Bowhunter – Chapter 4

The Mane, Huzken (The Venom State), City Capital Lajo – Typhon Resurgence, Day 15

Despite the disaster that was the culling contract in Vrenki, it was good to be back home, Fergus thought.

For one thing they had made a small fortune, not a king’s ransom, but perhaps a knight’s, selling off the painting Kelby had decided would do for a bonus. Naturally Kelby had known exactly where to go to convert such a treasure into currency; another dwarf, as antiquated in her appearance as the relics surrounding her, hidden away in a minor city they had passed through.

Sometimes Fergus thought that being a dwarf was more like being a member of a secret society.

Minor riches aside, returning home was a chance to clear one’s head and recuperate. More calls for culling, or hunting would come in, and no doubt there would be something among them to pique Fergus’ interest.

Fergus had been in the Foresters Guild since he was fourteen, twenty-five years. He had been in every country along the eastern edge of The Mane, every country in The Sigel with the exceptions of Maytoni and Xellcarr. He had even worked in the over-hang of Crown states too. Despite the beautiful environments, and cultures he had experienced, Fergus needed grounding; somewhere to come back to, to rest, and disconnect from the work as much as be loved it. Home.

Towering over the group were monolithic trees, dark grey and brown barks dressed – or strangled – in vivid ivy and vines. Torrents of brightly coloured flowers, plants and shrubs rose up between the giants, writhing and flourishing in an order lost to Fergus. It was as if Nature had just poured flora down over the forest to fill in the gaps between the trees.

As they lounged in the rear of a horse-cart, Niva was pleased with herself, as she had been for the whole return journey. Most of their work involved bows, and sometimes Kelby’s blunderbuss. Getting to draw both ancestral hunting and take on a werewolf had her feeling like a champion out of myth. For now, Niva was playing a slow melody on her pipe as the fatigue from journeying held fast on the group. The notes produced pattered over all four of them like a fine, cooling mist. Of course, it always unnerved Fergus just a tad that this whistle of Niva’s had been hewn from a leg bone of a late uncle of hers.

Lenush was quiet as usual, and on their return, home had been avoiding any social interaction with anyone who wasn’t a member of their hunting quartet. It gave a false impression of a morose nature, an assumption exacerbated by her long history of hunting all species and sub-species of undead, when in reality, she was just shy.

“Did you see the other foresters back in the tavern?” Kelby said, not one for staying silent for any length of time. Much like a whale had to come up for air, dwarves just had to say something eventually.

He was sat, legs spread, with his blunderbuss, Ma’s Temper, across his affluent belly. For a figure from a people who are often stood upon champions podium of art, philosophy, science, and theology, Kelby wasn’t afraid to be thought of as uncouth. In fact, that was typical of most dwarves.

It stirred Fergus from the sights of towering trees building a corridor along their route. He had briefly noted the larger than normal number of foresters, though the notion had slipped quickly from his mind. Thinking about it again, it seemed odd to see so many – not that he recognised any of them personally.

“It didn’t sit well with me,” Lenush said, shifting her sitting position. “That many in one place. I think Mister Pentronius is trying to bring in as many members as possible. We’re not the only one’s heading back to the lodge I think.”

“Gods,” Kelby groaned. “Gods and their Tongs and Hammers. I bet some dafty has had to resign from on high, and now we need another bloody EGM.”

“If that’s the case, why weren’t we messaged?” Lenush said, hopeful.

“Because I was stupid enough to send a message to Mister Pentronius, telling him that we were on our way back,” Fergus confessed, rubbing his face, and groaning.

“Daft eejit!” Kelby leaned across and began swatting at Fergus. “Why is it some twat does somethin’ stupid and has to jump, that we the members of the guild ‘ave to suffer too?”

Fergus smirked, then sighed. “I hope whoever went did so with dishonour. If we have to attending a friggin’ EGM as soon as we’re back, it better be because someone was ousted-”

“Resigned to pursue other opportunities,” Kelby corrected.

“Was resigned because they were found off their face on ripple mushrooms and were using the grand canvas of Selliofan as a trampoline.”

“Anything we can get a good laugh out of at least,” Niva added, having stopped her playing. “I’m bringing booze in with me this time. I’ll start throwing digs if anyone tries to stop me. I mean what else are we supposed to do during an EGM?”

“Threaten to bite ‘em,” Kelby snarked, cackling. Niva’s leg sprang out and cracked the dwarf between his open legs, nearly sending Kelby bouncing out of the cart. Despite the aggression, Kelby was one a few who could get away with making jibes at Niva’s cultural heritage. Dwarves were always testing the limits of danger. In fact, Kelby’s family coat of arms held the image of a dwarf prodding a dragon with a staff.

“I use the time to sharpen arrow piles, make notes and stuff,” Lenush added, rubbing her eyes at the prospect of another EGM. “I want to make an entry about our wolf encounter, just in case.” She looked to Fergus. “You never know.”

A former Fang-Slayer, Lenush left that particular fraternity due to its extremist ideologies, but not before garnering significant experience hunting vampires of all kinds. Then it was onto join the Scalpers, the hardline undead hunters, through which she excelled for some time. In an organisation like the Scalpers, to do well was to survive more than two years, to excel was something only a very few knew. And Lenush did so, at least until getting the boot for selling various ‘reclaimed’ materials on the sly.

“I’ll bring the cards, if you can organise the drink, Niva,” Kelby continued, pulling his legs in to shield himself.

“I think I might just sleep through it. If you get your head at the right angle, and keep a notebook on your lap, it just looks like you’re taking notes,” Fergus said, looking back out at the passing greenery, flecked and cut through by many colours of an alarming bright hue.

Huzken was known across the whole of the southern Mane, and across the ocean and upon even The Sigel, as The Venom State.

Three quarters of the state was jungle, or rainforest, spilling over with countless toxic and poisonous flora. Even the bark upon the trees was lethal, and the soil often caustic. As for the wildlife, just about every serpent, insect, and arachnid could kill a centaur outright with a single bite or sting. Spider webs were lined with poison, and even the honey produced by the numerous bee species was laced with toxins – some known to be much fun. Birds of paradise ordained in dizzying colours held poison upon the barbs of their wings too. Conversely, the many other species of non-venomous animals such as the big cats, wild pigs, other birds, deer, vermin, and primates possessed great immunities against the local poisons and venoms.

As much a danger as the state was, it was also viewed by many as a limitless trove of medicine and, naturally, riches. If a high-profile figure anywhere in Anordaithe was felled by poison, the first-place people looked to was Huzken. Cures for many diseases had seen their origins from flora here, and anti-venoms to subdue some of the most lethally venomous creatures across Anordaithe where distilled from animals found within the brush of The Venom State. For every danger, there was hope too.

Each time Fergus made the journey home, regardless of the direction, the moment he was enveloped within the muggy humidity beneath the gloomy canopies, he was reminded of his youth, and frankly, the stupid things he used to get up to in a world where most everything had developed to kill a person.

The tradition of archers loosing arrows far into the jungle, to then go in search of them, and try to return unscathed, still held – despite a few yearly fatalities. Archers would be required to build an exquisite arrow, not simply an apex in terms of its physical attributes, but a work of art too, before launching it as far as they could into the dangerous wilds of Huzken. Then they would have to retrieve it. The scoring system took into consideration the length of time spent searching, the severity of the wounds received, bonus points for finding someone else’s abandoned arrow, and of course, if they did indeed find their arrow and the condition it is in.

It had originally begun as a rite of passage, perhaps more than a millennium ago even, as a way for a child of Huzken – or Hustnek as it was previously known, pre-colonisation – to become an adult. To prove that they could survive and function within the lethal world Nature had chosen to place them in.

But a more modern variation of this sport, or rite of passage, involved would-be suiters presenting their adorned arrows to whomever it was they desired. This potential love of theirs would then loose the arrow deep into the dangers of the jungle, and should the suiter return with the arrows, then they would be granted courtship.

At the age of sixteen Fergus had been infatuated with the gloriously angelic beauty of one Belinda Alieva. In a society of dark eyes, sharp features, Jessica shone with the grace of a perfectly polished gemstone. Individually she was magnificent, but within Huzken, she was unique. Like all first loves she held his very state of being at her mercy.

Fergus had laboured upon the arrow he was going to present to her.

For one thing, Belinda adored pheasants, and thus the flights were predetermined. Fergus sought out rainbow pheasants, their wing pinions almost translucent, reflecting all known colours when caressed by light.

He noted that a great, ancient, almost extinct, and imported, species of spruce, a conqueror spruce tree, thrived within her family’s garden. It was probably the only flora in the whole of Huzken that wasn’t harmful. For the first time in his life, Fergus left Huzken to travel very far south into the temperate climates to find this rare tree – he couldn’t possibly have asked for or stolen a branch from the Belinda’s tree, aside from feeling as if he was cheating, he knew the tree was far too meaningful to her and her family.

Then came the pile, which was topaz, sculpted into a crescent moon shape to represent the night Fergus had first encountered this sublime manifestation of Nature’s grace, when the moon was largely hidden, and due to the gasses rising out of the swamps, hazed with amber luminosity.

It was a feat Fergus was proud of, placing so much meaning within the arrow, not something anyone else ever did. This left the aesthetics which, as superficial as they might seem given the effort put into the materials sourced, Fergus still wanted to be worthy of a girl like Belinda.

To tie the feathers to the rear of the arrow, Fergus used silk – worth months of his forester wages – from the masterful dress makers in The Crown States. The handful of strands were bought from a local textile merchant who imported the regalest of garments.

But it was the hardwood for the self-nock that put Fergus through the greatest peril. When designing the arrow, he figured that if he put himself through great trials in sourcing the materials and making the arrow, exposed himself to danger and overcame it, it would make the search for the projectile – hopefully – easier. Therefore Fergus, with only the hardwood for the self-nock left, went in search of the wicked mists of Emsol, or the breath of the Daemoness as it was colloquially known.

As far south as one could travel in The Mane, inside the state of Emsol there was a natural phenomenon of arctic winds so sheer they petrified anyone or anything that came into contact with them. Fergus had decided that he wanted to attain wood from a petrified tree in this region and entered this malevolent domain, because foolishness and bravery where still one and the same for someone so young.

For the locals, betting on the survival of travellers dumb enough to explore these regions was a sport, so Fergus wasn’t worried about being denied entry. He was shown a gap in a mountain side, a passage that would take him to the edge of the Daemoness’ domain where he could wait eagerly for the eye of the storm. Once he was inside this haven, Fergus had to move with the storm, lest he was consumed by the Daemoness and his soul striped from him leaving his husk behind. For three days he didn’t sleep and couldn’t tell if the cries and shadows within the crystalline blizzards were hallucinations, or something, well, unknown.

Either way, the cold was soon forgotten, and for the first time in this endeavour – in his life – Fergus was imbued with a wisdom beyond his years, the kind that only comes from hindsight in later years: he was being very, frigging foolish. But was committed, something he reminded himself of, a positive interpretation of his circumstances as he was trapped within the storm and had to follow it until it returned to the mountain passage, he had entered the realm from. Late on day two Fergus managed to find and break a branch from a petrified tree, obtaining his trophy. He was exhausted due to the lake of sleep and – wouldn’t admit it to himself at the time – scared to feel any sense of jubilation at the time.

Once he found the passage back to safety, then came a drunken feeling of victory, of his success, and soon Fergus had forgotten about the peril of his reckless endeavour.

It would eventually come back to him, however.

With the arrow completed, Fergus presented it to Belinda – all but on one knee. With awe she accepted it, noting, and delighted by, the details of the wood and the feathers. Fergus had to explain the meaning behind the topaz pile, but it brought the most beautiful diamond-coloured tears to Belinda’s eyes. For the sake of humility – and because unbeknownst to himself Fergus wasn’t ready to talk about what he went through – Fergus did not explain where the hardwood in the self-nock came from.

Fergus could still recall Belinda’s free hand rising up to her open mouth, disbelief in those wide eyes of hers that someone would go to such lengths. Back then, Fergus thought he may faint from the joy with his heart, but now it was a dull recollection, the faintest of echoes of that almost overwhelming happiness.

With her own bow, Belinda loosed the bespoke arrow high, launching it through the stunning elegance of her form, deep into the jungle for Fergus to begin his search.

As Fergus had anticipated, it was not as rough as he thought. For one thing he made sure to wrap himself up in hog-hide, leaving not an inch of skin exposed, so as not to brush over anything toxic. At three hundred and two yards, Fergus found the arrow, releasing a tension he had no known he was holding in his chest.

In his haste, excitement overruling him, Fergus had stretched his arm out, exposing his wrist. Something snagged his exposed flesh, a thorn of some kind, or perhaps the sting of an insect, he never knew. It hadn’t, however, looked bad, as Fergus had seen the puncture wounds and how they festered with decaying flesh and puss. All Fergus had found upon his wrist was faint, pinkish spot. As far as he was concerned, he’d be grand. Afterall, he had found the arrow and was about to return it to his beloved. The only thing he could feel roaring through his veins was triumph.

By the time he returned, Fergus could feel something lead-heavy and soggy in his gut and was sweating worse than a politician on trial. Nonetheless, he presented himself in as much a dignified manner as he could, dropping to one knee this time, and presenting the retrieved arrow to Belinda, his paramour and muse.

Whilst the caustic diarrhoea came close to killing Fergus, once he’d been well enough to leave his own sickbed, he still believed his night with Belinda to have been more than worth it.

Yet, very naturally, like all first loves, it did not last. Hindsight was a cruel being, as only later on could Fergus see how easy it was for two people to simply fall out of love with one and other. Though he never felt as if he had wasted his time, and at least the journey had taught him just what he was capable of braving in pursuit of a goal.

Fergus would wonder, each time he came home to the capital, where Belinda was now. It was impossible to enter the capital city without such intrusive thoughts entering his mind, but like their love for one and other they quickly wanned.

Lajo, the capital was situated only a few miles from the coast and built upon the top of the mighty Lajo Falls. At least twenty-seven rivers throughout the country merged here, joining one and other to launch themselves with terrifying vigour hundreds of feet into a great basin. Built alongside and over the numerous rivers were streets and buildings, crowning the very precipice of the Falls, and stretching back into the jungle. Within the great basin bellow, vast fleets of ships, traders, military, and visitors, docked and manoeuvred within a sophisticated shipping system. Docks constructed of the strongest wood had been built into the basin, whilst more structures had been erected around its edges, or hewn from the rock present. The Lajo port was a city unto itself, with taverns, hostels, and markets. If the natural world surrounding Lajo represented an unfathomable order disguised as chaos, then the docks of the Lajo basin were an attempt to mimic such, as for all the congestion, and constant comings and goings of ships, there was somehow an order to it all.

The architecture of the buildings was mixed, though everything was built from stone and wood. Most modern buildings had been built with curved walls and sloped roofs, a cultural leap away from the hexagonal structures and tapered roofs of the older buildings. The further a traveller went from the edge of the falls, the more modern – and taller – the buildings became. Lining the streets were phoenix-nest trees, a balsa species, growing to between twenty and twenty-five meters. And whilst wholly unrelated to the terrifying beast, these trees were the chosen nests for colonies of phoenix wedge-tailed wrens, a delightful species of wren whose tail feathers shone with hot-blue light, lighting up the trees, and in turn, the streets after dark.

Where the streets ran parallel with the rivers, dank-green invasive vines and weeds infested the walls of buildings as if reaching up to try and pull them into the waters. Some of the oldest bridges, from before colonisation, were made up of tree branches and vines, woven together, their growth delicately determined by architects and masons to form walkways over the rivers – holding together as well in the current day and age and they did over a millennia ago.

Even inside the vast falls the city continued. Tunnels and caverns had been mined and blown out to accommodate the movement of goods from the port beneath. Mines too pulled whatever worth the land had from its clutches, with housing and markets and just about anything anyone needed in a civilised society established underground, behind the enormous falls themselves.

At the last census, it was found that fifty thousand people lived in this mighty city.

Growth, like in the natural world, must be measured at a pace imperceptible to people, Fergus often thought. Whilst the city was grander, wider, and taller than it had been when he was a child, he could not recall ever witnessing its growth. One day he would notice that the towers surrounding the city were taller or had been refurbished with newer materials; new residences or storehouses would suddenly be there, along another new street that looked as if it had always been there by the footfall and the way people milled around within it.

If it wasn’t for the Fohalin Islands further north and east, protruding into the ocean like a hand reaching out to grasp everything coming into The Mane, Loja might well have be the wealthiest and busiest port city in all of the eastern coast.

Evening was already seeping through the city by the time Fergus, Kelby, Niva, and Lenush arrived at the Forester Lodge. Each street glowed with azure light, a haze from the tail feathers of the phoenix wedge-tail wrens, and the melodies from revellers sifted out from taverns and other establishments. Various work parties, rough looking and speaking masons, loud and haughty traders, and other locals, wandered the streets, either staggering home after a long day, or staggering drunk.

The tang of salt in their air was like perfume as it buried the muggier, sourer scents of the rainforest surrounding the vast city. Such a tingling aroma was vital, Fergus thought, something to ground people keep them from getting lost in the seemingly endless landscapes of Anordaithe’s surface.

The Forester Lodge was situated close to the precipice of the Falls, its ancient walls in the hexagonal fashion erected in pre-colonial times when it was more of a temple for tribal chieftains and seers. Within was the grand hall, a wide domed structure, refurbished countless times. Its stained-glass dome was framed with bright wood, upon which sat a large sundial. Outside of the old walls, the rest of the Forester facilities were so myriad that the entire chapter of the guild was a village unto itself, with barracks, training yards, smiths, abattoirs, animal pens, and recreational areas.

Each of the yards was rife with imported plant life and of course held at least one well from which the hydrologists could monitor the purity of the local water supply, as well as study changes and in the country’s vast circulatory system.

Whilst the Forester Guild’s headquarters proper where situated in The Sigel, in Wetsven, as where all guild headquarters, the lodge within Lajo was the first established outside of The Sigel and held a greater number of registered members than any other lodge across the remaining four continents.

Politically, an area Fergus was loathe to ever think about, the Lajo Lodge was the determining factor in policy and constitutional aspects due to its high volume of members. It rankled many of the lodge chiefs in other countries and continents. It was one of the reasons that members, despite being abhorred by the notion of EGMs and AGMs, would still make the effort to attend. Here voting actually mattered and determined the future of the Forester Guild.

However, the yards and other buildings were quiet. Whoever was returning, or had been able to, were likely somewhere in the main city, visiting families and friends. Only the usual support staff and aspirants could be seen wandering to and from jobs.

It was usually a good idea to avoid the lodge as much as possible if rumours of an AGM or EGM were beginning to haunt the whispers of tavern corners, lest anyone of the local committee strike like a prowling cat and drag a poor naïve member into the bureaucracy of it all.

Fergus didn’t need to worry about that. For one thing he was too useful. Of all the members, specifically those who were hunters, he held an almost unblemished record for success. Then of course there were his accidental adventures against the undead, which only served to bolster his reputation. The lodge needed him out and helping communities to help its own reputation.

As Fergus and the others wandered into one of the wider, well-maintained yards, a fire pit was already roaring, the meaty tang of savoury steaks – likely mill bull – searing through the still air. Around the pit was, firstly, Erasmus Kadyrow, lounging upon a deck chair with his bare feet aimed towards the flames as if teasing them.

He was a tall, lithe fellow, a ‘confirmed bachelor’ it was believed, with dull but wide eyes and handsome, though plain face. His pointed, elven ears where hidden behind mahogany brown hair and whilst his stubble used to match, it was now pitch in colour, due to his exposure to black powder and smoke, as he favoured the arquebus as a hunting tool. He wore a tanned tunic decorated in patterns of ivy, and black hose.

And curled up by his feet was the famed Mistress, a pet draig, of the skulker species. The moody beast was four feet long, a couple of feet tall, with a short snout, stubby wings, and wedge-shaped tail, more suited to wafting through water. Her body was all scales, opal like, with the sheen of every known colour drowning beneath shadowy blacks. Mistress’ species could camouflage themself, matching their scales to the colour of the environment. Though for whatever reason, Mistress preferred to make herself known when starting a fight with any of the other foresters.

For Erasmus, the beast would often cling to his back and wrap its wings about him when hunting, so as to help conceal him. Even her breath was used to keep the strand of cord on his arquebus alight.

Fergus thought of it as an efficient partnership.

Of course, it was Mistress who heard – or smelled – them coming, and her snug little head rose to the chorus of a bemused snort. Erasmus always insisted the beast was harmless, and despite the claims of many a forester, Fergus knew if you didn’t try to pet, intrude within a few feet of her, or attempt to touch Erasmus, this was indeed true.

“Ah, well, look who’s here,” Erasmus said, as he turned his head. “I hope you washed the stench of death from you.” He grinned, straightening himself upon his seat.

“No grave touring this time,” Fergus replied, taken aback by how weary he sounded.

He and the others pulled up stools to sit around the flames.

“I like the look of those toes,” Niva said stepping past Erasmus. “Don’t keep too close to the flames, I like them rare.”

Erasmus chuckled, exchanging a fist bump with the huntress as she took a seat next to him – ignoring the heated hiss of protest from Mistress. Of all the people Niva knew, Erasmus was the only one with whom she would poke fun about regarding her cannibalistic heritage. Whether Niva was pursuing anything with the man, Fergus wasn’t sure, though he was surer that if she was, Niva was to be very disappointed given the rumours.

Lenush avoided Mistress and took a stool on the far side of Fergus but glanced across to the curious beast anyhow as it took in the newcomers. As if reading her mind, Erasmus said, “I wouldn’t stroke her, she’s in a mood.” Mistress glanced up at her master, with what looked to be a frown deepening her eyes.

Kelby too gave the animal a wide berth as he moved towards the firepit and towards the steaks.

“Stellar,” Erasmus began. “Please could you not let that gaudy cannon of yours leer in the direction of my dear Mistress.” The draig hissed dryly in agreement. Though Kelby held the blunderbuss casually enough, cradled across his broad chest, the wide mouth was indeed kept in alignment with Mistress.

“Easy for ye to say so, wee man, with your misshapen frame. The Gods made me the proper way. Don’ know what went wrong with you lot,” Kelby replied.

“Take it easy Kelby,” replied Niva. “Why would Mistress settle for a chicken leg, when there’s a whole roast available.” This pulled a chorus of chuckles from the group, and Kelby only returned a hand gesture – though did place Ma’s Temper over his shoulder, away from the animal.

“Did you find yourself a place in the annals of the supreme Flint Castle, then?” Erasmus continued, acerbically, and snarky enough. But then nobody down here liked the Flint Castle and couldn’t understand Fergus’ desire to join the ranks. Some had already convicted him of the crime of being a turncoat.

“If only,” Fergus muttered leaning forward to bathe in the warmth of the fluttering flames. “I think I just expanded by repertoire of experience, again. I can now say I’m a moon-hunter.” He then leaned back and looked across to Erasmus, who quite clearly could not help but turn his wide mouth into a grin.

“Oh, all the wonders and horrors in Nature,” he chuckled. “You’re kidding? A werewolf? I’d tell you good man yourself, but I suspect the achievement, and not to mention selfless service of freeing a community for such a murderous monster, is lost to that venomous desire to join the Castle.”

“I hope you had more luck in your endeavours,” Fergus replied. He liked Erasmus, not just for his skills as a forester, but because he didn’t look upon him as an unfortunate when he failed to find his trophy, or Nature pulled one over on him.

“Ha! I envy you, Fergus, you know that. You’ve done remarkable work beyond the remit of the forester. And you can adapt to any threat natural or unnatural.”

“I need more than that to get an audience with the Castle…”

“A Castle more potent in its toxicity than anything found in the deepest regions of Huzken,” the second person around the fire said, leaning past its flaring lights.

Mister Pentronius, the current Chief of the Lajo Lodge.

Pushing seven feet, Mister Pentronius was an ork, descendent from one of the oldest known tribes in Anordaithe. His skin was coal-black, with a gentle green sheen rolling across it. Both eyes shone with diamond clarity and gold hues, and his hair was as bright as the sheen on a newly forged sword.

He stood, and pulled his chair around, closer to the group, limping as he did so. That wound was the reason he had unofficially retired from his hunting work with the guild. A titanic bison, some twelve feet tall had charged him, crushing the appendage between its expansive brow and a rocky mound.

Due to deeply ingrained religious beliefs, passed down through his ancient bloodline, Mister Pentronius had refused an enchanted prosthetic. His claim was that to replace his gods-given flesh and blood would be to fail to recognise humility.

The wound had ended his career as a hunter – more or less, as he was still more than capable of pursuing less dangerous, challenging game. Though as this aspect of his life ended, it allowed him to realise his culinary talents, and soon after Mister Pentronius was just as lauded as he had been as a hunter. Of course, not willing to remove himself from the heart of the Forester Guild he made the brave decision to embed himself within the committee, likely to live precariously through many other hunters as to stay connected to the work he loved.

“There’s a man who knows he’s going to have try and govern an EGM, eh?” Niva said.

Mister Pentronius grinned, half-heartedly, because Niva was correct. “I’d sooner untangle a mess of hydra heads.”

“Less venom and biting,” Erasmus added.

“Welcome back,” Mister Pentronius continued, shaking hands with Kelby and Fergus, and giving Lenush a gentle tap on the shoulder. “I’m not sorry about you missing out on that basilisk you wanted, let be begin by saying. But I’ll be having a word with Governor Gibson,” the lodge master’s tone fell to a searing simmer at the mention of the man. “Good work, nonetheless, Fergus, and all of you.”

Fergus only shrugged off the remark and went back to glaring at the flames as they lunged towards the darkening sky. He was feeling too tired to talk about it anyhow.

“What’s this I hear about an EGM, chief?” Kelby then said.

Mister Pentronius’ head lowered, and he scratched at his snow-silver stubble as if trying to figure out the best way to share bad news. The sight forced Fergus’ gut to tighten, and he frowned.

“What news have you heard, in your travels?” Mister Pentronius added, as if trying to buy time.

“Eh, nothing,” Fergus replied, thinking about what he may have missed. “We didn’t linger anywhere. Just wanted to get back.”

Mister Pentronius took his seat. Even around a circular fire pit, next to the others, it was impossible for the lodge master to look anything other than authoritative. He could have been the smallest dwarf or goblin in all of Anordaithe and still he would have held the aura of a powerful leader.

“Well, let be begin by saying, and excuse the bluntness of it, Fergus, but Orion Aldenberg is dead,” he said straight, almost matter-of-factly in tone. He let the statement hang, as even if anyone loathed the late Chief of the Flint Castle, there was no mistaking his prowess and mythical status as a hunter.

Fergus’ mind emptied of all possible words; his whole being going numb. He initially thought he had misheard. Orion Aldenberg, not just a man he needed to gain favour with, but perhaps the most lethal product of the Natural world.

“Roaring Forges,” Kelby muttered, awe and confusion in his words – and a hint of pleasure. “What got ‘em?”

“Was he here, in The Mane?” Lenush asked softly.

“Well, this is where the issues and confusion lay,” Mister Pentronius continued. “Pirates slew him, apparently.”

“Aye, and I’m a flyin’ fairy,” Kelby snorted.

“This is what’s coming out of Fohalin, Nauberta, and Bravenasil.”

“Had to be The Flamingo,” Niva said, thinking to herself.

“Nah, no way even The Flamingo could fell a being like Aldenberg,” Kelby replied.

“You fond of the late tyrant and Nature’s persecutor?” Erasmus added.

“Do one, ye glaikit. I’ll celebrate with the rest o’ ‘em, but it does nae change the fact that the man was indestructible.”

“What’s the story then?” Fergus said, finally finding some coherence in his thoughts. “And what’s this got to do with an EGM?”

“Well, we know Orion was in Bravenasil – we don’t know why. But Luciana Doran was with him, and they did help cull a Dominator,” Mister Prentronius replied.

“Likely to get the Queen of Bears her final trophy,” Lenush said with disgust.

“They were working on behalf of The Scarred Forester’s, at a request from Commander Tegfan Fielder himself. I don’t know if they had come across to find a Dominator bear, or not, but Orion did a bit of tour first. Either way, that’s not what we’re concerned about.”

“Aye, if those sodomite enthusiasts, did get the wee man, then we should be concerned. They’ve got somethin’ to expand their greedy reaches,” Kelby growled.

“This EGM, and it is very much an emergency, is to figure out, however, what to do about the Vainglory Typhon that surfaced out of nowhere upon the eastern waters of Fohalin,” Mister Prentronius then said, freezing the tongues and expressions of everyone bar Erasmus.

Had Fergus not already been numb from the news of the death of a legend like Orion Aldenberg, this would have struck him with as close a reverential fear as he could get. For one thing he had never seen such a titanic creature, never mind a typhon species – few had.

Even Kelby was silent.

“This beast rose from the waters during the battle between Orion and The Flamingo,” Mister Pentronius went on.

“Then there’s yer answer. I’d say a scrap between a typhon an’ Aldenberg would be a close call, but one o’ those big yins could have ‘em .”

“Was Orion in the process of culling the beast, then ambushed by The Flamingo?” Fergus wondered aloud in weak voice.

“Would you go after a prize such as Orion Aldenberg, if you saw a typhon present?” Niva added, with Erasmus nodding in agreement.

“Could have sailed in just prior to the beast surfacing.”

“This doesn’t make sense,” Lenush said, sighing and scratching at an eye. “A typhon, in the eastern sea off of Fohalin that we didn’t know about? Orion Aldenberg just happens to be in that area. And The Daemon Flamingo. I know all the legends about the aeonian ship, but taking on Orion Aldenberg and a typhon at the same time?”

“The death of Aldenberg aside,” Mister Pentronius said, eager to sweep the confusion at the death of the legend aside for more vital debate. “We need to formulate a plan to deal with this Vainglory Typhon.”

“A plan?” Niva scoffed. “I heard the hint of something suggesting we deal with the beast. If the Fohalinites are smart, they’ll be evacuating, and keep pulling back until the beast has all the territory its wants.”

Mister Pentronius was quiet for a moment as he held the gaze of the foresters before him. Fergus knew he was asking the impossible, something beyond even the realms of lunacy. Though, he had to confess that he had begun building a plan in the darker parts of his mind – he just couldn’t help it.

“What of our kindred in Fohalin?” Lenush asked. “What are they suggesting?”

Mister Pentronius dropped his head, gritting his wide teeth. “We haven’t heard from them for eleven days now.”

“To those reclaimed by Nature,” Erasmus was heard to say under his breath, raising his tankard.

“When did this beast surface?” Fergus asked.

“About two weeks ago,” Mister Pentronius answered.

“Then there’s nothing of Fohalin left,” Niva said.

“There is still plenty of Fohalin left,” Mister Pentronius corrected firmly. “Despite the death toll reaching ninety thousand. Most of Fohalin’s port cities are… Were on the far eastern and south-eastern islands. That’s where the beast struck first and has done the worst damage thus far.”

“What’s been the navy’s response?” Kelby asked. “This isn’t a job for foresters alone.”

“At least half their ships were destroyed trying to fight the beast, the rest have withdrawn to the capital. Their army is wholly overwhelmed trying to aid the exodus of people fleeing their homes.”

“And governmentally, what’s happenin’ there?”

“They’re trying a story about magic, an illusion cast by The Daemon Flamingo to push ships further south into pirate-controlled waters. Something to reassure those in the far north and over in The Sigel. And no one is believing it. But this has come from minor ministers who have been spluttering and fighting one and other, however. No one has heard from their actual leadership in over a week.”

“Fled,” Erasmus muttered.

“Rumours are not helpful,” Mister Pentronius said, even though everyone present knew it would be the truth.

“Magic, aye, my hole. What do the poor buggers comin’ outta the eastern regions have to say about that,” Kelby grumbled. “Friggin’ gallus scumbegs. An’ I thought clatty centaur were so vulgar. Politicians are whole other kind of wicked aren’t they, if they’re going to lie, despite the obvious truths we can all see!” Oddly, Fergus had noted, the more frustrated dwarves became, the more coherent they sounded.  

“I know it’s horrible, what’s happened. But why don’t we just focus on helping people escape the typhon, using our resources to establish refugee camps, and provide aid?” Niva mused. “If we, even if every registered forester took up arms and went after this thing, we’d be joining Fohalin’s navy scattered amongst the bedrock of the ocean. It’d be a waste when we could help elsewhere.”

“Because we’re already seeing a profound decrease in ships coming into the southern states of The Mane here. It may not look it out across the basin here, at the moment, but trade has dropped so sharply the Venom Lords have called an emergency meeting, desperately trying to figure out how to stave off a recession.”

“Which would only be the beginning of an economic disaster,” Lenush added.

“The pirates were always a problem, but one we managed. Glass Stars, we did nothing because they skimmed off so little anyhow, and it wasn’t worth going to war with them. But now trade from The Sigel has slowed, and nothing is coming in from north of The Mane. Most of the midriff states are seeing depressions already because trade is no longer coming through Fohalin. Bravenasil’s ship-building city, the one that provides all of Fohalin’s ships as ceased production. I mean stopped completely and laid off two thirds of its workers. And it’s only been a couple of weeks. We all know what follows a depression; crime; poverty; plagues; displacement; deaths – a rise in infant mortality in particular.”

“You forgot war,” Fergus added, knowing full well Mister Pentronius had not.

“I’m pacing myself,” he replied with a weak smile.

“We have plenty and we lack much,” Fergus said aloud, the age-old maxim of many a nation of The Mane. “Think of the Barren State next door. If we have to hold off selling medicines and preservatives to them, they’ll soon grow desperate enough to begin throwing stones.”

He thought about the fortune the country made in the export of medicines, and maybe a form of leverage could come from that – certainly the Venom Lords were likely planning such a nefarious policy. But as for feeding the nation, over half of the meat and a third of fruit and vegetables came from Bravenasil. And these had to be delivered by ship, despite sharing a sliver of a boarder to Huzken’s north, because the southern regions of Bravenasil where a no-man’s land presided over by one of the deadliest animals in Anordaithe, the Dominator bear. Even a significant portion of their fresh water came from their frivolous and petty neighbour, through underground rivers.

Every coastal state relied on incoming trade from one and other and further north and across the ocean to make up for any deficits – some more than others. Not to mention the jobs that came with the high volumes of trade. And for the bordering countries to the west, they would turn their hunger and needs to the nations further west, severing more trade and jobs, exacerbating the economic depressions – more families pushed into poverty, more hunger, more crime, more riots, more death, more disease. To make matters worse for Huzken, due to the lethality of the natural world, almost its whole population lived in tightly walled cities too small for their numbers in the modern age. Their mastery of medicine would be tested, never mind their capacity to produce such volumes of it.

“And once someone is comfortable throwing rocks, it’s an easy transition to a spear. And once blood is shed, suddenly everybody is eager to swing a sword, especially if they’re hungry – especially if their children are hungry.” Mister Pentronius paused to take a breath. “There are fifteen countries down here, along the coast, and a dozen and half more to the west who thrive because of what comes through us. This entire region, tens of millions of people, are about to suffer all manner of civilisation ending destitution – and that’s before the typhon decides to expand its domain once it’s done with Fohalin.”