[Flashback] No Son of Mine

[Ulric]

12th of Spring, 502 AV Ulric slogged through the glutinous mud, his muttered curses but a sign of his frustration. How had it come to this? Once their caravan had arrived in Nyka, the master, Rhorin, had discharged Kell and him without so much as by-your-leave. It had been late winter then, and neither man had been able to find work. So now they were headed back to Ravok with naught to show for their efforts other than a woefully slack purse of mizas and a fresh crop of lice from one of Nyka’s seedier inns. Ulric wasn’t certain he liked being a mercenary. It was a hard existence, full of muddy roads, tedium, bad food, worse women, and scant pay – not to mention peril. He hadn’t killed an outlaw yet, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t come within a hair’s breadth of being gutted by a pigsticker, or having his skull crushed by a flanged mace. Even though he was grateful that Kell, his recalcitrant sot of a foster-father, had sought to train in him for this life, Ulric had begun to yearn for the simple life of a fisherman – the living he’d been denied after his father’s death. If only the blasted fool had kept his mouth shut none of this would have happened. At Ulric’s side, Kell kept up a steady pace, his scarred face as stolid as usual behind its wild growth of beard. He bore an axe and round shield much like Ulric’s, but the grizzled warrior also had a broadsword buckled at his hip and he was clad in studded leather instead of hidemail. As he walked, Kell emitted sporadic coughs – a bark that Ulric had begun to loathe, for the back of Kell’s hand was often flecked with blood. Neither man was unaware of the implications. Kell was dying, slowly but surely, and there was nothing they could. How old was the man, fifty? Ulric had never asked, nor did he suspect he’d receive more than a curse in response. He and Kell didn’t talk much, and when they did it certainly wasn’t about themselves – which made them strangers even after nine years. It was perhaps a consequence of their losses in life, for neither man seemed to wish the sorrow that would result from a sundered bond. No, it was easier to sustain physical harm than deal with raw emotions, for bruises and shattered bones healed. Broken hearts did not. After a time, Kell unslung his pack and rummaged through its contents. “What happened to my flask?” he demanded of Ulric, who leaned against a boulder, scraping the mud from his boots with a stick. “It’s empty, damn your eyes! Last night it was filled to the brim!” “Maybe you drank it,” Ulric lied. He had indeed poured it out, but only for the man’s protection. Kell would drink himself to death if provided the chance. “Just wait until Ravok, all right? I’ll take-” Ulric’s head snapped to the side as a backhand thundered across the cheek. He felt warm blood dribble down his chin, and then his fist was plowing into Kell’s nose. It was a brutal shot, but the old warrior shook it off and answered with a blow of his own. A shower of red crossed Ulric’s eyes and his knees almost buckled, but he stood firm. He feinted to the ribs and ducked under Kell’s hook to drive a fist into the man’s liver – a strike he paid dearly for when an iron-shod boot connected with his groin. “Bastard,” Kell snarled as he clutched his side, and then aimed a halfhearted kick at Ulric, who writhed in agony in the muck. “You’re…the…bastard!” Ulric retorted once he remembered how to breathe. He spoke truth. Kell was a bastard the same as Ulric was the orphaned son of a whore. In a way, the epithets were the closest they came to showing affection. Less so the brawls. Kell wasn’t quite as strong or as quick as he’d once been, but shyke if he didn’t know every trick in the book to subdue an opponent. In fact, such was the man’s prowess in battle that Ulric was convinced he’d written the petching thing. “Time’s a wasting,” Kell grunted after a time. “Either you get up or I leave without you. Got it?” “Fine, go ahead,” Ulric said as he labored to his feet. “Let’s see how you like making the fire and fixing the breakfast. I’ve had about enough of this shyke.” “Who says I can’t cook?” Kell stamped his foot, his hand going to the hilt of his sword. It was a reflex than anything, but Ulric wasn’t about to take his chances. “Can’t you remember that month we ate nothing but bacon?” he asked, and then cursed his stupidity. Why the petch did I bring that up? He dying, for Rhysol’s sake! Silence reigned for a moment, and then Kell coughed into the hollow of his elbow, for once not making an effort to hide the blood. “I don’t like to remember,” he spoke at last, “that’s why I drink.” Again there was silence. Kell turned and began to walk, and Ulric fell in beside him. He didn’t want to meet the man’s eyes. In a way, both of them were unable to release the past – Ulric because he’d not since felt a mother’s love, and Kell, whose heart died with his wife. In the wake of these traumas they’d become like brittle iron – hard on the outside, but liable to shatter under the slightest impact. “Petching Nyka,” Kell muttered after a while, and Ulric echoed his curse. Should have known better than to trust those damned priests.

[Ulric]

Days passed on the road, but the men remained silent as they trudged through the mud and rain. Ulric was not blind to the deterioration in Kell’s health – the worsening cough, his gaunt, sunken features and lusterless eyes. It was all because of this damned storm that refused to abate. Its chill winds and stinging rain doused Ulric’s hopes of the warmth of fire, allowing the cold to sink further and further into his bones, and his skin to break out in sores. He often awoke with rainwater lapping against his cheek, unable to feel his hands or toes. For a time the road became a river, and Kell and Ulric resigned themselves to wading through the waist-deep water, their faces wan and stretched. So daubed were they with mud that they seemed nothing so much as golems of the earth, from their shambling march to their listless stares. Ulric could feel maggots burst in his mouth every time he bit into a hunk of sodden bread, could smell the rancid meat that Kell continued to gnaw at despite the risk of worms, the man not seeming to care if his stomach burst with a hundred million of their spawn. This must be what death feels like, Ulric realized one night as he struggled to raise the forlorn wreckage of their tent. His fingers were as stiff as boards, and he’d long since forgotten what it was to possess toes. And still it kept raining, as if Zulrav intended to drown the world in sorrow. Ulric didn’t know what to do. How could they halt when there was no shelter from the damp? How could they hunt when all the beasts had fled? It was either that or drown in flooded warrens. Ulric’s weapons and armor were sheathed with specks of rust, their added burden making him sink further and further into the mire with each step he dared take. Every so often he’d encounter a sinkhole and have to claw his way out, retching out murky waters and gobbets of mud. Ulric wasn’t certain of what might do for him first – cold, starvation, or despair. By all rights Kell should have perished days ago, but he still clung to life, his pallid features set in a rictus of scorn. No storm would defeat him, even one that resembled a second cataclysm. Ulric sought to emulate Kell’s obstinacy, only to hang his head in miserable defeat. How could he hope to match wills with such a man? Ulric didn’t dream of warmth at night, but of rain, mud, and wind. It was a bleak existence, rife with hardship and travail, but he was soon unable to envision a world outside of the storm. In his mind’s eye he saw Ravok from the perspective of the drops of rain that spattered upon the slate roofs and trickled into the gutters, until they finally triumphed in their battle with gravity and seeped into the dark, sullied waters of the canals. How insignificant the drops seemed in those interludes. And yet, could Ulric assert that he was not insignificant? He was like a lone pebble in a flood, borne by the undulating waters to destinations unknown. Some nights he and Kell climbed into trees to escape the worst of the deluge, clutching at the sodden bark like distant lovers as the rain trickled down their wan, bearded faces. In the times when there was no refuge they continued to trudge through the waters like automatons, their eyes nearly devoid of thought or emotion. At last, as the gray dawn broke on the eleventh day, they found a cave. It was located upon a rock-strewn tor far removed from the road, its mouth a narrow chasm that extended a half-dozen paces into the bedrock and then widened into a cavern. In spite of the darkness, Ulric was able to perceive the outlines of bones scattered among the rocks, but he knew the cave’s mistress was long dead. He’d seen her carcass sprawled at the edge of the cavern, the desiccated flesh peeling from bones that showed through her musty, moth-eaten pelt. Had she died alone in this lonely cave? Ulric dropped his sodden pack and fell to his knees, running a hand through the dark, limp hair that was plastered to his skull. He felt rather than saw the strands that parted from his scalp, just as he could feel the loose teeth in his bloody gums. “We should remain here until the rains cease,” Ulric said finally. He didn’t need to explain his reasons. As poor a state as their rations were in, both men knew that starvation was not so much an immediate peril as cold and exhaustion. Kell peered at Ulric, his eyes like embers in the darkness, lips curled in a scowl. “We move on at first light,” he rasped, his contemptuous tone making it clear how little he thought of the suggestion. “No, we remain here,” Ulric replied. He knew the effect his words would have upon Kell. It was a challenge, an open avowal of his lack of faith in the warrior’s decisions, and he knew it wouldn’t end well for either of them. Still, what was he to do? Kell might be content to trudge unto a watery grave, but Ulric wasn’t prepared to follow. “You forget your place, whelp,” Kell warned him. He began to say something else, but his hulking frame shook with a bout of coughing. “As iron is my witness, I am a whelp no longer.” Ulric hefted his bearded axe as he stood, and then took up his shield. He was tired of Kell’s curses. It seemed that no matter how hard he tried, the warrior refused to show him the slightest respect – almost as if he was a hound. Kell straightened and spat blood. He smiled as he slid his sword from its sheath and reached for his own axe – not the shield. He’s out for blood, Ulric realized, but he refused to back down. It was well past time that Kell accepted his existence. Ulric came on hard with a flurry of hacks and shield bashes – all of which Kell blocked – and then tried a feint-swipe combination. He struck the sword aside with his shield and hooked at the warrior’s ankles, raising his shield to block an axe strike as he stepped back and shifted his weight onto his rear foot. Kell’s boot caught Ulric full in the chest, and he staggered back as his opponent went on the offensive, his weapons little more than blurs in the darkness that seemed to come in from all sides. Ulric blocked with his shield as best he could, but a few blows managed to cut into the thickened leather of his hidemail, one of them drawing blood from his ribs. Ulric thrust and hacked with his axe, hoping to open some distance, and nearly succeeded in hooking Kell’s wrist. He disengaged and circled for a moment, and then led with an overhand cleave that almost struck a shower of sparks from the cave’s arched ceiling. Kell danced back, coughing again, and Ulric followed with a shield bash, a hack to the head, and then a poke. He tried to hook at Kell’s shoulder as the warrior moved aside, only to have his axe deflected. Kell responded with a hook of his own, almost pulling Ulric off balance, and then the sword scythed through the darkness. Ulric ducked and tried a shield bash, but the blow fell short and he was forced to retreat into his defensive shell. His arms and legs were leaden with fatigue, but he knew the sustained pace was more a problem for his weakened opponent, who so far had attempted only short bursts of offense. Kell’s sword battered at Ulric’s shield while his axe hooked at the younger man’s legs, but Ulric stepped to the side and pivoted, hacking at Kell’s side. He felt his axehead scrape against rusted scalemail, and then the sword battered at his shield once more. Surging forward, Ulric felt the haft of Kell’s axe connect with his left pauldron – an overhand blow that would have done serious harm had it landed – and planted his shield full in his opponent’s face. As Kell stumbled back, Ulric managed to score another blow with his axe, his shield rising not quickly enough to prevent the sword from drawing a line of blood on his cheek. Kell coughed again, and Ulric hooked for his legs, managing to block both weapons with his shield this time. He heard Kell curse as the axe pulled him off balance, only to right himself against the wall of the cave. In a flash, Ulric swiped the axe aside with his shield as he ducked in, the haft of his own axe descending to tear the sword from Kell’s stiffened fingers. Catching a boot on his armored thigh, Ulric brought the shield forward with all his might, so the force of its impact dashed his Kell’s head against stone. In the past the warrior might have shaken off the blow, but he instead slumped to the floor, warm blood trickling from his nose, lip, and a cut above his eye. “I… yield,” Kell slurred at last. Ulric peered down at his defeated opponent, the breath ragged in his throat, knowing with a surge of regret that he’d defeated but a remnant of the man’s prowess. And outside, the rain continued to descend from the skies.

[Ulric]

After his defeat, Kell descended into a stupor that Ulric tried and failed to rouse him from. He sprawled next to the carcass for bells on end, his stare dull as he slipped in and out of consciousness. Might that last blow have addled his wits? Ulric doubted it. If anything, Kell had succumbed to the strain of trudging through the storm in poor health, and for now he needed to rest and recover his strength. However, that left Ulric hard-pressed to attend to their survival needs. His first move was to heap sodden wood in the cave. Hunched beneath a scrap of oilcloth, Ulric ranged the wooded slopes of the tor until he’d accumulated a suitable cache of timber – not to mention a collection of scratches from the briars that covered the ridge. After trimming the muck-sheathed branches with his bearded axe, he stacked them in alternating layers to ensure they’d dry properly, and then slipped into an exhausted sleep. Ulric awoke to the rumble of thunder. He groaned as he rose, and went to check on the firewood. It was still wet. Oh well, he scowled as he brushed mold from a crust of bread. At least the cave itself was dry, although it still bore a musky smell. How long had the she-bear lain here in repose? Ulric didn’t wish share in her fate. So far he’d found shelter from the storm, but to maintain what strength remained to him he needed real food – not moldy bread and rancid cheese. He needed to return to his roots. “She knows, doesn’t she?” Kell muttered as Ulric rose from his haunches and made for the mouth of the cave. Ulric started to respond, but he halted when he realized that Kell had spoken in his sleep. He’d never done that before. Oh, he snored all right – as did Ulric, apparently – but words? Could this be an indication that he’d taken a turn for the worst? Ulric didn’t want to lose Kell, but what could he do? He’d trained to end lives, not save them – and this knowledge terrified him. Might he be on the verge of losing the lone constant in his life? Without a word, Ulric strode from the cave and up the tor’s slope, until he reached the tumbled, stone-laden summit. He studied the surrounding terrain, or at least what he could perceive through the sheets of chill rain, and set off to explore the region. It was wooded and rocky, of course, but he knew there was much he’d miss if he didn’t scour the hills with a keen eye. Ulric strode through the ranks of aspen and fir trees, noting the scored trunks with a raised eyebrow, and then descended through a rocky defile to a ravine. It stretched on for several hundred yards, and then opened into a wider dale where he waded through what appeared to be a swollen creek. Here it is, Ulric smiled as he turned and ascended the muddied slope that led back to the cave. He’d never tried to fish on floodwaters before, but his father, Haren, had shown him the basics. It was worth a try, wasn’t it? On his way back, Ulric spied a couple of deer bound through the trees and disappear into the dark, swirling mist. He couldn’t help but regret that he’d never learned to handle a bow, but then again, laments were of little use here. Once he returned to the cave, Ulric searched for the pouch that contained his fishing tackle and then hastened back to the creek, where he affixed three or four baited hooks to each of his lines. As he worked, he remembered the thrill in his chest when he’d taken to the water the first time. It was before dawn, and Haren had made the canoe skim over the water so that Ulric caught the slightest bit of spray from his seat in the prow. He’d laughed with a child’s eager delight, feeling honored to be along for the ride, and- What the petch is the matter with me? Ulric hadn't thought of his cretinous father for a long time, and nor did he wish to now, the next day, or the day after that. No, he needed to keep his wits about him. After he’d finished his preparations, Ulric fought his way through the waist-high current so he could fasten two of his baited lines to tree branches, and then climbed onto a shelf of rock with the third wrapped around his hand. Again soaked to the bone, he hunched his shoulders as the rain stung his eyes and ran in rivulets down his face, waiting and hoping for a bite. None came – or at least none he was certain was a fish, for the swollen waters also bore submerged logs and tangles of sticks in their wake. At times Ulric had to descend from his perch to protect his other lines from the debris, his fingers red and swollen, and his entire body numb with the cold. By the time darkness fell he hadn’t succeeded in catching a single fish. Although his belly ached with hunger, Ulric refused to succumb to the despair that haunted his steps, knowing the morrow could well be different. He breathed a prayer to Ovek, the god of luck, and considered his options. He needed more lines – not to mention hooks. Ulric spent much of the night at this work, although it was fortunately by the light of a fire. Kell continued to ramble on about some woman, now with a fever to add to his delirium. Ulric wrapped him in blankets, disregarding the curses as he forced water down the man’s throat, and returned to his labors. He gathered a small heap of bones at his feet and then used his knife to fashion them into crude hooks, carving two v-shaped notches in the hardened tissue - one with an angled point and the other a shallow depression to fasten the line around. After he’d completed about thirty-odd hooks, Ulric took a bundle of green twigs and used them to weave a number of crude, narrow cages that he reinforced with twine and studded with inward-facing splinters of bone. It was light outside by the time he finished, but there was still work to be done. Shaking off his fatigue, Ulric returned to the creek to set up a dozen lines, and then returned to the cave to retrieve his cages. He positioned these in small weirs that he constructed of piled stones, so the walls formed a funnel for the current, and then returned to the smoke-filled cave. “Her own fault,” Kell muttered as Ulric knelt by the fire. “It wasn’t my candle, y’see.” “What the petch are you talking about?” Ulric cursed. He knew better than to expect a response. Kell hadn’t confided in him before, so why start now? In a way, the lack of trust was an open sore for Ulric, since Kell was all he had. After he’d forced Kell to drink again, Ulric set his mind to building a windbreak. He took several branches and placed them upright against the entrance, then wove a crude lattice in between them with the last of the twigs he’d used to construct his cages. Ulric daubed it with mud and leaves, and then stood back to regard his work. It was a hideous sight – but at least it would provide them some protection from the wind. “Petching rain,” Ulric snarled as he turned and made for the creek. It would be dusk soon, if he was not mistaken, and he was eager to check on his traps. None had succeeded, of course, for their apertures were choked with debris, and one had even disappeared. “Petching traps,” Ulric spat as he removed the tangled branches and used the bludgeon of his bearded axe to drive a series of stakes into the muck. If he was fortunate, they would intercept the debris before it fouled his traps. Continuing on, Ulric made his way to the area where he’d suspended his lines. “Petching lines,” he started to curse, and then froze. Could it be? He waded to the nearest length of cord and hauled it in, heart pounding madly in his chest as he turned up… a chunk of wood. “Rhysol’s cock!” Ulric raged. He hurled the branch aside and strode to the next of his lines. It was missing; the cord snapped no more than ten feet from the knot. Snarling, Ulric made his way to the third (nothing) and the fourth (tangled with the fifth), his rage growing, until he came to the sixth line. He was shocked when he hauled in the sodden cord and found a grayling caught on the barbed hook, its struggles weak and almost at an end. Food! Ulric’s lips curled into a smile as he administered the coup de grace and strode toward the next line, his heart keening with exultation. He was going to survive!

[Ulric]

Three days passed, and still the storm refused to abate. Ulric began to wonder if it was all a nightmare, or perhaps a lurid phantasm of his subconscious. How else could he explain the weather? Clad in naught but a loincloth, he strode to the swollen creek and clambered over the ridge of the tor, the muscles seeming to burst from his arms and chest. If not for the fish he pulled from the floodwaters, Ulric knew he’d be little more than flesh and bones. Kell had borne the ravages of hunger less well. His face was gaunt, and even though the fever had broken he was still weak and prone to long, brooding silences that set Ulric’s nerves on edge. How much of the man remained? Ulric had asked Kell about the woman he’d referred to in his delirium, to no avail. It seemed Kell was content take his secrets to the grave. He kept up the fire now, and occasionally drew a whetstone across his sword’s edge with a slow, rhythmic scrape, his world reduced to flame, iron, and ashes. And yet, as Ulric strode through the trees on the fourth day, he noticed the rains had slackened. It was a subtle difference, but he’d trod this world of storm and shadow long enough to discern its moods. Soon, perhaps, Syna would banish the darkened clouds and suffuse him with her warmth, so that Ulric and Kell could return home. Ulric conjured an image of the floating city, with its ancient, crumbling homes and the maze of canals where he’d learned to swim. Not well, of course, but well enough not to drown. He increased his pace, feeling the muck ooze between his toes as he descended from the ravine, and then waded into the flooded dale. Ulric checked his cages first and was astonished to find a thrashing eel caught in the wreckage of his second weir. It had struggled until the sharpened spikes of bones were embedded in its scales, and it continued to fight even as Ulric’s brought his bearded axe down upon its dark, pointed head. He tied the carcass to his belt and then checked his other cages. As usual, none turned up more than branches and leaves, so Ulric headed for the suspended lines. He worked his way through with care, removing tangles, re-baiting hooks, and making certain there were a few clusters of debris where the fish could seek respite from the current. It seemed that Ovek favored him, for this morning he’d managed to snare another grayling and a pale, yellowish-green perch that seemed exhausted from its struggles. Ulric hauled the line in hand over hand, and then dashed the fish’s head against a tree. He repeated the same process with the grayling, and then headed back to the cave. “Give me those,” Kell snarled, and Ulric tossed the fish over with a frown. It’d been a long time since Kell used that tone on him. “Ever think of asking?” “Ever think of shutting the petch up?” “No, but I can tell you what I’m thinking now,” Ulric offered as he watched Kell draw a knife and start to de-scale the fish. It seemed the bastard was back to his old form, and not a moment late. “Spare me,” Kell grunted, “and put some clothes on, you shyke. I thought you wanted to be a mercenary, not a two-silver whore like your mother.” “She was three silvers, actually,” Ulric lied. He donned his trousers and then, eyes narrowed, shot a sideways look at Kell. “If you speak of her like that again, old man, I’ll open you from chest to crotch and let the ravens feast on your eyes.” “I’d keep one for a pet if I was you, so then you’d have something to remember me by.” “Bastard,” Ulric sank to his haunches and then rose, reaching for his axe. “I’m going for a walk.” Kell said nothing Ulric he swept from the cave, his head pounding with a sudden, white-hot rage. Why not, damn it! Why not? He’d always hated Kell. Like a statue, the man hadn’t the slightest hue of emotion to him – only curses. “I hate you,” Ulric snarled as he hacked at a sodden trunk. He twisted the blade, leaving a notch in the bark, and then hacked at it again. “I hate you!”

[Ulric]

After a few days of rest, Ulric and Kell returned to the road. Even though Syna’s radiance filtered through the trees, the road was sodden from the surfeit of rain, forcing them to slog through mud. It was a pain in the arse. In his mind’s eye, Ulric kept envisioning the decadent splendor of Ravok – its canals, temples, and flesh pits that melded into an entity of dark, unfettered beauty. He was proud to live there, for no matter its faults, the floating city was a wonder unto itself, a symbol of progress and prosperity. Ulric was through with the perils of the wildlands. He intended to set down roots and become the man he wished to be, not turn into the miserable shyke that trudged at his side, coughing every now and again into the pit of an elbow. A half-dozen nights passed without incident, until Ulric spied a fire by the roadside. He paused for a moment to blink, and then said, “It seems we’ve got company.” “Huh,” was the grunted response. “Want to slip around them?” “You crazy? It’s time we had some excitement.” “What do you mean by that?” Ulric scowled at Kell, but he followed nonetheless. He’d rather avoid a clash of wills than harp on his reservations. Side by side, the men strode through the darkness, shields out and weapons to hand, their footsteps silent in the muck. Ulric felt his pulse quicken as he approached the fire, accompanied by a sheen of sweat on his brow. He spied three men in the dancing shadows, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t a fourth concealed in the darkness, sighting down a loaded crossbow at his head. Kell, it seemed, was prepared to throw caution to the winds, for he brushed Ulric’s cautioning arm aside and strode into the circle of light. “Don’t you shykes post a guard?” he growled as the men rose in alarm, hands fumbling for their motley weapons. “Hold on – we’re not outlaws,” Ulric cried as he pushed past Kell. He glared at the warrior a moment, and then returned his attention to the others, his tone apologetic. “It’s my uncle’s sense of humor, you see. He took a blow to the head a few days back and he hasn’t been the same since.” Lies were always more convincing when they bore a bit of truth. Kell’s response was to cough up more blood. “He doesn’t sound too good,” observed a lanky, scarred man. His companions, a hulking brute with a notched sword and a slight, dark-haired man with a facial tic, seemed to relax as he spoke. “We’re not outlaws either, but if our positions were reversed I’d sure as petch lie about it.” “I’d just run in and hack us to pieces,” the Hulk muttered as he let his weapon fall. “It’s the sensible thing to do. Say, have you come from Nyka by any chance?” In a few chimes they were all seated around the fire, drinking ale and swapping tales of life in the wildlands. As he soaked up the atmosphere, Ulric felt a burden lift from his shoulders. He’d been at Kell’s side for so long that he had forgotten life’s simple pleasures. It did irk him, however, how the man seemed not to have a care in the world as he took another pull from the wineskin, his lips curled into a smile. Why isn’t he like this with me? Ulric wondered for what seemed the ten-thousandth time. “So… was there any truth to that tale about the whore and the fishes?” Hulk’s breath reeked of ale, but neither of them was close to being drunk. “Every word,” Ulric lied, and then his eyes widened in shock as he watched Kell draw a knife on Scars – an assault so wanton and abrupt that it left him bewildered. “What the petch!” Scars cursed as he knocked Kell’s arm aside, only to be dropped by the fist that slammed into his cheek. Why is he doing this? Ulric gaped at Scars and Kell for a moment, and then managed to dispel his stupor. “Stop it!” he shouted as he leapt at Kell, meaning to break up the fight, but Twitch got to him first. One moment Ulric was moving forward and then, suddenly, he was sprawled on his arse. A fist crashed into his brow as the dark-haired man straddled him, opening a nasty cut above his eye, and then a second blow struck him in the teeth. “Shyke!” Twitch hissed as he stared at his torn knuckles – a moment’s respite that allowed Ulric to regain his wits. He wrenched his right arm free and delivered a vicious poke to his opponent’s eye, then summoned the remnants of his strength to shove to man aside. Ulric rose to his feet, blinking the blood from his field of vision, and felt his head snap back as Twitch connected with a straight right. Snarling, Ulric responded with a right of his own. He took another shot, missed a hook, and leapt in to grapple with his opponent, taking an elbow in the back that was absorbed by his hidemail. Ulric threw the smaller man aside and slipped his way to where Kell was taking a beating from Hulk and a bloodied Scars, reaching for his shield as he neared the scrum. He swung the circle of wood with all his might, watching as its metal rim connected with Hulk’s chin in a spatter of blood and dropped the man like a poleaxed bull – scant moments before Twitch tackled him from behind. Ulric thrashed wildly as his face was thrust in the muck, and then pain blossomed in his shoulder as a knife pierced his armor and scraped off bone. No matter how hard he struggled he couldn’t break free of the weight on his back. Once more the knife descended, its tip driving the last breath from his lungs – and then the burden was removed. Am I dead? Ulric wondered as he removed his face from the mud, expecting to see Dira’s radiance, only to witness Scars staggering toward the embattled frames of Kell and Twitch, a flanged mace clutched in his hands. Ulric thrust an arm out and seized the man’s ankle, pulling his legs out from under him. Scars hit the ground hard and was slow to rise. Spitting a mixture of mud, saliva, and blood, Ulric crawled to where his bearded axe was half-sunken into the muck and returned to finish off Scars, who – mace raised – was about to resume the charge. Ulric swung his axe in desperation, burying its metal head in the man’s thigh, only to have the weapon torn from his grasp as Scars fell in a heap of thrashing limbs, his face contorted as he screamed like a stuck pig. “Die, damn you!” a shadow loomed over Ulric, who tore his weapon free in time to deflect a swing of Hulk’s sword. Instead of removing his head it ripped into his pauldron and scored a deep gash on his upper arm, sheathing the limb in a white-hot agony that coruscated from his armpit to the very tips of his fingers. Teeth gritted against the pain, Ulric hacked at the brute’s legs, hoping to back him up. Hulk stepped to the side and raised his sword for the kill, only to lose his balance as he tangled with either Twitch or Kell and fall into the muck. Seizing the opportunity, Ulric regained his feet and tried to land a decisive blow of his own, only to retreat in terror as Hulk roared and swept the sword at his head. Ulric stepped back from the slash and thrust with the blunt head of his axe, breath ragged, trying desperately to open up space as the brute continued his inexorable charge, swinging the notched blade like a scythe. Ulric darted to the side with a feeble hack, his feet slipping in the muck, only to watch as Kell leapt from the shadows – now armed with sword and axe – to engage the man. “Yaargh!” Ulric started to stagger to Kell’s assistance, only to have his legs taken out. As he thrashed around in the muck a boot crunched into his side and then into his head, making stars burst before his eyes. He tried to lift his axe, only find that he’d lost the weapon in the chaos. “Guurgh,” Ulric moaned as the boot shattered his nose, and then rough hands began to choke the life from him. He couldn’t see so well now, not with the blood and the mud and the dark, but he was aware that if he didn’t act soon, he’d never set eyes on Ravok again. Ulric’s reached for the knife at his belt and drove it into his opponent’s side, hearing the man’s scream as he recoiled, and then labored to his knees. It was odd, but he could have sworn that he smelled onions as he watched Kell’s sword hack into Twitch’s neck, saw the dark-haired man’s confusion as he fell to his knees in a mist of blood. “No more rain, please,” Ulric mumbled as he watched Kell borne down by the Hulk, both of them screaming like demons. And then, strangely, he was upon his feet and collecting his shield from the muck. Hadn’t there been one more? Yes, of course there was. Scars’ bloodied face reared through the shadows and his mace slammed into Ulric’s side with a crunch of ribs. More pain, more screams, and then, suddenly, rage. Ulric surged forward, allowing the mace’s haft to strike his shoulder, and drove the rim of his shield into Scars’ exposed knee. It buckled, and in the confusion Ulric found himself sprawled in the muck, watching the man slither into the trees. He tried to rise, but there was something on his chest. No, wait – was there something on his chest? Ulric scowled as he looked up, and was greeted by the sight of a demon. “Still alive?” Kell sneered.

[Ulric]

Ulric stood at the canal’s edge, his mind troubled as he stared out upon the ribbon of water that snaked its way through the sheer, crumbled brick and plaster tenements. He could hear the cries of the urchins that frolicked in the dark waters, the shouts of querulous wives, and of peddlers who hawked their wares from pot-bellied barges – all combined into a chaotic din that resounded through the chasm until it escaped into the sliver of sky. Every now and then a ravosala would pass with its cargo of passengers or stacked bales, and the boatman would add a bellow to the tumult before he poled the slender craft out of sight. And yet Ulric was all but oblivious to his sea of humanity, for his life had come to a crossroads. He did not want to be a mercenary; of that much he was certain. How many years had passed since then – four? Five? In that time Kell had not only tempered Ulric into a weapon, but a stolid, embittered facsimile of his own weakness. Even now, Ulric was haunted by the look in Kell’s eyes after he’d slain those men on the road. He’d thought it a madness at first, but he had come to realize that it was sorrow – an inexorable woe not for the souls he’d sent to Dira’s realm, but the fact his was not among them. Ulric now knew that Kell had wanted to die that night. Had he not longed for the swift release of a foe’s blade? It was the proper way for a warrior to leave this world, after all, much unlike the disease that consumed him from the inside. And yet, Ulric had denied the man the solace he so desired out of love – for he loved (and hated) Kell like the father he’d lost. Ulric watched a ravosala glide past, the boatman’s narrow shoulders bunching as he used his pole as leverage. It was hard to envision that he’d once sought a mercenary’s life when he might have been a tailor or a fisherman. He watched the ravosala disappear after the others, and then ran a hand through his lank hair, wondering how the boatman’s existence differed from his own. He’d have enough to eat, for one thing, and perhaps a wife and children. Not the bastards that mercenaries were known to sire. I wonder if I’ve a son out there, Ulric mused. He’d lain with a score of women, most of them whores, so a bastard wasn’t out of the question. And yet, it would mean he’d deserted the child like his parents had done with him. With a final glance at the canal, Ulric turned on his heels and strode down the narrow strip of dock, edging his way past a man straining with a bale of goods. Only now, in the heart of Ravok’s darkness, was he reminded of the city’s duality – the squalor that accompanied its splendor, and the lies that cloaked truth. His home was far from perfect, but it canal were all he’d ever known. How could he ever think to abandon them? Ulric returned to his tenement, a dank, rat-infested edifice that housed a dozen souls, and mounted the dilapidated stairs. It was silent within the crumbling walls – deathly quiet. As he neared his small apartment he held back, not wanting to enter for fear of what he’d find, but he forced himself to enter. “Where have you… been?” Kell, now a cadaverous shell of a man, looked up from the straw pallet. He was drowning in blood now, his fever-bright eyes sunken into his skull. And all because of me, Ulric cursed bitterly. He could hardly look at the man, let alone meet his stare. “I was out.” “Out where?” “On the canals. I think I’m going to be a fisherman,” Ulric knelt beside the sickbed and poured Kell a cup of water – only to have it struck from his hand. A claw of a hand clutched at his tunic and pulled him down so their faces almost touched. Up close, Ulric could see the fear in Kell’s eyes as the man snarled at him. “Water? Petch your water. I want ale!” “I can’t do that. I can't,” Ulric choked as he wiped bloody froth from the man’s lips. He could feel the wetness of a tear on his cheek. “Then fetch your knife,” Kell snarled, and then convulsed for a moment. His wasted face was twisted into a demonic rictus. “Don’t say that.” “Why not?” “Because I don’t want you to die,” Ulric mumbled. “If not for you, I would have died with my father that night.” “It was a mistake,” Kell’s eyes flashed. “I thought having you around would make Elia happy, but it didn’t. She wanted a son of her own. If not for the false hope you gave her, she wouldn’t have taken that foul potion. If not for you, my wife would still breathe.” I killed her? Ulric was stricken with horror. “You’re no son of mine,” Kell choked. Four days later, he was dead.

[Kelpie]

Ulric: +3 Unarmed Combat, + 1 Persuasion, +3 Shield, +4 Bearded Axe, +3 Wilderness Survival, +4 Fishing Lore: Watching Someone Die, The Wilds: Merciless, Kell’s Incredibly Strong Will, Standing Your ground, Carving out of Bone, Doing Everything Necessary for Survival, Brawling in the Middle of the Wildlands, Kell’s Truth Mod Note: Wonderfully written Ulric. You have an amazing way with words. Everytime you wrote about Ulric being stabbed or sloshing through mud and water and even eating the nasty moldy bread, I could feel it. Great great work. Keep writing, because you weave stories like no other.