enjoyed the sludge far less, eyeing

his stained robe with disdain.

Soon, they rounded into an open expanse of stagnant water, brown from refuse and

silt. Rickety spans of lumber connected the stilted buildings around the river’s edge; they

were lifelines of the river-delta community. Gritgut's guide turned toward the left and

headed for a spire of blue stone. The oltreggan had not ventured into this part of the Flats

often, but anyone who’d ever spent a day or more in Crown knew of the Moontower, harbor

for the infirm.

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"Me no sick!" the oltreggan cried in alarm, fearing an examination - which would

probably include a bath - was somewhere in his immediate future.

Stifling hisStifling hisStifling hisStifling his mirth, Jerrin paused at the base of the steps. "Your

master merely requests you come here. He wanted you to know the way."

"Na hurd ta feend dat glowee towur."

Smiling, Jerrin replied, "Ah, but he had to make sure. Come in, and I'm sure your

orders will be swiftly delivered."

Gritgut eyed the soaring staircase inside the Moontower with a sense of dread. Its

swirling, fluted shape, coupled with an odd sapphire glow that permeated the air, made his

stomach twist. He had never been apt at balancing, so the prospect of careening many feet

to a shameful death sparked his ever-ready anger. Thankfully, a familiar, small voice near

his ear rendered such a feat unnecessary.

"Greetings, my friend. Glad you made it safely from prison; I hope your stay wasn't

too rough."

Despite the relief to again hear his master's soft and confident voice, Gritgut

bellowed, "Yu leve mez! Iez du wha ye seez, n’yu leve'd mez!"

"Calm down!” the invisible liege snapped. Then, once more, in a relaxed tone, "Calm

down. I had to ensure you were...otherwise pre-occupied. You will suffer no more ill

treatment from me. Find Tenet, the Spymaster; he'll be injured and alone by the time you

make it into the tunnels below the Market Ward. Bring him here as safely as you can."

Gritgut tried to piece the string of separate conversations together. Thoroughly

confused, except for the fact that he was to find Tenet, the oltreggan asked. "Uh,

Shiny...wharze meh gu t’ feend 'em?"

"Head for the Market Ward; your path will become clear from there."

Shrugging his shoulders, Gritgut turned and headed back into the murky realm of

the Mud Flats.

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Dropping throughDropping throughDropping throughDropping through the broken Market Ward sewer

grate after the wererats, Gritgut peered into the darkness around him. Why Shiny had said

to follow the small, hairy beasts, the brawny brute didn’t know, but follow he did. The

oltreggan's primal instincts kicked in as his eyes dropped into the nocturnal spectrum,

illuminating the black world with shades of grey. The semicircle tunnels veered around two

bends, cutting his view short. However, he heard the squeaky whispers of the troop as they

continued down the right-hand passage. Sloshing after them, Gritgut slapped his bare foot

against something hard and cold. "A plague ‘pon ya!” he railed at the lumpy object, which

he discovered was a cracked chamber pot. Alarm swept through the ratfolks' voices as the

squad whirled to see the looming specter of the oltreggan. Crossbow bolts sailed past the

lumbering brute, a razor tip nicking his shoulder. Realizing he was under attack, Gritgut

bared his teeth and charged the lot, chamber pot in one hand.

The wooden bowl splintered with the skull of the closest rat, while his left hand

compacted another's head into its chest. The third and fourth attempted to flank the

barbarian, only to find themselves in symmetrical death grips. A juicy pop signaled their

breathless demise before silence returned to the darkened tunnels. Mindlessly toting the

broken forms, Gritgut continued down the tunnel, attempting to whistle some sea chantey.

He was happy to be free.

Gritgut scratched his head with his free hand, the other idly holding the crushed

remains of two wererats.

Wheres me go frum heer?

Shrugging, he squatted in the sludge and popped a flask from the belt of one of the

corpses. He hadn’t tasted ale in many a day, so the bitter nip and budding warmth were a

refreshing experience to the liberated barbarian. He could’ve sat there and drank down the

other’s wineskin as well, but at that moment, a familiar voice chimed in his ear.

“Drinks can wait. Another will perish if you do not make haste. Just follo—“

The rest was drowned out in a thunderous expulsion of alcohol-laced wind. Gritgut

wiped the residue of the belch from his lips and chuckled, “Meesh surrey, Shiny. Dezz gud

dreenk. Wahzz youz wants me ta do?”

Though the oltreggan couldn’t see it, Alastar shook his head. Sighing, the invisible

leader decided ethics were another topic that had to wait. “Just follow your nose. The rest

will be made plain.”

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