# Exile



## Ghostknight (Feb 13, 2007)

Note:  This is a pure fiction story that is not attached to a game.  If people want it, I will create the stats for the characters etc as needed

Part One

Exile!  The word tolled in Ethan’s head as he shuffled forward in line.  His arms ached from pulling the small handcart which contained all his possessions.  Two shirts, two pairs of pants, one coat, four days worth of food, a hoe blade, pick axe blade, one pair of boots, seeds, two wineskins and a small fishing net.  Strapped to his waist a small, sharp eating knife and an old, but well kept, sword which had been handed down through three generations, since the day that his great grandfather had mustered out of the King’s guards to become a farmer.  Scant to take with him as he left behind family, friends, a farm.  He didn’t look up, none of the exiles did, all just shuffled forward in silence to the distant blue glow of the gate, of the sundering from this world and reality to the unknown.

Behind him Ethan heard the occasional cough and clanging of chains.  He didn’t turn around, who wanted to see the unfortunate soul that was being sent into exile without even the scant few possessions he had.  Another cough from behind him and a bit of red tinged spittle landed on the ground to the side.  

“So, why are you being sent into exile?”

The voice came from behind.  She sounded tired and in pain.  Ethan turned in surprise at somebody talking in the line.  Nobody talked in the line; everyone was too busy contemplating their loss and fear for the future.  He looked at the woman, her thinness that of exercise and muscle, not the starvation of most of their fellow exiles.  Her face was swollen and bruised, her lip cracked and her nose bent at an odd angle.  The lower part of her face was covered in dried blood, which had coated the front of her dirty grey shift.  Her legs, arms and feet were bare, except for the shackles that made walking difficult and prevented her from raising her hands above higher than her waist.  The shackles rubbed the skin raw around wrists and ankles, blood crusted and pooled around them, occasionally dripping onto the ground.  Dirty, blood encrusted, badly cropped, black hair did little to improve the picture.

“Do you think they’ll take these off me when we get to the gate, before they push me into exile?  Or am I to be a gift to whatever’s on the other side?”  She spoke conversationally, but Ethan detected real fear in her voice.  Sent through like that, with no means to defend herself, and unable to run away, it would not be long before she ended up on her back, the plaything of whoever claimed her.

“I think so.  They once made me spend a day at the gate as a witness.  I saw those guards removing shackles from some of the prisoners they sent through.  I suppose it all depends on why you were shackled.  You didn’t kill anyone, did you?”

“No, though I wish I had.  I just kicked one of the local Holy Prefects in the balls, to make him keep his hands off my younger sister.  I kicked him hard; maybe he will never be able to bother young girls again!  His guards returned the kick with interest.”

She winced as she coughed and spat out some more of the blood specked spittle.  “It’s not that bad, its just blood from the broken teeth in my mouth, they didn’t break anything inside, I think. So what’s your story? Which of their holy rules did you break?”

“I laughed”

He looked at her incredulous look, and gave a wry smile.

“A big price to pay for a bit of mirth is it not?  I laughed while the Holy Prefect was holding forth, sermonising on the perfection of self through devotion and sacrifice.  I heard someone behind me remark that the Holy Prefect was obviously intending to make a fat sacrifice of self someday.  I laughed, I couldn’t help it.  There I was surrounded by farmers, grocers, merchants, all starving and emaciated from having their own produce taken to be redistributed by the temple, and the fat Holy Prefect did look like one of those choice, fat cows that they like to offer up twelve times a day!”

The blue glow neared, the air held a strange smell, a mix of offal and the sea.  It was too far from the docks and ocean here, and the Holy Prefects allowed no offal or excrement in the cities.  Woe betide the sick man that could not control himself until he got to the pits dug outside the walls!  Most likely he would end up in this line, trudging into exile for his high crime!  He shuffled forward, his hand cart dragging behind him, the woman behind him coughing and wincing as she stumbled forward in her shackles.  

More steps forward, more shuffling, and the table of the last judgement could be seen ahead.  Slowly each exile was brought to it, and offered their last choice, exile to the unknown or death.  Surprisingly many chose death, the unknown too fearsome, and the blue gate sparkling and crackling adding its own cadence and power to the unknown.  Ethan looked at the citizen witnesses, the unfortunates pulled away from their fields, businesses, families or whatever they were involved in to bear witness that all chose from their free will and were not coerced.

All too soon he was forced forward, surrounded by guards with their gleaming armour and well fed faces.  The judge sat looking at him, the day’s tally of prisoners for exile before him.

“Ethan of Gesh Spring farm you have been sentenced to exile for mocking the sacred scriptures and their teachers.  Since your crime is a relatively mild one, we are willing to be lenient.”

In the pause Ethan’s hopes began to rise.  Some were spared, was he to be one?  He could do penance, anything if he got to stay behind, return to the farm, his wife and five children.

“In lieu of exile or death we offer the choice of voluntary servitude for life.  You can choose to be gelded, and sent to the holy city to serve those whom you mocked.”

Gelded and sent to be a servant of the elite in the Holy City?  Ethan’s face must have reflected his horror.  He would be less than a man, a toy to be used by those he hated, and he would never see his family again.  Far better to take his chances in exile!

“I deny your false leniency!”  His voice was strong, loud enough to carry to the citizen witnesses and even some of those that gathered to try and catch a last glimpse of their loved ones as they disappeared forever.  The judge’s face was turning red, darkening in fury.  Before he could speak, and perhaps impose an even harsher sentence or beating Ethan continued.

“I choose exile.”  Exile and an escape from the Tyranny of the Holy ones, of the Holy Prefects and their unending rules and oppression, escape to the unknown, but surely it could not be worse than this!  He grabbed his hand cart and turned to the line.  The judge motioned and the guards parted as he moved towards the Gate.  Behind him, he heard the judge begin again.

“Bellasi of Jiar’s Hamlet, you maimed one of the Holy Ones and thus have a choice of exile or death.  Let it be known that for you death will not be merciful or quick, but shall mirror your crime.  Your feet and hands will be amputated and your eyes put out.  The rest of your days will be spent in the days of the soldiers, lying in a cot for them to sate their needs whenever they wish.  In denying the Holy One his desires, you will be an object on which others will sate their desires.”

Of course, the reply of the woman was swift.  It was no real choice.  Torture and a slow death paled in comparison to the unknown.  He heard her falling in behind him, and her curses at the fact that she remained shackled.  It seemed that her kick had been as good as she boasted and the Holy One would not be bothering any young girls again.  

The Gate loomed ahead.  Ethan thought he caught glimpses as each exile was pushed through.  A dirty, muddy square surrounded by poorly built brick buildings.  Ahh, well at least those that had preceded him into exile had not reverted to total savagery.  

Then it was his turn.  He stood before the gate, his handcart behind him and the crackling blue filling the world before him.  He stopped, overcome with fear, his body baulking at moving forwards.  He felt a soft push and the voice of the guard.  “Come on, walk.  Don’t make me throw you through there!”    A breathe, a sigh, a step, and the blue overcame him.

Part Two

The tower looked out over the surrounding mountains.  Three huge peaks jutted out, rising over the surrounding ranges that encircled the mountain on which the tower stood.   High Protector Jered stared out of his high window feeling the bite of the cold thin air as he looked out.  Behind him the council awaited his decision.

“So, the strangers continue to arrive.  Their settlements are restricted to the three fingers and they have yet to cross the mountains.  He turned to the council.

“We would be foolish to ignore their presence, but equally foolish to try and attack across the mountains.  From what we do know, they have few resources, little organisation and no army.  All that can change in time, but the geography of the land will not.  The three fingers are well protected.  Mountains stop overland travel, along with the jungle before them.  Sea travel is treacherous there; the coast there is surrounded by reefs, easily passed over by fishing boats but not by anything large enough to serve a military purpose.”

“We are at an impasse, Nobles of the Council.  They are too weak to even contemplate coming across and near our lands, but they are too well protected for us to mount a successful assault.  I caution against an attack at this point.  We do not know if they are enemies or potential allies against the Teskim.  What I do suggest is sending our own spies in.  Let us find out who they are.  What they are doing here, what they want.”

“High Protector, you leave an option out.  Why not approach the Guild of High Magics?”

Jered remained still, his eyes impassive, his face calm.  “The High Mages have been asked for assistance.  They refuse to act unless we can prove that they are allied to the Teskim or are an imminent danger to the Conglomerate.  They fear becoming involved in territorial military battles.  As long as the Conglomerate and Merchant Houses are not threatened, they preach caution.  We are on our own, the military forces of the Conglomerate, together with the resources of the Merchant Houses, must deal with this until we can prove they are a threat and not an ally or potential trading partner.”

***

Gorun Tipe was the most undistinguishable looking man that Jered had ever seen.  He was medium height, had a plain face with brown eyes, weathered skin and was balding.  He dressed in plain, ordinary brown clothing, like any of the hundreds of commoners that walked the streets.  Yet he had been sent as being the best scout and assassin they had,  

“The assignment sounds simple, though it is likely to be more difficult than you expect.  A ship will take you as close to their settlements as they can do so undetected.  You will land in a small boat and gather as much information as you can.  Find out who they are, what they want here.  Report back when you can.”

Jered leaned back, looking at the non-descript man, waiting for a response.  

“How long, Sir?”

“You stay, until you know, either for woe or weal, where we stand with these strangers.  You can communicate at will.  At least the High Mages were willing to give us that much help.”  He passed across a plain looking headband, one which many a traveller might wear.  “Just wear it and you can talk to us.”
A small nod and Gorun reached out taking the headband.  “Yes, Sir.  Anything else I need to know?  Will there be anyone else that I can contact there or am I alone?”

“Alone.  If there is a change we will let you know.  Gorun, they are unlikely to speak our language.  Do you know the necessary low magic charms or do you need to learn them before you go?”  

“That will not be a problem, Sir.  I come from an old Trade family.  Linguistics charms were taught to us when we were still running around in the family gardens.”

So, he dresses as a commoner, comes from a trade family, and received the upbringing of a noble.  A strange one he is indeed.  His thoughts racing as he listened to Gorun, Jered contemplated his tool as he dismissed him.  Indeed, Gorun appeared to be a strange man with many talents; an excellent tool for the strange job at hand.

***

Gorun’s little boat skipped across the sea onto the beach landing.  The night was brightly lit, but he wasn’t worried about being seen.  The little fishing village of the strangers was only a short way down the coast, but he doubted that anyone was out at night.  The intervening forest held many dangers for the unwary, but he was familiar with them and could easily avoid the common problems- from the tendrils of the thorn vines which feasted on the blood of the unwary, to the sunken hollows of the pit plant.

He adjusted the straps of his haversack and started marching towards the settlement.  He would find somewhere safe to hide and observe the strangers for a few days before he entered the settlement.  Carefully hiding his boat, he entered the forest, making his way through the coastal forest.  The warbling of a sea hornet caused a pause in his steps.  Scanning the jungle carefully, he stepped forward, looking out for the purple that would indicate their nest; and death if he should touch it.  Relieved, he noticed it in the trees above him, as well as the telltale tentacles of a thorn vine.  Alert for the sensitive roots that would cause the vines to whip round and impale him, he continued forward.  The strangers had chosen a dangerous area for their settlement.

For three days he watched the settlement.  What he saw made him wonder where they were from.  They were short of everything, from proper nets, to boats, to iron and steel tools.  A few had well made implements, but most seemed to make do with improvised and poorly crafted tools.  There seemed an inordinate amount of single people, most were not paired and few children were to be seen.  He crept closer, his charms opening his ears to understand their tongue, but most of the time they spoke little, and what he did hear, out in the open was nothing more than the prattle of small villages everywhere, without the heavy dose of gossip that generally accompanied the doings of small groups of people.

The people of Toesk Bay were there normal taciturn selves when the stranger entered their village.  He carried very little with him, just a small pack.  He seemed unremarkable, and when he appeared in the village commons that evening he was quiet, taciturn, venturing nothing.  The exiles looked on him with pity.  Surely he must have recently arrived, and come on the small track that connected their little village to the main settlement of Dienie’s Landing.  They shifted over and allowed him food from the communal pot.  That night he slept on the dunes by the boats, with many of the fishermen who would venture out in their small, rickety boats in the morning.  When they returned, the community would work together and within the week he, too, would have a small hut in which to live.


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