Enough Rope, Chapter 1

Fleta did not, in fact, have much time for goats. She had left the crisp breezes, puffy clouds, and sweeping green slopes of her quaint village to run errands for her High Skald in the crowded, foggy, and briny streets of the port capital, Seagate. The fog was heavy and wet tonight, and it clung to her like thick, dew-covered webs.

After several missed turns, Fleta Thorgarick found the “Hero’s Measure” tavern. The windows spilled light and boisterous chatter into the night. The tavern sounds were muffled after a few paces and strangled by the fog after only a few more. The sign of the tavern hung in the mist: a quart mug with a stalk of wheat and three of barley. Chains holding the sign creaked slowly like a ship at anchor being pulled by the tide. Fleta darted up the stairs, her red cloak billowing behind her.

The iron loop door handle waited a moment under Fleta’s hovering hand. The leader of her temple, Daralis, encouraged her to visit inns and tell the story of last summer’s Proving of Champions. Telling her story was by far the least odious of the errands Fleta shouldered these days. She had spent her teenage years as an outcast. Too gifted for regular villagers but unappreciated by the gifted disciples of the local temple. She felt like she had languished in the shadow of the favored disciple, Alber. Now, she was hailed as a champion, telling an eager audience the dramatic story of how she slew a 600-foot tarasque. Fleta would not advertise it, but there lurked a gluttonous corner of her heart that savored the attention and praise.

However, her tale of heroism was filled with the death of Alber and many others.

A part of Fleta wanted to shrink and disappear into the mists. She put a hand to the hilt of her sword, and it buzzed. Fleta jumped a half foot and cursed.

“Log-headed, Paragon-forsaken dolt!” Fleta cried. “Will you please stop that!”

The blind, pearly eye set into the hilt stared back at her: silent, still, reproachful. Fleta had placed it in an oversized scabbard stuffed with rags to muffle its incessant buzzing. She poked at the rags with her finger, attempting to pack the sword tighter. Something was deeply wrong with it, aside from the fact that it used to be a person—of sorts. Of course, because Alexei the sword could no longer talk, it was impossible to work out exactly what the sword’s problem was.

Fleta sighed and tugged on the iron ring. She let the warm light of the tavern, the muggy air, and the sudden, loud cheer swallow her up.

Goat-herder Fleta wanted to freeze or flee in the face of the crowd, all staring at her, all expecting her to be a storybook champion, incarnated before them to spin a true-life epic. However, she had practiced just this type of entrance with High Skald Daralis. Fleta wore the serene and confident expression Daralis had shown her. With a flourish, she brushed aside her red cloak to reveal the blind eye of her sword to a gasping crowd. Above all, as Daralis had coached her after many, many failed introductions, Fleta did not say a word. Instead, she walked to the tavern keeper and quietly asked for a small beer.

“Small beer?” The tavern keeper beamed at Fleta. “I’ll have to water something down a bit. No one asks for small beer here. Most of these self-clever donkeys accuse me of not giving them ‘the full measure.’”

The tavern keeper trundled over to a cask. While he filled Fleta’s mug, the tavern keeper nodded to a short man with Lunavaran swarthy skin and long dark hair. The man stepped up to a small platform off to the side of the bar, barely a hand’s reach from the crowded tables. The Lunavaran cradled a lute in a sailor’s thickly calloused fingers. He sang a ballad about a shipwrecked sailor turning to coral at the bottom of the sea while his fiancé waited at the docks until she grew roots like a tree. His voice was gruff. His notes were true. Only the slightest waver betrayed the emotions hidden behind pale, misty blue eyes. Something about the bard—or perhaps the song—reminded Fleta of Alexei, before he was a sword and when he wasn’t a multi-limbed monster.

The ballad served to quiet the boisterous patrons. When the tragedy of the ballad grew too much for Fleta, she studied the crowd. There were many sailors and dock workers with weather-beaten faces and course-knitted overtunics. Tradesmen with softer faces but hands almost as calloused. And more than a few women, some plain, some pretty, with hands just as calloused. The women, more often than not, slipped Fleta frowning glances. They guarded their mates from the wiles of a glamorous, much-gossiped-about Thorgarick champion.

The presence of these hawk-faced women had shocked Fleta when she first began telling her tale in the taverns at her High Skald’s behest. Fleta saw herself as a simple village girl who often struggled to get attention no matter how fast she ran. Her orange hair and pale, freckled face were pleasant enough to look at, but none of the village boys seemed to appreciate them much. What these hawks saw was something else entirely.

Fleta was one of the very few Gifted individuals blessed by the Paragons with an attribute or skill beyond mortal ken. She was fast as an arrow, and for that talent, she was rewarded with free room and board in a temple dedicated to Thorgarick, the Paragon of Power, also known as the Storm Sentinel. She was celebrated by common folk and patronized by nobles, and if that wasn’t bad enough, she had slain the largest tarasque ever heard of and wore at her side a magical sword unparalleled in the kingdom or perhaps the world.

As far as those women were concerned, if Fleta so much as winked at their man, his trousers would immediately burst. Fleta wouldn’t know. She had never tried.

By this time, the last strains of the ballad were fading in the air. The silent crowd was turned expectantly to Fleta. She stood up and walked to the small stage as the bard packed up his lute. Fleta thanked him quietly. On a lark, she winked at the bard.

The bard stared icily back.

Fleta took a deep breath and turned to the crowd. “Thanks so much to… to…” Fleta turned back towards the bard, who had already disappeared. “To our music. And to y’all for coming here.” She curtsied to a thumping of tables and stomping of feet. Finally, she threw back her hood to an outburst of whistles and claps.

“I am Fleta Thorgarick,” she announced. “And this is the story of The Proving of Champions and the slaying of the 600-foot tarasque. I dedicate it to all those who died because of vile and conspiring sorcerers.”

The dedication was yet another of Daralis’s touches. With that over, Fleta launched into the story of how she and other champions had gone through the magical Gate at Lyntre into another world for the ritual Proving of Champions, how they had been trapped there by conniving sorcerers and mind-reading mushrooms, and how many noble friends and allies had sacrificed so that she could slay the tarasque and win their freedom.

As the tarasque chased her for the last time, roaring in the darkness, the crowd drummed on the tables and stomped their feet. She could feel the floor shaking below her, and it became the tremors of the behemoth tarasque. Fleta had not killed it. It had come back. She had never killed it. It was a thousand nightmares come back to life.

For a moment, she froze, and the drumming slowed. Fleta hesitated like that time the tarasque had almost killed her. Alexei buzzed at her hip, rattling in his sheath, and Fleta swore. The now silent crowd looked from Fleta to her sword and back. Fleta’s cheek flushed red, and she launched into the ending of her story.

Fleta finished to enthusiastic cheers. She curtsied. She tried to force her lips into a smile but couldn’t tell if it was a grimace. Then, over the fading applause and hushed murmurs, a sour-faced man from the back shouted.

“I don’t believe it!”

Fleta stopped, one foot on the stage, the other on the sticky tavern floor. She turned a confused and wrinkled brow across the crowd.

One of the man’s companions punched him in the shoulder. “Shut it.”

“Na’mean, she doesn’t look like much, does she?” The sour-faced man protested. “An’ if she so fast, she kills a 600-foot beast, why hasn’t she caught all the sorcerers wot trapped ’em? Why ain’t all the gallows full of stretched necks? Why ain’t there a pile of sorcerers cut in half but the falchin?”

Patrons glanced her way. Fleta wanted to rush over there and chop that braying ass’s table in half. She wished the sorcerers would face her right here in the bar, and she would cut them down for everyone to see. She wished they were all here, and she would chop them to bits and return to her quiet mountain pastures.

Instead, she frowned, Alexei buzzed again, and she swore again. Short of physical violence, it was probably the most honest answer she could give. A few patrons laughed, and most turned back to their companions. A scattering of hawk-faced women sent silent, lingering smirks and turned before rejoining their conversations. The tavern keeper offered her a stiff drink on the house. Fleta shook her head, paid for the use of a room, and stumbled out into the mist.

If anything, the fog was thicker, so thick Fleta could feel it sliding down her throat as she breathed. She streamed muffled profanities and pulled Alexei from his sheath. The falchion blade was a strange, metallic, boney-white with gray swirls. When bloodied, the runnel at the back of the blade seemed to drink in the blood, guiding it to a black hilt with a guard formed from two outstretched arms. The blood would disappear at the handle until a portion dripped from a pearl set into the pommel.

Most people referred to the blade as the Weeping Falchion, but Fleta still used his name: Alexei. He had been a shapeshifter in life, and he still was as a blade. He could shrink down to a dagger or extend his handle until he became a glaive-like polearm. But in any form, he was buzzing cretin.

“I have half a mind to toss you into the sea right now,” Fleta hissed. She gripped the sword until her fingers ached, but the sword was indifferent. 

“I know I swore to keep you, to never give you to anyone else,” Fleta continued. “But I’m tired. I’m so tired. I’m tired of telling stories and going to meetings for Daralis. I just want to rid the kingdom of these sorcerers and be done. I feel like I’m swinging in the shadows.”

Alexei buzzed.

“And that doesn’t help!” Fleta shouted. “Look, you can’t talk. I’m sorry. But this buzzing is not helpful! Why can’t you just… be a sword! Just be a sword, and let me do my work!”

Alexei tugged at her hands, spinning her around. Almost too late, Fleta realized the sword was straining at the mist-veiled form of a passerby. In horror, she wrestled Alexei back into his sheath as he squirmed like a fish on a line.

“Sorry!” Fleta called to the shadow. The shadow stood still, shrouded in mist and the suggestion of a cloak with a deep hood. Fleta’s stomach began to float with uneasy lightness. “I’ll just… go.” She took a step back.

“Fleta,” called the shadow. A rough male voice blended with a whooshing sound, like the ceaseless crash of waves. The mist between them thinned until Fleta found herself in a claustrophobic circle of night, facing a figure in a gray cloak that dripped with fog. “I can help you, but I need something in return.”

Fleta’s right hand crept down to her belt and towards her sword. “H-h-help me do what?”

“Find the individuals responsible for the attack on the Lyntre temple.” The voice crashed over her with icy coldness and drew her forward like an undertow.

The creature before Fleta was clearly not Gifted like her. Those with a gift from the Paragons had magnified abilities but couldn’t work magic. They were extraordinarily strong or fast or clever or skilled in a weapon or a trade. None could command the mist or speak with a voice of waves. Such a creature could only be a sorcerer. Fleta had encountered sorcerers before. They were corrupted men or women with impossible abilities: one could cause pain with a gesture, and another could turn invisible. Neither was anything like the force of nature before her. She was both terrified of the ominous specter and strangely drawn to it, unable to flee.

However, Fleta was a champion. She wasn’t about to flee. She was about to get revenge. Fleta dashed to one side, fast as an arrow in flight, drawing Alexei, who, in turn, drew her directly towards the heart of the shadowy creature.

Before she could impale the shadow, the street was full of water. She slid past the figure. The mist crashed in on her as she crashed into a pile of broken crates in an alley. On her feet in an instant, she splashed back into the street. She turned, slicing at the vaguest impressions of shadows in the mist. Alexei strained and stretched into the darkness and then fell still in her hand. Only the faintest light diffused through the fog from the inn across the street.

The next moment, Fleta was lifted off her feet by a sudden gale wind. The loose folds of Fleta’s navy tunic filled up like sails. Fleta hung in the grip of the wind as the gray-clad figure stepped into the short radius of her vision.

“I will let you down,” came the crashing voice of the sea. “if you swear to finish our conversation peacefully.”

Fleta nodded as the wind ripped her orange hair from its loose braids. Her orange hair and red cloak streamed behind her like a flame about to be extinguished by the wind. The wind dissolved, and Fleta fell onto the cobblestone street. While Fleta scrambled to her feet, the gray figure stooped to pick up Alexei. Alexei squirmed and twisted in the man’s hands, but his grip was firm as he slowly offered the pommel to Fleta. Fleta reluctantly pulled the blade from the figure and returned Alexei to his sheath.

“They are building a gallows for you,” Fleta said. “The noose will tighten around your neck.”

“It tightens around us all,” replied the man. “Is that what you would call ‘peaceful?’”

Fleta snorted. “Say your piece and begone.”

“Those gallows you speak of, they are for the sorcerers who attacked your temple last year and trapped you in the Jungle, are they not?”

“They are.”

“I had no part in that attack,” The figure stepped closer. Mist hung densely before his face, but she could make out the dim form of a rusted locket in the shape of a heart upon his breast. “I am not your enemy.”

“My friends don’t sneak up on me in the mist,” Fleta spat back.

“Then consider me an ally.”

“Why would I be foolish enough to do that?”

“Because I have reason to believe that the same oathbound who attacked your temple have taken a person of importance to me.” Oathbound, Fleta thought. The word sorcerers use for each other—as if she needed more evidence that the man before her was an enemy. The man continued.

“I will give you information to aid your search in exchange for one promise.”

“What?”

“You swear to protect and never to harm the woman that they have taken. Even if she has become a… sorcerer.”

Fleta narrowed her eyes. “If all your information proves true, I swear I shall protect and not harm this woman.”

“Hmm. Close enough, I suppose.” The figure paused. “Are you a woman of your word?”

Fleta spat. “How dare you, a sorcerer, insult my honor!”

“You can barely comprehend how seriously the oathbound take their promises. And that’s not an answer.”

“Yes! I keep my word.”

“Let us hope. The woman they took was a Lunavaran by the name of Esperanza. Straight, dark hair, brown eyes. She lived in the dock district with an old uncle who sold nets to fishermen. Find the sorcerers that took her, and you’ll find your culprits.”

“How can I trust your information?” Fleta folded her arms. “Perhaps this is a trap?”

“Because I’m counting on you to keep her safe,” the man replied. “But as a gesture of good faith, know this. You will be attacked by oathbound before the week is out. Be on your guard.”

“Attacked? By what sorcerers?” Fleta asked. “What are their powers?”

“I don’t know. They are being sworn in tonight. It’s the only reason I can trust that the eyes of the Spider are not upon me as we speak.”

“Are we done?” Fleta asked.

“Yes. Tell no one of our meeting.”

Fleta flew at the man again with her hand on her sword. The mists swirled around her, the roar of the sea filled her ears, and a moment later, she found herself in an empty street without a trace of fog. She zipped up and down the side streets and alleys and found no trace of the man in the gray cloak.

Fleta wandered the dark streets of Seagate without finding a trace of the sorcerers she sought or the mist-clad man. Finally, she returned to the Hero’s Measure. Fleta’s sleep was troubled by nightmares of a giant chimera chasing her through a dark, flooded jungle. The beast howled and called the waters to cover her. She felt the water pulling her down with clutching hands until her last breath bubbled out of her. The final thing she saw before she woke was a dark archway looming in the shadows of the deep.

The next day dawned gray and salty. Fleta did not hurry to peel herself off of the straw mattress. She had an appointment with the chamberlain of the Seagate Thorgarick temple, and temples in the capital operated on noble time: late nights of entertainment and carousing, halls deserted of disciples in the morning.

Each temple was dedicated to a Paragon: men and women of such legendary ability that they had ascended from marble palaces and temples built by human hands into the Sky Halls. Legends told of the first and strongest Paragons fighting off invasions of monsters sent by the angry gods of other worlds. From their lofty thrones in the Sky Halls, the Paragons graced mortals with exceptional talents. Each Paragon granted gifts within the domain of their own personal abilities. Thorgarick was the Paragon of Power, so those with extraordinary strength or speed were said to have Thorgarick’s gift.

The role of a temple was to collect the gifted and train them as disciples so they could use their gifts for the glory of their Paragon—and the glory of the temple. Once the gifted were deemed ready, many made careers in grand coliseum competitions or other entertainment for the masses. Most gifted had noble patrons or worked as highly compensated guild craftsmen. Some temples, like those of Valcot or Baltir, were functioning guilds in their own right.

The head of each temple, known as a high skald, and perhaps a few of their closest aides, worked directly on temple business and were sustained by the earnings of the others. Because of Fleta’s exceptional speed, High Skald Daralis kept her as a messenger for the temple of Thorgarick at Lyntre. Fleta would rather have been running races—if avoiding the temple altogether and raising goats was not an option.

Sighing, Fleta dressed and trotted to the fortress where the Seagate palace and the eight grand temples overlooked the capital. As Fleta climbed the avenues above Market, the muddy cobbled streets became cleaner and smoother. A large limestone wall shielded the Bluff district from the unruly smells and masses below. The guards at the gates recognized her and let her pass with a nod.

The air of the Bluff was as close to the crisp, clean mountain air as Fleta could get in Seagate. Most of Seagate had a sewer system, but some neighborhoods reeked to make the Paragons weep. Thanks to its elevation, the Bluff’s erudite drains caused no such stink among the temples or manors. Any problems with its sewage were smelt on the way down to Cesstide. Its high walls blunted the saltiness of the sea breezes, and flowered gardens in front of manor houses perfumed the air.

Fleta walked slowly towards Hinrick Fountain, where the palace and the eight grand temples surrounded a green with a magnificent Valcot fountain, trimmed grass, and delicate blossoms. Instead of the convenient limestone, the palace and temples were mainly made of granite or marble, hauled by Thorgarick strongmen in conjunction with Valcot machines. No grander collection of temples could be found anywhere in the world. The Thorgarick temple, in particular, stunned Fleta with massive porches, domes, and its plethora of giant statues and reliefs. Some were said to have been molded by the legendary, strong hands of Benwel Thorgarick.

Between Fleta and the Thorgarick temple loomed an enormous, empty set of gallows, ready for a dozen men. Fleta paused at the incongruity of it. The rude wooden structure intruded upon flowers, marble, statues, and gilding. She remembered the skeptic from the night before: Why ain’t all the gallows full of stretched necks?

Fleta bristled and marched past. She strode up the broad, terraced temple steps, between statue gardens and gray-gold marble pillars, to massive double doors of ax-breaker wood. The Thorgarick temple in her native Lyntre was but a shadow of the great Thorgarick temple at Seagate. She knocked, heaving up a massive iron ring and letting it fall to crash on a large stud. It was a door built for the use of Thorgarick strong men and for the intimidation of weaker ones. Fleta was not the former and refused to be the latter.

Enough time passed that Fleta considered lifting the ring again when the doors creaked, and a temple swornman winched the door open. Next to the man stood the temple steward, who wore navy silks with elaborate golden chains of office and ornate brocade in jagged lightning patterns. Corpulent cheeks framed his beady eyes, and his lank gray hair fell in a ring around his balding head.

“Ah, Disciple Fleta, again.” He frowned as he spoke. “What a pleasant surprise. Do come in.”

“Steward,” Fleta said with a nod. “I believe High Skald Daralis sent word. I would like to speak with Chamberlain Parfrey.”

“High Steward, if you please, disciple.” He turned, nose held aloft. “This way, please.”

Fleta followed him with a sigh. While this steward was bedecked with more gold than all the gifted from her temple combined, technically, the gifted disciples of a temple outranked any of the ungifted men and women sworn into the service of the temple.

The steward led her to a cramped room with a stool and a candle. The room might have been a broom closet repurposed since her last visit, precisely to convey the high steward’s feelings about her. Fleta waited an hour, likely half of which had elapsed before the steward notified the chamberlain of her arrival. A typical temple would have a single steward, usually a sworn man or woman. But as the most prominent seat of Thorgarick power, the Thorgarick temple at Seagate had a bewildering number of stewards, including both the unctuous high steward—who was a sworn man—and the chamberlain, who was a disciple.

After a curt knock, the steward led her to a lavish study. The floor was clothed with thick, elaborately woven carpets in deep saturated reds, blues, and greens, flourished with deep plush chairs. Bookshelves of exotic wood clad the walls from floor to ceiling. A desk in the corner seemed untouched this morning.

Parfrey welcomed Fleta towards a seat near the fireplace and a low table. He stifled a yawn, but his blue eyes were clear in a face wrinkled with laugh lines. Despite his age and a slight, abrupt paunch, he had a spring in his step and a crispness to his gesture of welcome. His hands were large and veiny.

“Come in, come in. Sit,” he said in a warm, creaky voice. “The kitchen will send tea in a minute.”

Fleta moved with deliberate slowness towards the couch. Walking at a typical speed for her was a chore, especially after such a long wait. “Did you get Daralis’ letter?”

“I did, I did.” Parfrey sat himself across from Fleta and nodded. “I did indeed raise the topic with the other chamberlains and the sheriff. As you can see by the scaffolds, they are confident we will find the sorcerers quickly. And we will ensure their punishment is very public to keep such a tragedy from occurring again.” He glanced towards the door as a servant came in with a tea kettle and cups, pouring tea for them. “Thank you, dear,” Parfrey smiled and patted the servant’s hand.

“I, uh, appreciate the scaffold,” Fleta pressed. “But are we any closer to finding them?”

“The sheriff assures me they have made significant discoveries but that the matter is best kept secret until it is resolved.”

“Discoveries about the sorcerers meeting in Seagate? From the intelligence Daralis gathered for our last meeting?”

“Oh dear,” Parfrey shook his head. “I wouldn’t take that ‘intelligence’ too seriously. Sorcerers are known for leaving misleading letters and clues. Unless you could share more about the… source of your intelligence, I’m afraid it would be hard for the sheriff to take it seriously.”

Fleta did not actually know the source of the intelligence. She felt stupid, but she also trusted Daralis. Daralis’ gift was the ability to absorb a thousand details in an instant, which made her exceptionally good at spotting lies, fakes, and forgeries.

“Um, no,” Fleta replied. “I can’t give you more information at this time.”

“That’s too bad,” Fleta felt sudden sadness for disappointing this grandfatherly old man. “Was there anything else?”

“I-” Fleta opened her mouth, eager to help Parfrey speed up the investigation. Last night’s encounter flashed before her eyes, with the image of the rusty heart locket. Tell no one of our meeting. If she pointed this kindly old man at the wrong target, she might make a mess of the investigation and ruin her only lead. “I… don’t have anything else. I wish I had more.”

“I’m sorry, I have no news for you, then,” Parfrey smiled. “I know you’re supposed to be very fast, but I hate the thought of you wasting your time coming here when I have no news. I’ll send word to Daralis when we have more to discuss.”

The high steward lurched out from behind a bookshelf, where he had apparently been waiting the entire time. Fleta almost spit out her tea.

“May I escort her out, Disciple Chamberlain?”

“You may escort us out, High Steward.” Parfrey nodded. “Sorcerers are not the only news worth having. Tell me, Fleta, how is the Lyntre harvest this year? How long will the passes will stay open, do you think?”

Parfrey guided Fleta with a familiar hand on her shoulder. He talked of shipments of goods he planned to send to Lyntre and asked if they needed an extra disciple or two to guard the Gate. The steward followed them like an ugly shadow, glaring at Fleta until she finally descended the front terraces and waved goodbye.

Outside in the cool morning air, Fleta’s head cleared a bit, and her stomach felt even more uneasy about the steward’s presence during their talk. She also feared the hateful man would poison Parfrey against her. Fleta might be unable to stop him, but she could perhaps catch a little of his words before they closed the large temple doors. Fleta zipped out of Hinrick Green and then doubled back behind the temples. She darted between the pillars of the Thorgarick temple. She craned her neck to spot any servants that might report her, but she found none. Although the steward and chamberlain’s conversation was difficult to hear over the creak of the heavy doors, Fleta caught their last words as the steward grunted, winching the door shut himself.

“You should do something about Fleta,” grumbled the steward. “She’s stirring up trouble!”

“What, all the talk of sorcerers in Seagate and secret plots?” replied Parfrey with a warm scoff. “She’s doing us a favor. We have empty scaffolds to fill! The nobles and guild masters are as giddy as children on Grace Day. I just pray that we have enough rope.”