Part IV: That Meddling Kid
Chapter 2 – The Mysstro
Location: Monthaven, Eastern TerrVerde
Timeline: Sixth Age of Substance, 45th Year, Mid-Autumn
How quaint, this gathering at the Brandonale Inn, where the old fool Alfranco Azop continued to spin his tales for a crowd of simpletons, their lives so empty they hung on his every word as if he were a seer of A’H Himself. Oh that pitiful little tavern – it wasn’t more than a squat, timber-framed hovel, with its low ceiling blackened by decades of hearth smoke and the villagers’ pipes, and a few rough-hewn benches and tables that crowded a dirt-packed floor that was itself stained with spilled ale and muddy bootprints. Just like any other night, the air hung heavy with the sour tang of barley, the acrid burn of tallow from flickering oil lamps, and the damp chill of mid-autumn seeping through the cracked shutters. Yet those villagers, clad in coarse woolen tunics and cloaks of muted browns and grays, all gathered close, their weathered faces lit by the fire’s glow – all of them captivated by Alfranco as he held court from a bench among them.
His voice, gravelly but commanding, rose above the crackle of the hearth and the murmur of the crowd, as Alfranco yarned about a world these peasants could scarcely fathom. His leathered face flushed with ale, Emcorae’s grandfather gestured wildly, a tankard in one hand and a smoldering smoke stick in the other. His thick, black hair, slicked back in a style foreign to this backwater, gleamed in the lamplight—a mark of his time among the Amorosi, perhaps guided by a certain lumenarc whose name I loathe to recall. He’d just spoken of the Azora warrior El-Janus, a name even I must concede carried weight. El-Janus was a blade of unparalleled skill, a swordsman who sent countless souls to my domain with ruthless precision. I relished his work—each kill a morsel to sate my hunger, even if he was an Amorosi.
“Janice? That’s a girl’s name, ain’t it?” Dik, a lout with a crooked nose, guffawed, elbowing his neighbor.
“What’s in a name, Dik?” Alfranco snapped, his blue eyes flashing. “The warrior’s name was El-Janus, and the ‘El’ marks him as an Azora mysstro—the highest rank among their elite fighters. Show some respect! Appearances can deceive, ya know. Most Amorosi are tall, taller than us Enoks, but not El-Janus. Call me Myzentius if he was even five feet tall, but you’d be a fool to underestimate him.”
Alfranco leaned closer to the crowd, his voice dropping conspiratorially. “I had the honor of servin’ on his scout team. More’n once, we’d be sittin’ ‘round camp, talkin’, and the next thing I knew, he’d vanish—gone, right from under my nose—only to return with news ‘bout Myzentius’ troops. Amazin’, it was. But El-Janus wasn’t just a tracker. Like most Azoras, he was a fierce warrior.”
“Are all Amorosi fighters Azoras?” Hal Sutton asked, his broad shoulders hunched as he leaned in, his patched tunic smelling of hay and sweat.
“Not by a long shot!” Alfranco laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that filled the hall. “The Amorosi got their regular armies—the Protectorate—and they’re fearsome enough. Only the Mersia Royal Guardsmen can compare. But the Azoras? They’re the best-trained fighters in the world. Warriors who live for battle! I’ve seen ‘em do things in combat that’d make even young Neil here a believer—things I wouldn’t have believed myself if I hadn’t seen ‘em. But lookin’ at El-Janus, nobody’d peg him for a warrior.”
He paused, taking a long swig from his tankard, foam clinging to his lips. “If ya made that mistake in battle, though, it’d be the last error ya ever made. El-Janus was the best swordsman I ever saw—like a tornado, he was. Sometimes I felt he could hold off the entire horde with just two blades!”
“Alfranco,” Ben Wirtz interjected, his voice eager despite hearing this tale countless times—though the villagers never tired of Alfranco’s stories of the world beyond their hamlet—“tell us again ‘bout the master’s swords. What were they called? Rappi-somethin’? Ain’t never seen such things in Monthaven.”
“The Rapiletti,” Alfranco said reverently, setting his tankard down. “Picture this: two blades, equal in size, razor-sharp and thin, a mere two feet long. Beautiful, they were—forged of midnight steel, with crossguards shaped like falcon wings. Tiny but deadly, just like El-Janus himself.”
“Was he really a master with such small swords?” Hal pressed, his eyes wide.
“Is Saint Enok really A’H’s prophet?” Alfranco quipped, grinning. “El-Janus never wasted a stroke.” He swiped his arm through the air, then thrust it forward, mimicking a strike. “Lightning-like death, that’s what he dealt!”
The crowd let out a collective “Ooh!” their faces alight with awe, shadows dancing across the walls in the flickering lamplight.
“Nonsense,” Neil Belzer slurred, emboldened by ale. “I know a thing or two, and fencin’ blades like them rapiletti sound like toothpicks compared to a broadsword.”
“A fair point, my wise friend,” Alfranco said, his tone dripping with sarcasm, “but these weren’t ordinary blades. El-Janus’ swords were forged with Azora steel, usin’ techniques Enok blacksmiths couldn’t dream of. Thin as they were, they could withstand a blow from the strongest longsword. Any warrior dumb enough to swing a clunky blade at El-Janus would be dead before he even got the chance! I saw it myself—more’n once, my scout team ventured too far into Chakor Forest, got ambushed, and El-Janus would appear, savin’ our skins. Never took a nick, no matter how many attackers he faced.” Alfranco rubbed the crown of his head dramatically, revealing a faint scar. “Can’t say the same for ol’ Franki, though.”
Aldom, ever the opportunist, slid a fresh mug across the bar. “Bet thinkin’ ‘bout them battle scars makes ya thirsty, eh, Franki?”
“You’ve got that right, Aldom,” Alfranco chuckled, raising the mug. “Didn’t think anyone here was smart enough to notice.”
“Grandpop,” Emcorae tugged at Alfranco’s sleeve, his voice soft amidst the clamor, “are ya ready to go yet?”
“Sure, Em, almost done,” Alfranco said, ruffling the boy’s auburn hair. “Aldom, get him another cherry water, would ya? We’ll go soon as I finish this pint—one for the road, eh?” He winked over the rim of his mug, taking another deep draught. “My grandson says I’d better be goin’. Seems my wife can’t ever let me have fun. Ya know how it is, huh?”
The men laughed, shaking their heads knowingly, while Sally Romaine playfully swatted her husband Jon for laughing too loudly, her shawl slipping off her shoulder.
Alfranco pressed on, his voice steadying. “Let me finish my story and get on my way. As I was sayin’, ‘cause El-Janus uncovered Myzentius’ plan, we Easterners were ready to turn the tables on them dark hordes when they came outta Chakor. Everyone who was anyone was there—men from all over Pennal, the Amorosi of Regalis and Arbola, and a portion of the Drokka from Iztak, Chaldea, and Kel-de-Kaba. Later came the Amorosi of Meridia, the Drokka of Al-Uzza and Duzarez, even men of Mersia—‘course, everyone knows the Mersian king’s got coin to finance ten wars if he wants. Last I heard, that bastard made a profit off the war!”
“What ‘bout the Drokka from Rhokii Pass?” Neil called out, trying to catch Alfranco in a mistake.
“Pay attention, boy,” Alfranco admonished sharply. “I told ya, the Derk were threatenin’ to attack on the western side of Rhokii Pass, so the Drokka had to guard the gateway there.”
“Still, them western dogs must’ve been shocked to see us waitin’ for ‘em!” Hal said, his chest puffing with pride as if he’d been there himself.
“Surprised or not, the Derkka still held Chakor, and they weren’t leavin’ without a fight,” Alfranco said gravely.
“Chakor Forest,” Aldom shuddered, pausing mid-wipe on a mug. “Don’t know as I’d ever wanna see that place.”
“That’s the truth, Aldom,” Alfranco agreed, his voice low. “Chakor’s the biggest forest in the world—a thousand miles end to end, if it’s a tree. Unlike the woods the Amorosi tribes control, Chakor’s a dark place—gnarled trees with dead trunks huddled together, blighted foliage shuttin’ out the sun. Gave me the willies every time I ventured in.”
“If their plans didn’t work, why’d the westerners stay?” Aldom asked, leaning on the bar.
“Two reasons,” Alfranco explained. “First, they still had numbers on their side—we were at a huge disadvantage. But more’n that, there was nowhere for ‘em to go. By then, it was nearly summer—the bogs of Stax were filled, makin’ retreat impossible for months.”
“Don’t sound like they had a good plan,” Ben Wirtz mused, scratching his beard.
“On the contrary, maybe that was Myzentius’ real plan all along,” Alfranco said, his tone darkening. “Myzentius is Baal’s God of War, no matter what ya believe. What’s the best way to make yer troops fight? Take away their retreat. If the goblins of Gor wanted to get home, they had to come through us. Both sides were fightin’ for survival. I think the scribes called it The Last Great War ‘cause so many died, and neither side wants to see that again.”
Alfranco’s gaze grew distant. “I spent a lotta time among the Amorosi, durin’ and after the war—lived in Arbola for a year. Never did learn why the fightin’ stopped. All I know is what ya do: the war ended with no clear victor, just a lotta lives lost on both sides. We held our ground, protected these eastern lands, but I can’t say we ‘won’ when we lost so many friends on them bloody fields. Jak Newberri was one of ‘em. I didn’t see him die—I was a hundred miles south at the time—but I heard about it later.”
“Poor ol’ Jak,” Aldom said, his voice heavy. He’d been a childhood friend of Alfranco and Jak before the two left Monthaven for the war. “He didn’t last long out there, did he, Franki?”
“No, Al, sadly yer right,” Alfranco replied, his tone somber. “I don’t think them captains trained him proper or told him what to expect. They just handed him a sword and figured he’d learn on the job. As I heard it, he didn’t even get a chance. Died in his first combat action—charged ahead of his comrades to meet the Derkka, probably to prove a small-town boy like him belonged there as much as any of ‘em. Before anyone could warn him, a dozen black arrows flew from the goblins’ archers. A handful struck him straight through the chest.”
Sally Romaine gasped, clutching Jon’s arm, her knuckles white.
“So he never even got to use his damn sword,” Ben surmised, shaking his head.
“Poor ol’ Jak,” Aldom murmured. “What a waste.”
[I can attest to that waste—Jak Newberri’s soul was a fleeting delight, another young life snuffed out by the war machine of you mortals. War feeds me well, I’ll admit, but it’s a bitter feast when the young are cut down before they’ve tasted life].
Alfranco raised his pint, his voice steady despite the sorrow in his eyes. “To Jak—a simple lad like me, but a brave man to the end. Would that we could all have his courage.”
The patrons raised their mugs, downing their ale in somber unison to honor their fallen friend. Emcorae, his drink long gone, sat quietly, watching the others. He didn’t feel like another cherry water but kept that to himself, his small frame nearly lost among the crowd.
Aldom, ever the profiteer, loved toasts—they meant another round to pour and more coin to collect. He was already doling out fresh pints, his hands swift as he gathered tabs.
“Anyway, fellas… oh, thanks, Aldom,” Alfranco said, accepting another pint. “Like I was sayin’, the war did end, and sudden-like, too. One day them evil clans just up and left Chakor to go home. Don’t ask me why—I don’t know. All I can tell ya is that day was like any other on the front: more fightin’, more dyin’, gettin’ nowhere. It was a damn shame, I tell ya.”
The crowd sat breathless as Alfranco continued, his voice heavy with memory. “By then, it’d been over five years since our men first fell in them marshes south of Chakor. ‘Round that time, me and my partners were called back to meet with the leaders, coordinatin’ our efforts proper-like. The generals wanted the latest news from us scouts. I was in awe of all them high and mighty folks—I’m just a small-town boy, ya know.”
“Who was there, Franki?” Ben asked, leaning forward.
“Let’s see if I can recall,” Alfranco said, feigning effort. “There was Rian, Regent of Arbola, and Engelos, the Amorosi High King from Meridia—both fascinatin’ men, too smart for me to relate to, but the world takes all kinds, I reckon. Then there was Cobol, a fearsome Drokka, second to Rawf V, Mighty Lord of the Rhokii. Most intimidatin’ figure I ever saw—his battle axe glittered with an aura I ain’t never seen before. If he’d been against me in battle, I’d have run for the hills!”
“What’d them bigwigs want with peons like you?” Neil baited, his tone sharp.
“Like I was sayin’, my blustery friend,” Alfranco replied, unruffled, “we trackers were called to give a report. I was so scared I don’t even recall what I said. All I know is, after the meetin’, me and the boys stayed in camp to gather supplies before headin’ out again. But I couldn’t sleep that night. When I was a boy, I loved to sleep—would’ve slept my life away if my pa wasn’t always on me ‘bout chores. But after that war, after all them jittery nights in the open, knowin’ a bandy-legged hobgoblin could surprise ya at any moment, I ain’t never slept the same. Only thing that helps now is a good, strong pint from Monthaven!”
“You got that right, Franki!” Hal said, raising his mug, while Aldom smirked behind the bar.
“So there I was, starin’ up at the stars, wonderin’ what y’all were doin’ back here in town, wonderin’ if I’d ever make it back,” Alfranco mused, his voice trailing off, his head dipping slightly.
“Is he asleep?” Sally whispered to Jon.
“Ahem, Franki,” Hal prodded gently. “Did ya ever see any of them Lepeds on the front?”
Alfranco’s head snapped up, his eyes sharp. “I still have nightmares ‘bout them ghouls.”
“Tell us! Tell us!” the crowd urged, eager for a scare, yet grateful for the safety of the inn’s walls.
“First off, I never fought on the front lines,” Alfranco began. “My partners and I camped well away from the main action, tryin’ to figure where the next assault would come from. So I wasn’t used to sleepin’ so close to the battlefield.”
“What’s that got to do with them Lepeds?” Neil interrupted. “Ya changin’ yer story again?”
“This is the story of the Lepeds, ya fool,” Alfranco shot back. “I’d seen Lepeds before—whenever my scout team ran into ‘em, we made quick work of ‘em. A few dead walkers alone are easy to beat; they’re slow and stupid. We’d hack ‘em up and burn their bones. That’s the key—ya gotta burn the bones, or they’ll rise again!”
Even Neil felt a chill at that, and several villagers glanced nervously at the dark windows, wondering what lurked in the pitch black beyond, whispering of the old legends of Tonka.
“We’d burn their bones good and proper, sendin’ ‘em back to their graves,” Alfranco continued. “But ‘cause we always handled the few Lepeds I saw so quick, I never witnessed what they could do on a large scale. That changed one night.”
The crowd fell silent, hanging on his words as Alfranco’s eyes took on a faraway look. “I was at the main camp, near the end of the war. Since I wasn’t a front-line fighter like Jak, I never slept close to the battlefields. But that first night in camp, I couldn’t sleep, so I started walkin’. I kept hearin’ strange sounds, and somethin’ drew me to ‘em—I had to know what they were. I ended up at the edge of camp, where the sentries stood guard. That’s when the sounds got overpowerin’.”
“What’d ya hear?” Aldom squeaked, his voice barely above a whisper.
“It was dark, couldn’t see a thing, and that made it worse. It was like my ears were burnin’, and what I heard from them fields made my hair stand on end,” Alfranco said, wiping sweat from his neck. “I get the heebie-jeebies just thinkin’ ‘bout it.”
He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper, the crowd hanging on every word. “I’ll never forget the crackin’ and slurpin’, the suckin’ and moanin’. Not loud, but always there, just on the edge of yer hearin’. I ain’t never been so creeped out. I asked an Amorosi sentry ‘bout it. He didn’t even look at me—just kept starin’ into the darkness, a pained look on his face, and said one word: ‘Morati…’”
A heavy silence fell, the hair on the villagers’ necks prickling as Alfranco stood, commanding the room. “Then I knew what was happenin’. The carrion stench, them harrowin’ sounds—they weren’t just the cries of the wounded. They were the nightmare calls them poor troops had been hearin’ night after night since the war’s first blood. That’s when I realized the Morati were feastin’ again!”
The crowd gasped, their eyes wide with terror, the warmth of the inn suddenly feeling far too fragile against the horrors Alfranco described, yet eager to hear the rest of the story…
The Apocrypha of Azazel 