Nessalir the Red

Some cities were methodically, every new construction following some plan which had been laid out. Others had begun as small settlements and grown out from there, buildings and streets being added when and where they were needed, giving the whole of the city a feel not unlike that of some vast, artificial wilderness.

Grjeil was of the latter category. What was once a fishing village had grown into a waystation for boats, and from there had expanded, generation by generation, until it became a sprawling metropolis. No two buildings looked alike, and while most of the main streets were wide enough for a cart to pass through, the majority of walkways through the city were so narrow that not even a rider on a horse could pass through them.

So it was that Nessalir was forced to leave Huunang in the stable as she trekked through the winding streets and alleys of Grjeil. All around her, people talked and shouted and went about their day. Somewhere nearby, a merchant was loudly hawking his wares. She passed one alley from which wafted an atrocious odor, where someone had likely recently dumped the contents of a bedpan. Past another alley, she scented smoked meats and a cooking fire, and the smell of sewage was mercifully forgotten.

The canals the bartender had spoken of were originally dug for irrigation. The grandparents of the city's current residents had gotten it into their heads to set up some farms close to home. The attempt, however, had been ill-fated, for the land around Grjeil was not particularly fertile, and so the Eastern and Western canals now simply cut through the city, leading nowhere in particular.

At the very least, they served as convenient landmarks.

Locating the Eastern canal was a simple enough task, though next Nessalir needed to divine whether the "big oak tree" was more inland or nearer to the shore relative to her location. The many buildings which crowded the edges of the canal, sometimes reaching near to the edge itself, rendered simply looking around for the tree unfeasible.

Taking a gamble that it would be inland, Nessalir set out along the canal, and was soon rewarded with the sight of a massive tree which towered over the surrounding buildings. Even from a distance, she could tell that the oak was old, older perhaps than anything else in Grjeil. She had wondered why a tree such as this would not have been cut down for space and lumber during one of the city's many expansions, but seeing it now, she understood.

The oak tree had a presence to it. It wore the weight of its years proudly, and to look upon it as a mere mortal was to be humbled. There was a power here, of a kind rapidly disappearing from the world, but which all living things could recognize on instinct. As she approached, Nessalir eyed the tree warily, half-expecting something old and deadly to emerge from its trunk or branches.

Something passed over her, and she was certain that the tree was acknowledging her presence. Yet it did not act, and gradually felt the tension in her shoulders fade.

The Great Oak stood atop a hill, and its roots had broken the surface of the soil in many places, curling around and forming naturally terraced steps all about the tree. On these steps sat a number of young men. One ate an apple. Two played with knives. A few were engaged in an animated conversation.

If they were adults, they were barely so. If these youths were the Duskers she sought, then Nessalir had likely reached a dead-end. She doubted Iarius would have left the inn with a group of boys.

Then again, given what she'd heard about the Remuran nobility… No, she pushed those thoughts away.

"Hail!" she called to the boys surrounding the tree. "I'm searching for folk known as Duskers. Would you happen to know where I can find them?"

A few of the boys laughed, and one--the oldest one, though that wasn't saying much--stood up. He'd been one of the boys who'd been playing with a knife, and he stuck it in his belt as he approached her.

"Wench wants to find the Duskers!" he laughed. "Well, what you gonna give me in exchange, wench?" He grabbed his crotch and leered at her, making it clear exactly sort of price he wanted to charge for his knowledge.

Nessalir kept her face neutral. "I would break you, child."

The other boys howled and hooted with laughter, and the eldest's face went red. "Yeah? Is that right?" he demanded. "Wouldn't want a muscled-up wench anyway! Strutting around here, looking like a man!"

She smirked. "Noted. Speaking of men: I'm looking for a Remuran scholar, last seen in the company of a fellow named Byrk Nohrson. Heard of him?"

The boy looked confused for a moment, then laughed. "You mean old Sharkpuncher? What's he doing with some limp-armed quill-user? You must've heard wrong, wench. Scholars are weak, and Duskers got no use for weak men!"

"Please," said Nessalir. "Can you tell me where Nohrson can be found? It's important."

"Important, is it?" asked the boy. Despite his earlier words, he was openly eyeing her up and down, examining her body with a predator's gaze. It was a look she'd seen before, on men and, more often, boys who thought themselves men. Still, it was difficult to suppress the tremor of revulsion that ran through her.

The boy approached, pulling his knife from his belt. "Maybe your body's not too bad, after all, wench. I'd like to see what it looks like under all that--ack!"

Before he could finish speaking, Nessalir struck. With one hand, she seized his wrist and twisted, forcing him to drop the knife as pain lanced up his arm. With her other hand, her dragon's hand, the drakkowar grabbed his throat and lifted him bodily from the ground.

"Byrk Nohrson!" she snarled, loud enough that the boy's stunned followers could hear. "Or 'Sharkpuncher,' if that's what you idiots call him. Tell me where I can find him right now, or I break this boy's neck."

The boy in question choked out a protest, and Nessalir squeezed tighter. His eyes bugged out, and a few of the other boys stood. Nessalir glared at them, and all it took was the sight of her golden, inhuman eyes for the boys to freeze.

"Please, Miss," said one of the younger ones, visibly trembling. "He's my big brother. Please."

"Tell me what I want to know."

The boy swallowed. "Sharkpuncher's one of the seniors; the adults. They leave us kids to Anker." He glanced at his brother choking in Nessalir's grasp, indicating that he was Anker. "He's the only one of us who knows, honest."

It was a lie. Nessalir could see it plain as day on some of the other older boys' faces. The young one just wanted her to stop hurting his brother. Still, it wasn't a bluff Nessalir was interested in calling.

She threw Anker to the ground, and the boy coughed and wheezed, clutching at his neck and sucking in as much breath as he could. Before he could stand, Nessalir put a boot on his chest and pressed him to the dirt.

"Where is he?" she demanded.

"S-southside! Other side of the river!" Anker gasped, his voice hoarse. "There's an abandoned inn, just North of the statue of Jurgara the Wise! Old iron sign with a two-headed horse on it; can't miss it! That's where Sharkpuncher works! It is, I swear!"

Nessalir withdrew her boot. "Thank you for your cooperation," she said. As she turned away, she tossed him a coin. "Get a treat for your brother. If he hadn't spoken up, I'd've tossed you into the canal."

"Y-yes ma'am! Thank you!" He sputtered out a handful of apologies, but Nessalir wasn't listening. She was already marching South, trying to recall if she'd seen the statue of Jurgara before.

Anker was right: scholars were weak. Iarius was weak. He wasn't a fighter; he had neither the skill nor the stomach for violence that Nessalir possessed. If he was in trouble, he wouldn't be able to get himself out of it.

She'd sworn to keep him safe, and even if she had to burn this entire city to the ground, Nessalir intended to uphold that vow.

Too many weak men had died on her watch already.