The expedition returns to Pael with the prisoner

Domic keeps watch for the next couple of hours, until the soft light of the sun starts to filter through the trees. Torjo is one of the first to awake, and he awakens the rest, shouting commands to get up and get moving as he rubs his eyes. Domic walks over to him. “Good morning. Anything to report? Uh, whose blood that is?” Torjo says, gesturing at his tunic.

“It’s hers,” he says, pointing at the orc. “Kexca’s. We had a bit of scuffle last night.”

“Hmm, Kexca, so that’s her name. You alright?” Torjo asks, opening up his leather pack.

"Yes, she just tried to rip my throat out, but bashing her in the head seems to stop that," he says.

"What? Why didn't you call for help?" Torjo says, surprised, looking at him with concern. He pulls out a loaf of bread, and tears a third of it off.

“Why didn’t I do that?” he thinks. “I, uh, I don’t know – I guess it all happened so quickly – one moment we were arguing about her ax,” he lays a hand on it, “the next she was on top of me, attacking me, and then she was swearing to not kill me again,” he shrugs.

“Well, alright then,” Torjo says, giving him an odd look and handed him the rest of the loaf. "Did you get anything else out of her?"

"She hates me, but nothing else," he say grimly.

Torjo sighs, nodding. "I'm sure she hates all of us," he pauses, thinking. “But...since she’s sworn not to kill you, perhaps you should try to get something more out of her, hmm?" he asks, holding up his piece of bread with a knowing gaze. "Something tells me she won’t say much the old-fashioned way,” he says. Domic sigh but nods, understanding. He walks over to where Kexca sits up against her tree, yawning widely. Her amber eyes dart onto his, rage threatening to erupt.

He tries to smile. “He-,” he stops, as he half proffers the bread to her. Her arms are still tied behind her back. She sneers as he frowns, pushes her forward into the dirt, foot on her back, and undoes her binds. As he steps back and she sits up, rubbing her forearms, he tosses her the bread. “Well, there you go, breakfast,” he says, with poisoned pleasantry.

She examines the bread for a moment, both looking back at him. “I’m not hungry,” she sneers, pressing the bread into the dirt and grinding it to crumbs. “And you think I’m that stupid, human? You’re nice to me, I tell you what you want to know? Fuck you,” she growls. Face burning, he shoves her into the dirt again, and struggles with her for a few moments as he binds her – she is at least, if not stronger than he. Then he undoes the rope around her feet and hauls her up.

“Starve then, I don’t care,” he says, glaring in her face. She spits and he dodges. “You think I’m that dumb, orc, to fall for your feeble tricks?” Her eyes flare up, and he manages to bind her mouth before she screeches too many curses and insults at him. Desperately trying to ignore her muffled snarls, he drags her forward as Torjo calls for the march to resume.

…

By midmorning, the walls and fields of Pael become visible through the thinning trees. The fields are covered with grain, grown high and sturdy. "Harvesttime will be soon," he thinks. “Should we blindfold her?” Domic asks Torjo, who walks beside him. Kexca is staring malevolently at the high stone walls and fields.

“Why blindfold her,” Torjo says in Norword. “Orcs already know our walls are thick and our guns are many – besides, I want her to enjoy the sunlight,” he says, smiling pleasantly at her. She glares at him, wildfire in her eyes, and curses a muffled something. The expedition comes to a stop outside the south gatehouse, in front of the statue of Paelic the Cunning, helm closed, his sword held high, horse posing. Cerni goes forward to speak with the gatekeepers, while Torjo divides the remaining men and women of the expedition into two groups. One group he dismisses, and they set down their excess gear, then disperse through the gatehouse back to their homes.

They wait, as Domic, bored, counts fourteen bird shitstains running down Paelic’s armor. Finally, two wagons come out of the town, horses whinnying. As one is being loaded with their dead for transport to the temples, Torjo argues with the carter of the other. He stomps back over as the carter shrugs. “I wanted a bigger wagon, but no, they don’t have them, it’d take them an hour to go get one,” he scowls. “Cerni, you’re to supervise the loading of the excess gear for transport to the armory, then you are dismissed. Domic, put on your burgonet – we’re taking Kexca to the commandery,” he says, putting on his helmet. “You and you! Come with us!” he shouts at two guards. Cerni snares Domic with her big eyes.

‘Talk to you later,’ she mouths and smiles.

‘Sounds great,’ he mouths back, as he drags Kexca after Torjo, flanked by the two other guards. They pass through the gatehouse and into the winding cobble streets as townsfolk are returning from their morning errands, or are already in their shops. He has some idea of what's coming, and the townsfolk do not disappoint. The insults and curses almost immediately begin to pour from windows and passerby – “Burn the beast! Gods damn it! String it high Torjo!” Kexca glares beams of fire from her eyes, searing as many people as she can, including Domic - especially Domic. Once, a drunk charges them, but Torjo shoves him to the ground and kicks him in the stomach. Then a rotten egg smears itself against the side of one of the guards and an apple bangs itself off Domic’s burgonet.

“You’re getting a fine for that!” Torjo shouts at an old man closing his shutters, but the townsfolk continue to hurl things periodically. Domic, holding Kexca with his right arm, switches with his left, and grips the back of her head with his right, pushing it down a bit. Thus, they continue to the commandery, enduring the barrage of produce and insults. After a long while to Domic, but could have only been a dozen minutes or so, they reach the courtyard, sprinkled with juices and bits of vegetables, and all in a fouler mood.

Torjo dismisses their two escorts, and they head into the commandery. The guard on duty glares angrily at Kexca. “That way,” Torjo points to a heavy door, which reveals a circular stone staircase when opened, treads smoothed by years of boots. They head down it, into the earthen bowels of the commandery, through a dark hall and another door to a room filled with numberless lit and unlit candles. A portly man dozes behind a desk. “Ubic! I am sorry my friend, but you won’t be able to doze off anymore – we have a prisoner,” Torjo says. The jailer frowns and tosses him some keys, and they walk through a barred door into a long, damp hallway, brightened by a feeble candle here and there.

Torjo leads them to an oaken door, solid, banded with cold iron, a food flap at its base. The room behind it is pitch black, and recking odor pummels them from inside. “I hope you enjoyed the sunlight, Kexca,” he says quietly as he takes her from Domic, and gently pushes her forward into the cell. Domic catches a glimpse of her blazing eyes spinning around, and then Torjo shuts and locks the door, muffled yells disappearing behind them. “You’ve done an excellent job, Domic,” Torjo says, shaking his hand as they walk back to the courtyard. "And stay alert for a note or messenger - you might have to come back here sooner than you think," he says. Domic nods, pondering his words.

…

Domic is embraced by Izabel almost as soon as he opens the door to their home. “Oh, Domic, you’re back, I’m so glad you’re safe,” she says, holding him tightly{if Izabel ****=1} and kissing him on the cheek{else}{endif}.

“Ooh, careful Izabel, I’m just a bit sore,” he says. “Didn’t you have work today?”

“Herut gave me the rest of the day off, once she heard the expedition was back – are you hurt? Where are you sore? What happened?” she quavers, tears starting to well in her eyes.

“Izabel. I’m alright,” he says, looking into her eyes and trying to be reassuring. “I, uh, just got a little banged up is all,” he says. “Am I going to start lying about what happens in my battles?” he thinks.

“Oh, alright, I’m sorry if I hurt you,” she says, regaining control of herself. Her deep blue eyes still regard him with concern. “I’m sure you’re tired, you want to rest,” she says, as he sets down his gear against the wall.

“Sure, sure, but um, actually, do you have any uh, mush or something like that? I have a few bruises.”

“Um, maybe,” she says, “go sit in the living room, and I’ll see what I can find.” He sits on their couch, sighing with relief at finally being home. She comes back a minute later, holding a clay jar. “Here, this should do the trick. Do you want to do it, or do uh, you want me to?” she says, looking at him.

{if Izabel ****=1}“Do I want her to do it?” he thinks, the thought filling him with a sudden nervousness. “It’d be awkward to do my back myself, but I can do my stomach,” he thinks. “Can uh, can you rub some on my back?”

“Of course,” she says, taking a seat beside him as he pulls off his tunic. She sucks in her breath at the sight of the bruise on his stomach, and he doesn’t blame her – it’s black and blue and wide, but{if YuldaLife=1} Yulda{else} Jaetor{endif} had examined him on the march back and assured him he hadn’t broken any bones. He can only guess how bad the one on his back looks. “Oh, Domic,” Izabel says, dipping her hand into the jar.

“That bad huh?

“Mhm,” she mumbles, spreading the ointment on his back. It is cool at first, and then warmed up by her soft hand as she rubs it in. “Where does it ache?”

“Um, kind of all over, to be honest,” he says. She takes some more out and spreads it across his shoulders, rubbing it in with both hands now. “Does that feel better?”

“Mmm, yes that does,” he sighs, relaxing. “Her hands feel so nice,” he thinks.

“That should be good enough – now lean back, and I’ll do your stomach,” she says lightly.

“My stomach?” he thinks. “A-alright,” he says, twisting around and leaning back against the wall. She holds onto his shoulder with one hand. He draws in breath at her touch to the bruise, but soon sighs in relief as the clear ointment seems to take effect. He follows her hand back and forth across his stomach, flowing over his belly button.

“Domic.”

“Mmm?” he turns his head. Her deep dark blue eyes look calmly back at him, but he feels like they’re flowing right through him, like an unstoppable river. Her brows are creased slightly in concern, and he notices she has a small scar on her right cheekbone.

“Where does it ache?” her pale rose lips whisper.

“Um, all over,” he lies. "Why did I do that?" he thinks. Her eyes jump down to his chest and follow her hand as it glides up, up and over his pectorals. Then she takes it off, grabs more ointment, and slides her hand down, past the bruise, to his lower abdomen. Her touch tickles his sparse chest hair. She spreads her hand, and her pinky slips just under the waistband of his breeches – and then back up it goes, to rub soothingly across the bruise a bit more.{if Izabel's Love = 15} "Can uhm...can you do a bit more," he says quietly.

Her calm eyes jump back to his. "Of course," she murmurs, dipping her hand back into the ointment and turning to monitor her progress. She places a hand to the bruise, slowly and gently massages it in, then runs it straight up to the center of his chest again.

"Thanks," he mumbles. "So nice, so soft," he thinks.{else}{endif}

“That should be good enough,” she says, removing her hands from his body, and returning the top to the jar. She smiles soothingly at him. “It’ll take a bit before the pain dulls,” she says, eyes still looking calmly at him.

“Thank you. Um, I think I’m going to go take a nap for a bit, alright?" he says, suddenly desiring to get away from her. "Then I’ll uh, tell you what happened, alright?” he says, getting up and avoiding her eyes.

“Alright, um I’ll see you in a bit then,” Izabel says sweetly.

{else}"No, I can do it - thank you for offering however," he says, as he graciously accepts the clay jar from her, then heads upstairs to his room to apply it.{endif}

…

Domic awakes to the sound of a bell, having slept for an hour or two. The bruises feel quite a bit better. “More apothecary secrets,” he thinks.{if Izabel ****=1} “And I’m not going to think about how she put it on,” he gulps. “I really should have said something, but I guess it’s too late now.”{else}{endif} He puts on a clean tunic and walks downstairs to find Izabel reading one of her books.{if Izabel ****=1} She wears a tight black bodice with yellow lacings, with a square-cut neckline, low enough to interest, but not excite. Underneath she wears a fluffy white chemise, and a billowing dark green skirt. Her dark hair hangs loosely around her shoulders.{else} She wears a black bodice with yellow lacing over a white chemise and a dark green skirt, a green kerchief around her head.{endif} “Izabel,” he says.

Her eyes shift over and light up. “How was your nap? Do you feel better?”

“I do feel better, thank you. Um, would you like to go for a walk? he says.{if Izabel ****=1}"That'll distract me right?" he thinks.{else}{endif} "We can go to a tavern, and I can tell you everything that happened.”

She nods her head. “Let me get a cloak,” she says. They leave and walk aimlessly south on the cobblestone streets, side by side. They are both mutually content to walk in silence, enjoying the feel of the crisp fall air – if not necessarily its smells. “Let’s go in there,” she says, pointing to a tavern at the end of a side street, its emblem a kingfisher. “I’d rather not walk down the tanner’s street,” she says, giving him a nauseous look, as other passerby also realize their mistake and take abrupt turns. They enter into the tavern – it is small, cozy, and utterly deserted, as they’ve arrived well before the dinner rush. They order two tankards of ale with two bowls of the ubiquitous tavern stew made of everything - cheap and fortifying, just don’t ask what’s in it. Sitting themselves at a small table in the corner, under a drawing of kingfishers diving into a pond, he begins his tale.

“And oh, as an aside,” Domic says, as he reaches partway through the story. “As we were preparing to ambush the orcs, uh, Sergeant Torjo,” he says, taking the hexagonal ring off his finger and laying it on the greasy table, “was wondering about this ring. He thought it might uh, actually be lucky. Do you know where Mother got it from?” he asks.

“Hmmm...no, I don’t think she ever told me where she got it from,” Izabel says, looking at it and slowly tracing her finger along it's length.

“Well did you ever take it to someone to have it looked at? A scholar?”

“No, uh, I trusted Mother’s word, Domic,” she says, taking a swig from her tankard.

“Well, weren’t you curious about it?”

“No. I trusted Mother,” she fixes him with a stare.

“The ‘stop asking questions Domic’ stare? Been a while since I saw that one," he thinks. “Alright, alright, I was just wondering,” he says, putting the ring back on. “Well, anyways, that wasn’t the only odd thing we talked about. After he asked me that, he pulled me aside and said Yulda was to stick to me during the battle because, well, Cerni had asked for that,” he says, flushing slightly.

“What’s odd about that? She obviously cares for you,” she smiles.

“Yes, but before that, Torjo said that Halle had ordered it, before Cerni even asked. Why do you think he would do that? Why protect me and not Cerni?”

“He did? Well, um, maybe he cares for you too,” she shrugs.

“Really? Over the safety of his own daughter? You know Halle, does he strike you as a man who’d do such a thing? Torjo told me he almost didn’t even send Cerni along.”

“I don’t know, Domic,” she says tiredly. She takes a long swig from her ale. “He was only my commander.”

“Only her commander?” he thinks. “You mean you didn’t get an idea of the type of man he is, all those times you were called into his solar? When you made mistakes, big ones, it sounded like, and got away with a slap on the wrist?”

Her eyes snap to his and narrow. “What are you saying Domic? I don’t know why Halle did half the things he did. The man is a puzzle.”

“I don’t know,” he says, throwing up his hands and shrugging. “I was just confused. First it seems like you know Halle pretty well, then you don’t.”

“Like I said, the man was a puzzle when I was serving. I assume he still is,” she says.

“Why is it starting to seem like you’re one too?” he thinks to himself, taking a swig from his own tankard to break eye contact with her. He continues the story, breezing past most of the details of the ambush itself. “It was all such a blur anyways, I only half remember it - and I don't want to worry her,” he thinks. He tells her of the aftermath of the battle, the capture of Kexca, and again breezes over the details of his fight with her, before finally ending with the march back and imprisonment of Kexca. “I’m not going to bother to tell her what Torjo asked me to do – ‘I don’t know Domic, Torjo’s a puzzle too Domic,’” he thinks.

“So, do you think they’ll get anything out of her? This Kexca, this orc bitch,” Izabel says, downing the last of her ale.

“I don’t know. I figured you’d know how the guard runs interrogations, having arrested lots of people – or am I mistaken in that too?” he says.

Izabel smiles weakly and speaks with a touch of venom in her voice. “Drunk folk usually tell you everything, Domic and don’t shut up. I don’t know much about orcs – I suppose it depends on her willpower,” she says darkly.

“Mmm, I suppose it does,” he says, as a sickening mixture of pity, stew, and vindictiveness sloshes in his stomach.

…

Domic wakes up the next morning and rolls out of bed. He and Izabel had chatted for a couple more hours in the tavern before they had walked home, and he had gone to bed earlier than usual. “Wonder why she got short with me asking about the ring and Halle? Was she just tired?” he thinks. “Or do I just think I know my sister?” the thought creeps up as he splashes water on his face. He heads downstairs to an empty house – the kitchen hearth is cold, and he doesn’t feel like starting a fire, so he heads down to the cellar and grabs some dried meat to gnaw on while he thinks about what to do today. Then there is a light tapping on the front door, and he walks over to answer it.