***
The monster came back twice in the next year, first devouring three small farming towns and then swallowing an entire tribe of snow rainids. The people of Crikland begged him to do something, but Waimbrill had no solutions, and felt useless, as if all the cleaving of his career mattered not as long as unprotected souls cried out for relief.
Patiently mixing the crushed leaves of the senuthorn plant with a few drops of distilled spirits, Waimbrill watched it bubble, releasing a foul odor like rotten eggs. He was making a concoction called senuthi, an oily substance that could be soaked into scraps of cloth pressed on aching limbs and joints. The poultice would remain cool for hours. Its biting chill grounded him in reality despite the inner turbulence assaulting his mind, and diminished the pain of arthritis, which bothered him despite his young age. He wondered if the pain was real, or if it was pathos from his cleaved affecting his body. He learned of this possibility in his training, but knowing it was possible didn’t help him at the moment.
He had grown skinnier since beginning his career as a Soulclaine, as he no longer had the likes of Zendra to cook for him, and he survived on the meager rations he provided for himself, supplemented with generous donations from his flock. His hair was a little longer, a little more brittle and thin, and had a narrow strip of steel-gray on the left side, a legacy of a fire that left four children and two adults dead. Onlookers gasped at the sight of the change after cleaving the last child, but he was so overwhelmed by loss that he fled from the scene. He didn’t notice his newly silver-striped hair until the next day.
Waimbrill tried to eat, but his appetite had been nonexistent for days. He laid in bed, drinking a nourishing, flavorless tea while the poultice cleared the ache in his knees.
He heard the snap of twigs outside his hut. Waimbrill went to the door, where stood a familiar young man, skin ruddy and smudged with dust, dirt-tangled hair dun and damp, his dismal eyes dreary and dark, skinny crooked limbs draped under drab and rags. He was Terredor, the local Delver boy who had escorted Waimbrill to his cottage on his first day in Crikland.
“Mortiss Waimbrill,” Terredor said, bowing, over-enunciating to obfuscate his Delver accent, “I have need of your kind to live. My father...” The boy choked over his words and stopped.
Waimbrill wanted to console him. He knew the boy was hurting, and alone, but he had never been good at succor. Terredor beat back a sob, and Waimbrill stepped forward, placing an arm around his shoulders.
They walked in silence towards the road, and Waimbrill wondered what became of the boy’s father, Jaxoll. He suspected it was a nefarious end for the man, who was known as a cheat and scoundrel even among his own notoriously unscrupulous kind. As they traveled, Terredor watched Waimbrill, who, not knowing what to say, only smiled lamely and stumbled on the rough road. The awkward silence was shattered by the clip-clop of horses behind him.
Four horsemen trotted in their direction. Waimbrill doffed the hood of his cloak, seeing the coat-of-arms of a noble family, the Elderlings. They stopped, armor clanking as the horses whinnied and stamped their hooves. One of the horsemen pulled back on the reins, and directed his mount towards Waimbrill, while the other three glared at Terredor. All four had ornate armor and neatly trimmed hair with thick mustaches that stretched to their dense sideburns.
“Hark, Mortiss,” the leader said.
“Captain Herwiliger,” Waimbrill said.
“We shan’t let death run late, good sir, for the end be as cruel denied when proper as dispensed when not,” the Captain said, his voice grave and sincere. He gestured for Waimbrill to sit astride the horse with him.
“Thank you, Captain, and do tell your master your behavior was proper. I humbly beseech you allow both I and the lad to ride with you,” Waimbrill said.
Captain Herwiliger recoiled at the suggestion. He sneered and said, “My men are noble men, and these horses be of noble breeding. We can not sully them with the likes of him. My master shall have my head if one of these horses be returned smelling of Delver.”
“I do not tell you your station, Captain. You should do as your lord commands. We shall do likewise, and walk.” Waimbrill said, “Let us hope your men do not die far from my cottage.”
The Captain and his men exchanged wary glances. One, the eldest it looked, his mustache shot through with gray, turned to his comrades and tossed them a purse of coins and a few bags of trinkets and tools.
“Thou mayest share a saddle with me, Delver, but hold on only to me. If thy hand doth touch this horse, I will cut it off,” the knight said, grimacing as the boy climbed on, grubby hands clenching the chain mail around his torso.
Waimbrill climbed onto Captain Herwiliger’s horse, and they set off down the road, galloping towards Crikburg.
Horseback, it was a quick trip. Not wanting to be seen with a Delver, the knights separated a few minutes from the city gates. Waimbrill was embarrassed for the boy, but Terredor didn’t seem ashamed of his treatment.
After they rode away, Terredor reached into the pocket of his dingy brown trousers, pulled out a gold plated piece of barding, and showed it to Waimbrill.
“You stole that?” Waimbrill said incredulously.
Terredor nodded, grinning. “Me pa a’ways say I ken steal anythin’ not nail down,” he said, “But this be nail to the horse.” His fingertips were bloody and torn, and he grimaced, ripping off a hunk of broken fingernail
“Eh, boy,” Waimbrill said, and stopped himself, “Terredor, I mean, have you stolen anything from me?”
Terredor shook his head. “We ne’er do steal from a M’dr’benian. ‘Tis like st’ling from past Delver, and ye don’t steal from kin. Beside’,” he said, “Your kind ne’er has anythin’ worth stealin’.”
Walking through the crowded streets towards Delverton, Waimbrill tried not to notice Terredor’s small hands darting into baskets and pockets. The busy market square teemed with humans alongside clusters of elves, dwarves and rainids, all of whom greeted Waimbrill respectfully, and almost all of whom turned their nose with scorn at Terredor.
The Delvers lived in wooden huts atop the chilly waters of Lake Crikmere. Thick boards ran between the buildings at odd angles, interspersed with steps and doors and platforms, all with no order or logic, homes on top of homes and under stairs, rickety, loudly creaking as the Delvers bounced along the beams. They were a happy folk, Waimbrill always thought when visiting them. Despite their poverty and the scorn of outsiders, they danced and sang in small groups, nimbly walking across the elevated town, jumping across houses and obstacles, laughing as they went. Brilliantly colored bottles of burgundy beet-mead flashed, omnipresent, and the cloyingly sweet odor, which he always associated with scarlet vomit due to some earlier misadventures of his own, was so strong he breathed through his mouth. He refused to internalize the harsh words said about the Delvers. Aside from the smell, he thought, they’re really very nice people. Well, and the stealing.
When they saw Waimbrill trudging along in his distinctive robes, the Delvers’ joy ended; they grew somber and bowed their heads, scrutinizing the young clansman who led Waimbrill past their homes. They whispered to each other. Children ran to parents and siblings at the sight of the Soulclaine, whose appearance could only mean that someone had died.
Waimbrill didn’t let their reaction bother him. He was used to spoiling any party he attended. Thou shalt serve a flock who love thy sacrifice, but whose visage is filled with fear.
By the time they arrived at Terredor’s hut, a small band of Delvers had gathered, watching Waimbrill open the door, revealing a filthy bed, overturned wooden cups, tattered clothing and a few battered toys. Waimbrill stepped inside, blinking, sure that some Delver trick made him miss the corpse he was expecting.
Terredor poked his head in and looked at the floor by Waimbrill’s feet. He pointed and said softly, “He was right there. I seen him ere I was sittin’ yonder, and he start a talkin’ funny, then fell and he wasn’t breathin’. He was right there
.”
Waimbrill hushed Terredor, and stepped outside, beholding an assembled crowd of mangy Delvers.
“Where is he?” Waimbrill asked. An ominous thought entered his mind as he saw the guilt-stricken faces of the crowd: they had burned the body, or thrown it into the deepest part of the lake. That was what people did when they despised a person: without a body to cleave, his soul would never be at rest, nor would the hearts of his kin.
He asked again, more insistent. “Where is the man whom my lord has claimed? None of you had the right to his body or soul.” Still no response, and his heart started pounding. This was not the kind of affront he could ignore.
“Speak now, or you can be sure your own life will end too far from my kind,” Waimbrill said, his body shaking.
A man leaning against a shack, bare chest covered with tufts of coarse hair and ropy muscles, spoke with a gritty, rasping voice, “The boy was tryin’ a shirk his ob’ig’tion to the clan, M’rtiss W’mbrill. He woulda fled. We move the body to ensure his continuin’ coop’tion. Ye shall not be kept from ye duty. Follow me, and send that soul a-rest.”
Terredor shuddered in the autumn air, shrinking towards the door of his ramshackle hut. He turned his gaze away from Waimbrill when their eyes met. The crowd parted and Waimbrill stepped toward the bare-chested man, then waited for Terredor.
“He don’t need a-come,” said the man.
“I must do as my faith requires me,” Waimbrill said, bowing to the man, “And it is a tenet of my faith that a boy should witness the soulcleaving of his father.” That wasn’t technically true, but the impertinence of these people bothered him. No one interfered with soulcleaving to satisfy worldly concerns.
The bare-chested Delver scowled and backed away. Terredor scampered to Waimbrill and stayed close as they pressed through the crowd milling quietly about on rickety boards suspended over water. The man had to stop and wait for Waimbrill to catch up, as he was slow and deliberate on the walkways, which grew narrower and more precarious farther from land.
“He will not be given an honorable burial,” the man said firmly, glaring at Terredor.
Waimbrill asked, “And why not? Was he not a part of your family?”
“Aye, but a sh’meful part indeed. Jaxoll did stole from his own clan, and gambled away his take. He did not tithe, and we did allow his hut ‘nly because Father Delver doth command us not abandon our kith, no matter their b’tr’yal,” the bare-chested man said, scowling at Terredor.
“Perhaps so,” Waimbrill said, “But yet, the man is dead, and the boy is not of age to commit such acts on his own.”
“We allow you to cleave our dead, M’rtiss, and we r’spect you for that. Howe’er, ye must let we p’lice our own. Jaxoll did own a debt to an outs’der that will d’mand r’p’yment from all Delvers if we do not make the boy ‘old to his father’s word. He be sent to Lord P’rthos this eve to work off his debt.”
Though he didn’t look, Waimbrill could sense Terredor’s muscles tighten, and his mind wandered to the cruel, aquiline face of Lord Porthos Elderling, one of the least pleasant noble lords he had ever met.
Clearing his throat, he said, “You may tell Lord Porthos that I claim the boy, and his father’s debt. He may collect it from me, and I will pay it as I shall. I’ll not pay his usury, and if Lord Pothos dislikes my terms, he may discuss the matter with whomever in his household expects to die.”
Waimbrill had never made this threat before, or even heard of it outside of folktales. The potent oath implied that all were beholden to enforce his word or risk remaining uncleaved. He hadn’t planned on saying it until it came out. He wasn’t sure Modroben would approve of this interference, but he knew Porthos’ desire for the boy stemmed from more than a mere need for another squire or serving boy, and Waimbrill couldn’t stomach the thought of allowing that to happen when he could stop it.
The bare-chested man stuttered, while Waimbrill gathered his thoughts, not sure if Modroben would allow him to use his position in this way, but deciding that, having done the deed, he might as well follow through.
The man nodded, gesturing towards the hut. Waimbrill pushed the door open, and motioned for Terredor to follow.
Jaxoll, was lean and swarthy of skin and hair. He slumped on the floor of the hut, sitting against a wall. Waimbrill leaned down to pull the corpse to the ground.
“Not in here,” said the bare-chested man, “Me mum would kill me, right would.”
Waimbrill wrapped his arms around Jaxoll’s shoulders and pulled the corpse onto the plank of wood that served as patio for the run-down home. He recited the High Prayer and surged with power, black and white, pulsating and pumping through his body as his nose bent and reshaped into a vulture beak. His mouth filled with the salty taste and oily texture of brain, followed by a rush of sharp, stabbing sadness. He felt Jaxoll’s guilt at the position he was leaving his son in, and he felt the inner, divided pain of Terredor, the love for his father who had never abandoned him, and the hate and bitterness toward the man whose carelessness had almost condemned him to a terrible fate.
Focusing on his meditative and soothing techniques, Waimbrill visualized his emotions, not as the barely controlled boiling maelstrom he felt, but as an ever-mounting pile of pebbles grinding against his own soul. He forced himself to ignore his ignoble feelings and imagine tossing the pebbles off the stilted platforms of Delverton into the dark lake waters, where they would float, bobbing and weaving under waves as they wandered away from Waimbrill’s spleen and sank into the shadowy depths.