Chapter 2

Intruder

The home of Danel Duscor

Location: The Outskirts of Saint Chah's River

Country/Territory: Nidashia.

Continent: West Brastol

Planet: Shudo

3030 [505] : 04 : 27

The drought continues. It’s so dry he can smell the steam from the kettle a full minute before the whistle pricks his ears. The hermit smiles appreciatively and rises from his aged but comfortable armchair.

At first glance, Danel Duscor is a typical member of his people: the Tanese, a sub-people of the elves. He stands just over two metres in height. His skin is the hue and shine of copper. Despite this, it is soft as flesh to the touch. His hair is long, blue, and straight, and also looks metallic or perhaps wet but, in truth, is soft as silk to the touch.

His ears are broad, with sharp points at the tips, poking out of his mop of blue hair. His face is angular with high cheekbones and a long, straight nose. Soft blue stubble graces his chin and cheeks. His eyes are typical of his people: bright red pupils sitting in a white ring of an iris with a black sclera.

The main thing that stands out about Danel is the heavy, jagged scar covering his left half of his face. It continues down his neck, over most of his chest, and his left arm. The last remnants of a Pleudbraxen primetal grenade that blasted him full of silver and copper powder a little over a week before The War finally ended. A war that began before he was even born. A war that took everything and continues to take all these years later. He’s only thirty-one, but the wounds have left him feeling far older. And not just the external ones.

He steps out into the small hallway. The home is incongruous in its construction, but it suits him. He has few requirements. A roof above his head and a place to brew his potions is more than sufficient. Yet, over the last few months, he’s had to add to it as necessary. Initially, it was a simple hut with a firepit in the centre for cooking and brewing. That became the kitchen when he added a study for his books. When the nearby townsfolk realised he had a talent for healing, he was ‘forced’ to quickly convert the study into a bedroom for guests and patients. Consequently, he made another study requiring a proper hallway to link the three rooms.

He pauses at a note on his wall he doesn’t remember. It’s one of the lingering vestiges of the Grand Orbital War (or, more commonly, just “The War”). Back then, soldiers would leave notes for each other on the walls of the fortifications, detailing new developments in enemy movements and positions. This practice ensured that anything forgotten during debriefs was still available to the new guards.

Tesá ill. Prepare soup and brew–

Danel draws his pen and crosses out the note. That’s been taken care of. It was little more than sniffles. All the girl needed was some pidi’ root soup and three cups of an herbal tea daily.

The kettle’s whistle dies as it’s plucked from the burner. Out the window above the counter, he can see the glow of the nearby town of Saint Chah’s River in the distance. It’s too far away to see in daylight, but its lights dominate the night sky.

He dislikes the place. He understands the illusion of safety that cities provide. He used to enjoy them. He supposes it is better than Pieque. That was where he first wound up after the War. He thought it would be like going home. Not after the War. He could never feel at ease there. Not anymore. The constant lights and noises were too similar to the screams of the dying, the hiss of runeshot cracking past his head, and the explosions of barrage.

It’s the damn elven influence that brought it here, even though the town itself is made up of mostly Sylnus. When the elves first came to Shudo, they brought diseases of many kinds. Some were physical. Others were societal. At least the sylnus and lepnus have done better than the feltus did…

His eyes drift to the other sources of artificial light in view. The closest spot of light indicates the home of the Bércün family, and just past that, the zwefDrerlaks. The Bércüns are faiblin, small humanoids scarcely half his height. They’re former slaves who fled north during The War. They were freed when invading Gelvsian forces liberated the land their owners had and burned it, freeing the slaves. Mr Bércün then joined the Gelvsian army in gratitude. Unfortunately, the Brastolians still ‘won’ that phase of the war, and the Gelvsians abandoned those they’d freed. The Bércüns had nowhere else to go, so they came here.

They have two children, Tesá and Shery. Tesá is seven, while Shery is still a newborn. He sighs, thinking of tiny Shery. He delivered her as the only person in the area with any sort of training in healing. She was coming out feet first, and it nearly killed Mrs Bércün. As faiblin are less than half his size, it was almost impossible with his comparatively massive hands to adjust the child to properly be birthed, but he managed it.

Somehow…

Then came the realisation when Shery emerged. Her body was so tiny, even for a faiblin. Her little feet barely kicked. She didn’t even cry.

And she had no arms…

A congenital amputee. His heart sank at the sight. It will be a difficult life for her, one already made so by simply being a faiblin living in a territory so close to the ECB. It is not part of the Commonwealth yet, but he’s certain it’s only a matter of time. The Brastolians have had their eyes on westward expansion since the first colonists landed a rotano and a half ago.

He has to admire Tesá a little. She has a spirit for a child her age. She’s going to take on the whole world someday. If she wants something or wants to do something, she will find a way to make it happen—even without the wings faiblin are supposed to have—those not born into slavery, anyway.

He pauses in his work again at another odd memory of that harrowing day. He couldn't be entirely sure, as the small child rarely opened them, but he could have sworn Shery had purple eyes. It may have been a trick of the light, but they were definitely dark, while the rest of the Bércüns have grey irises. It must have been a mistake.

He lets his mind wander from those particular dark thoughts. He looks to the other house. The zwefDrerlaks are elves like him, but meltians. They’re shorter by about a third of a metre, with blue skin, blue eyes, and golden hair. They also have two children, twins, born a little over eight months ago. One’s a boy named Makris, the other a girl named Mursa.

The zwefDrerlaks are originally from Eujelland on Shuuyer. Many people like them moved to Shudo after The War. Some came here to the remaining native Sylnus lands. Few dare travel to the frozen tracts the lepnus call home. That’s all the better for the lepnus, in his opinion.

Others have travelled to the more ‘civilised’ cities like Pieque far to the south. Living here, on the border of civilisation and vast wilderness, works fine for him. He may be well on his way to being a true hermit, but there are still small creature comforts of society he still grudgingly enjoys.

Despite being Eujelish, the zwefDrerlaks were still caught up in The War but not in direct combat. They worked in a Pleudbraxen runeshot factory that the Pleudbraxens had hired before The War to design and create arms. The pair weren’t allowed to return home when the final phase of The War broke out. Under Emperor Harevaspo Faltocheustu, all firm employees were deemed “necessary to the war effort” and forced to remain. When The War ended, the pair left Shuuyer immediately and came to Shudo.

Danel can tell the pair are uncomfortable anytime he is in their presence. They’re not proud of what they did, but everyone must do what they can to survive. He’s not sure what he’d do in their shoes. He doesn’t view his service as all that different if he’s being honest. In that conflagration, there were only villains, pawns, and victims. All that differed was the villainy’s scale.

Danel served in the 2nd Group of the 1st Section, 1st Body, fighting under his own father, Warmaster of the Realm, Arsurs Duscor, the hero of the Grand Orbital War. The man who sent his own sons into battle time and again. Neither son came home.

The world freezes. The world outside his window goes out of focus. He can only see his reflection now. There’s a storm coming at last. There’s a flash of light in the distance. The world blackens.

ADVANCE! It’s just barrage, you cowards! Steady! In line! In line! Halt! Present–CAVALRY! Break right! BREAK RIGHT! FUCK!

He blinks. Sight returns as the sound of bugles and shouting fades. It passes, and he resumes breathing. He becomes aware that his entire body has been tensed, his muscles locked.

He takes a deep breath to relax. It’s over. It’s over now. Move on. Move the fuck on…

Danel looks back into his glowing red and white eyes in the window. He sees them darting in his peripheral vision as his gaze moves to the left side of his reflection. The shining silver and copper lines etched across his face from the primetal barrage shell.

It should have been him. Father always did like Joma more. Joma actually liked Father, period. Joma wanted to be a good little soldier.

He shakes his head, regaining his senses and returning his attention to his tea. He grinds the leaves in his mortar and pestle, perhaps more vigorously than necessary, releasing their juices. The faint aroma tingles his nose. He deposits the ground leaves into the teapot, pouring in the steaming water. This fully brings out the scents, filling the kitchen and making his senses flutter.

It’s his blend of sneshberries, rushchar leaves, and saddiya root. The berries clear the sinuses, easing breathing, which makes it easier for the rushchar to work as a mild inhaled sedative. The saddiya is a hallucinogen that aids the mind in dreaming when imbibed.

It’s the only way he can truly rest any more. Nothing blocks out the memories of the War, but dealing with it becomes easier under the influence of his teas. The terrors don’t seem so terrible, and the horrors are not so horrible.

He sets the teapot and a cup on a tray. The infused steam filling his nostrils is working already. There’s a faint skitter behind him as he exits the kitchen, bringing a soft smile to his face. The lazartas–small burrowing creatures with a hard exoskeleton and dozens of legs–are back.

While most consider lazartas a nuisance, the sound of life in his tiny home pleases him. He likes the sounds of life in his house. Especially when the lazartas have been surprisingly quiet despite the mild drought. Times like this usually lead to a sharp increase in the tiny critters’ numbers. Strangely, he’s not heard more of them. He doesn’t like being around other people, but animals are fine with him.

He returns to his study. He closes his eyes in reverence for the combined scents of the tea and his books. This will be a pleasant rest.

Instead of his chair, he heads to a brightly embroidered rug in a corner. He kneels reverently upon it, then sets down the tray. He exhales deeply, bowing low over the teapot's spout, inhaling the steam slowly.

This will be a deep meditation he learned from capcus foots in the ranks. He asked one for advice on how to deal with the horrors. It never affected them as much as he and his fellow elves. He was then invited to one of their rituals and taught their meditative secrets. It’s worked perfectly ever since. For those glorious moments of meditation, his mind comes as close as it can to forgetting.

He rises again and reaches across to a small stand nearby. A little wooden box sits upon it, a delicate handle on its side, and an intricately etched stone ring rests on a spindle. He puts on a glove and lifts a silver pick, setting its point lightly in one of the ring’s etchings.

Satisfied, he winds the handle. As he stops, the stone ring begins to spin. He removes the glove and closes his eyes as a delicate chiming song fills the room. Enjoying the music, he blindly pours some tea with practised hands and raises the cup to his lips. He’s waited the perfect amount of time, just the right temperature to enjoy.

His ears twitch, and his eyes open. There was another skittering, much closer. The lazartas have returned. That’s strange. The lazartas usually confine themselves to the kitchen, where the food is. His sharp eyes scan the room, but he sees no movement, and his keen ears pick up no further sound.

He closes his eyes and prepares to take a sip. He focuses on the music and the scent of the tea. In minutes, the saddiya will dance with his mind and lull him into a trance.

Kikikiki.

His eyes pop open a second time. That was no lazarta. What in Bora’s name is in his house?

He slowly lowers his lids, keeping them open a mere slit. He takes slow breaths, tuning his ears for any little sound. His eyes scan back and forth behind his barely open lids. The seconds tick by in his mind.

Kikiki.

It came from the top of the farthest bookshelf. His red and white eyes blaze brightly, and in an instant, the bookshelf hops away from the wall, tipping on its side slightly. The books remain in place as though nothing at all were amiss.

He stares in disbelief. There’s nothing here. Nothing fell off the top of the shelf. No, wait, there is something, but not on the shelf. In the wall, just above the top of the bookshelf, is a distinct hole, far too big for lazartas.

Interesting.

He purses his lips in thought, and the bookshelf settles back like nothing has happened. Something’s wrong. Lazarta don’t make such sounds. They don’t have vocal cords. Instead, they make a shrill buzzing by drumming their myriad legs rapidly.

He pads slowly to the doorway. There it is: a tiny skitter from the bedroom. He slinks over and peers inside. There is no movement, but there has been a disturbance. The blanket on the bed is ruffled slightly. He moves closer. Unless he’s much mistaken, it’s a tiny trail of footprints going from the left side to the right.

He sets the tip of his index finger in one little footprint, then his middle finger in another. Whatever’s in his house is scarcely bigger than his hand. What’s more, it’s bipedal.

He kneels, lining up the footprints. They cross the bed, running straight from the chest of drawers to the old wardrobe. He lowers himself flat to the floor.

Beneath the chest of drawers, he spots another hole. He looks under the bed, spying a third opening in the shadows below the wardrobe. It’s a clever little thing and a bit of a burrower.

It must have returned to the kitchen. Almost as soon as the thought enters his mind, he hears his icebox door closing. What in The Vau?

Whatever he’s after is perceptive and knows his house as well as he does. How long has it been living in his walls? Judging by its size, he suddenly grows suspicious that this little intruder is behind the missing lazartas. Yet, how did it open the icebox if it's so tiny?

He rises and makes his way to the room’s entrance. Instead of leaving, he sits in it. He will spot it if it tries to sneak back via the hole or the kitchen door. He takes a deep breath, then begins humming softly and sweetly. It’s an old lullaby the capcus sing to their young to help them sleep—something else he picked up in the War.

He keeps it up, his eyes darting between the kitchen door and the hole. Minutes pass, but he remains diligent and continues the soothing tones. He wishes it no harm; pure curiosity guides him.

Movement in the hole. No, not just movement. There’s a faint light. Little pinpricks of purple light appear. What in the Vau? He squints, trying to focus correctly.

Yes, it’s a face. He can see just well enough to tell it’s grey with brilliant purple eyes.

Something about that strikes him. Purple? Strange... nothing he’s aware of on the Vau has purple eyes like that. Nothing but Paragons, of course, but only elves can be Paragons, and the little face in the hole is not elven.

He continues the song, hoping to coax the creature out. It keeps watching, seemingly just as interested in him. Is it sapient? He pauses his humming and slowly smiles.

The eyes vanish at once. His face falls in disappointment. He’ll have to get more assertive. He picks up the heavy doorstop and crosses to the wardrobe. He sets the lumpy rock in front of the hole. It will at least slow the little sneak down should it try and return this way.

Satisfied, he heads to the kitchen. Peering inside, he spies the wrappings from the fresh shanks he’d carved yesterday. A trail of blood leads to one of the cupboards. That must be where the other hole lies.

Alongside the meat’s wrapping is a half-opened block of cheese. The little sneak can move fast. A noticeable bite has been taken from the cheese, but judging by the off-white splatter on the floor beside it, the thief had not found it palatable.

Danel scratches his chin in thought. Okay, so the little sneak doesn’t like dairy. Then again, even he must admit that howberry-infused takialk cheese is an acquired taste. Makris refuses to try it.

He notes the wrappings. They were picked open, not torn. His little interloper has hands and dextrous fingers. That might explain how it had accessed the icebox. The handle and the edge of the counter are about level with each other. It must have held onto the handle and pushed off the counter with its feet.

He slides inside as quietly as he can. He listens but can’t hear any sound of the doorstop moving. So, the tiny intruder must be somewhere here.

He scans the room as he fully enters. The only other thing out of place is a tin of frosted biscuits he keeps for Makris when he or his family visits. One or two are nibbled, but as with the cheese, they are not to the sneak’s taste. That must have been the first little sound he heard.

Curiouser and curiouser.

He does not launch a thorough search. Instead, he walks to the kitchen table and gracefully sits in one of the chairs. He’s twenty-six phases now. He has the patience. He can outwait the intruder. Minutes tick by. As they do, he grows grudgingly impressed. Whatever’s in his house is fairly determined not to be found.

Something white moves swiftly across one of the counters. Ah-hah! He rises from his chair but stops halfway.

It’s a vegetable, specifically a klig. Out of the corner of his eye, a blur of grey and red rounds the door frame into the hallway. The vegetable was a distraction. Clever, little one. Very clever.

He leaps into the doorway, his frustration growing as he does not catch the sight of further movement. He was too slow.

He crouches, rubbing his chin, thinking. It makes the most sense for it to have headed back to the bedroom. Had it gone for the study, he’s sure he would have reached the doorway in time to see it. That doesn’t mean it isn’t in the study. He only blocked the passage between the bedroom and the kitchen. It may have swung back into the bedroom and into the path it has carved into the study.

It’s sapient that much he’s sure of. It threw the vegetable to distract him before making its move. He rubs his head. He’s starting to feel toyed with.

He twists his lips, pondering his options. He’s about to rise when something new catches his eye. The tassels of the hallway area rug are disturbed. It’s possible it was him, yet it feels out of place. He’d moved quite carefully when he came to the kitchen.

He leans down, looking closely. There, barely perceptible, are five tiny scratches. Like the bedspread, a little trail of five-clawed tracks leads back to the kitchen.

So, the little sneak has claws and appears to be five-toed, which should make it mammalian. This keeps getting more interesting.

He returns his investigation to the rug. The trail turns sharply left there, heading straight for the wall. Above the wainscotting are four sets of tiny marks. Some are barely visible, while others are more noticeable and larger. It’s a set of hands and feet.

They go straight up, all the way to the top. He furrows his brow. It has scaled the wall and done so with blinding speed. He scans the ceiling, but there are no holes he can see.

Where in The Vau had it gone? His eyes drift to the hanging lamp. Sure enough, ever so slightly, it is swinging. Got you.

Danel raises two fingers and aims them at the lamp, twisting them in a little circle. The light illuminates at once, and a tiny squeak emanates from the tinted shade. He glimpses a sprawled silhouette before it curls into an egg shape. The lamp starts swinging in earnest.

“Caught you, little sneak,” Danel mutters, unable to help but feel smug.

He senses no malice in the creature. If anything, he would judge its ‘crime’ as being far too successful a lazarta catcher. The little egg in the lamp doesn’t respond to his words. The poor thing’s terrified and probably blinded. Danel raises his fingers again, twisting them the other way, dousing the rune’s light.

“There now,” he coos gently. “No more light... you’re safe... I’m not going to hurt you.”

The lamp keeps gently rocking. He can no longer see the silhouette, but he hears the barely audible clinks of the tiny claws on the glass.

“That’s it...”

A pair of minuscule hands appear, gripping the edge of the lamp. They’re three-fingered plus a thumb and pale grey, with an off-white palm. A tiny claw is at the end of each, just long enough to facilitate climbing his walls. Moreover, unless he’s very much mistaken, they’re scaled.

His heart aches to see the little hands shaking, clearly afraid.

“I promise... not going to hurt you...”

The purple eyes reappear. Indeed, they are purple. Bright violet irises set in white scleras with tiny round pupils. They are set in a soft-grey head, with a faint purple stripe running from the tip of the nose to the forehead. The head is hairless and scaled as the hands are. A ring of tiny but perceptible bumps border the top of her little head, clearly the start of what will become horns.

The tiny snout fully appears. Its slitted nostrils twitch and flare rapidly, smelling him. Danel’s heart sinks, and pity overwhelms him.

“Oh, you poor little thing...”

Now he’s sure she cannot understand him. He’s never seen one on Porsia before, though he’s aware that some do live in places on the East Coast. Still, that’s over eight hundred kilometres away. What in The Vau is she doing here?

Danel raises his hands as slowly as he can. He clears his throat, making his voice a falsetto. Maybe she will appreciate his tone if she can’t understand his words. She had responded positively to his humming earlier. He coos to her caringly and sadly.

It works, and the little head fully emerges. It’s unmistakable. It’s a valtor hatchling. The child is still shaking slightly, but her curiosity is winning out. All valtor are female. By Bora’s glory, she can’t be over 30 centimetres tall.

He keeps cooing gently. He considers heading to the kitchen for more meat to entice her, but he doesn’t want to lose sight of her again. Maybe she’ll respond to sign language?

Keeping one hand stretched out to her, he points to the kitchen. Her bright eyes follow the gesture. He raises the hand to his mouth, miming eating. Then, he pats his tummy. He repeats this a couple of times, making happy coos as he does. To his delight, she emerges further.

Immediately, his confusion grows at the sight of frilly, if dirty, red fabric draped over her shoulders. What in The Vau is she wearing?

“Come on, now...” he whispers, raising both hands again.

The child tilts her head side-to-side. She extends her little face, sniffing at his fingertips.

“Won’t hurt you... you poor little thing...”

His heart raises again and swells. She puts one of her tiny hands on one of his fingertips. She’s so light he can barely feel it.

He keeps as still as he can. She tests it and, gradually, no longer trembling, climbs onto his right hand. To his bewilderment, she’s wearing a red doll’s dress. It’s utterly filthy and torn, most likely from her frequent scampering through the walls in search of lazartas.

He lets her sit on his hand. She keeps sniffing and looking at him. Bora’s mercy, is she even old enough to speak her own tongue?

He knows a bit about the valtor, but he’s far from an expert. To his shame, he did once lay with one at a bordello in town around a year ago when he grudgingly went in for supplies. He knew better, but he was weak. He’d just stopped in for a delirium before heading home. It’d been so long since he’d had a good drink.

He knew what her game was. He knew she was just doing her job. But the twinkle in her eye was irresistible. She was so sweet. Her accent was so alluring. She laughed so easily. He loves the way valtor speak. They always refer to themselves in the third person, never saying ‘I’ or ‘me’. It’s disarmingly endearing.

She can’t have really been a slave. She can’t have. She didn’t bear the scar. He looked. He’d have noticed something like that. He got more than a close enough view of every centimetre of her. Besides, slavery is illegal in Nidashia. Or at least it's supposed to be.

It was the first intimacy he’d shared with anyone since the last year of The War. He remembers that soft skin. It feels so much like elven skin to the touch, but it isn’t. Your fingertips brush across it like it’s air.

He knew better…

The child slips a bit on his smooth skin. He just manages to catch her under each tiny arm. She squeaks and wriggles, kicking her feet and clawing at his skin with her hands. He winces but keeps the hold as she leaves long but shallow scratches on his hands and wrists.

After a moment, she calms down, realising he’s not hurting her and that she’s not falling. Again, she sniffs at his hands before looking up in his face. He returns his attention to her eyes.

It’s unmistakable. They genuinely are purple. They even seem to glow. Strange, he’s never seen such a thing before. Something in the back of his mind itches, but he can’t place it.

He’s not sure why, but an affectionate compulsion causes him to raise a thumb and delicately tap the tip of her snout with it.

“Kikiki,” the child titters, her tail swishing.

He takes the reaction as a positive one. He repeats the little tap, getting another titter from her. His smile is so broad that his cheeks hurt.

He ponders the tittering sound. He supposes it is laughter. He recalls hearing it from the top of the bookshelf the first time. She was playing with him, wasn’t she? His mind’s made up at once.

“‘Ki’ is it?” he smiles gently. “Alright then... Ki, you are.”