Wherein those important enough to merit notice are taken stock of (Interlude)

 

“When the oak sings, do you cry? When the willow weeps, do you turn your head? Turn man, turn man, you’ll end up dead!”

The song was cheerful in tune and morbid in subject. Since it wasn’t the work of an emotional youth, that leaves only a marching song.

“When the stars burn, do you look up? When the forests crack, do you look into their eyes? Turn man, turn man, it’s eating you inside!”

The rhythm was off, and the rhymes barely functioned in tying the melody together. The song was sung in some form by every army north of Tellyphill.

“And if the ground swallowed you man, would you care at all? If you fell a thousand miles, would you feel the fall? Rise man, rise man, do you care at all!”

The lyrics were repetitive to the point of redundancy replacing the rhyming scheme. Armies loved it. Leaders of said armies were somewhat less keen but attempts at introducing songs more pleasant to the sophisticated ear inevitably ended with failure of some sort, from ignoring the rules to mutiny.

Pig considered his options and his issues. Every day they seemed to grow worse and worse. His army picked up some new such earworm every campaign, his creditors were hounding his estates, and the shaman would not stop babbling about doom foretold. Not for the first time he wondered as to the karma induced by throttling the bastard. As if summoned by the thought, old Shel-Pa-Tell came creaking up to the front of the column where he sat uncomfortably in the saddle of an old war beast.

“Weak man, piggy! Don’t you think working the poor beast so hard is unseemly? Bearing your behind is a burden none should bear!”

The raspy voice crackled in mean spirited humor. Pig had on many occasions considered the efficacy of various poisons and ruin hexes, and concluded the shaman was protected by a dark spirit of some sort. He’d made peace with the shaman, not that he derived any joy from the man’s presence. He barely had to fight the rage creeping through as he turned to the frail sack of bones that called itself a shaman.

“Accursed Pa-Tell, how fare our guests? The column’s rowdiness doesn’t bother them overmuch; I hope?”

“Don’t worry piggy your ‘dear guests’ are treated with the utmost care! They’re reading, they’re writing, they’re arguing philosophy and whiling their souls away pining for what they were!”

Here the shaman cackled, and a substance not dissimilar to spittle marred the hair beneath his mouth. It could not be called a beard. Pig’s arms twitched with the desire to strangle the man. He’d strangled for less than half of what the shaman put him through each day. Instead he smiled at the thought of the man having to deal with the marsh witch and the Kargian mouse-man. The suffering all three must endure was enough to put him in a good mood. Pa-Tell, sensing the humor, shrank away in disgust; happiness was the only thing sure to keep him well away.

The army kept belching away its songs. They sounded awful. Pig could not be bothered to care.

Dolstoy was similarly laconic, though his mood was opposite. As opposed to infuriated resignation, Dolstoy was resignedly furious. At himself somewhat, but mostly at the failure of his allies and friends.

Pontiac’s point was always brimming with intrigue of some kind, but an event seldom seen was taking place: the intrigue was going to matter. Insularity and some strange innocence was enough to keep the scholars and the rangers of the point tame. Much to any authority figure’s pain, said innocence wouldn’t survive another year. Dolstoy could tell thanks to years of honed instincts. Mel could tell thanks to a deeply entrenched network of spies. The Pontiac could tell thanks to a prophetic vision.

Dolstoy fumed and moped. Mel wined and dined and buttered up the leaders of various factions. He’d have done the same for any foreign dignitaries had he not been instrumental in ensuring there would be no pilgrimages ever again. None but him and Dolstoy knew this though. The Pontiac sat in her usual isolation. The acolytes and apprentices of the point went on in their usual business.

Wicker and Gracchus were working their way down the mountain; the other residents of the caverns around halfway village were slowly and confusedly starving to death. The Tellyphill guard argued and feuded with itself, all too aware of the city’s impending doom. Somehow, they could not be brought to care. The captain of the guard was furious, but everyone knew he was mad, and so the damage was limited.

Faerdyer had yet to grow mad, but he was far away and as such of little import, and anyways he’d eventually grow mad as well, so no harm is done by his omittance.

The reconstitution league was busy negotiating with several rival pirate crews, though they called themselves mercenaries. The league didn’t really care as long as they kept the harbors open and the fisherman safe.