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Book 6: Chapter 26 - Dignity (RAW)
🕑 Added 2025-07-19 15:47:36 +0000 UTCThere have surfaced absurd tales among the travelers frequenting the jungles north of Narilmu; rumors of a goblin of unprecedented size and muscular build, towering above its brethren, a monstrous brute nearly as tall as a fully grown man.
Let me unequivocally dismiss these fanciful accounts as nothing more than Bard-born nonsense. Goblins, though varied in stature, simply do not grow beyond the height of a tall man's waist. Even the largest females—the dominant of their kind—barely exceed a meter when fully upright, and are more bulky than truly muscular.
These creatures' weak bones and fragile skulls are ill-suited to supporting substantial height or mass, and their frames would collapse beneath greater dimensions. Moreover, the peculiarities of goblin physiology; the absence of lungs, diminutive hearts, and blue blood, are wholly incompatible with the physiology needed for giant stature.
Thus, until solid proof appears before my very eyes, I must firmly assert that these tales are mere exaggerations born from fear or drunken misjudgment, unworthy of consideration by serious scholars.
- Monsters of the Mortal Realms by K.D. Fidditch [addendum].
We pushed on through streets fat with noise and color, the whole town given over to their so‑named Festival of Sea and Stars, or whatever local fancy called it. The mood was a sickness that took them all; garlanded women and men hailed us as if we were long-lost kin, wishing us all the best and blessing us on our way.
My escort of doomed sellswords, ignorant of their own epitaphs, could not help but grin back, wagging hands, calling greetings they did not mean, their faces open and foolish beneath the fluttering pennants overhead. In time, we were drawn, like a wick draws flame toward the heart of the place, and there it stood at last, reared high over the lesser roofs, girdled round with a tide‑fed moat of salt green water: the keep of Pasha Teshik.
Its outer curtain rose in layered courses of sun-bleached stone. The moat about it was no mere decorative ditch. Fed by a narrow canal cut to the harbor, it breathed with the tide, sluggish water glinting green and silver, its inward face lined with jagged hunks of coral and potsherds mortared in place to chew apart the bellies of rafts or siege towers. A pair of sluice grilles showed where they could drain or flood it at will. The air that came off it smelled of brine with a hint of rot, and below the cheerful din of the festival, there was the soft slap of seawater against stone.
The guards of the keep waved us in with smiles, and we crossed over a single causeway that went over the moat. The path was treacherous, just wide enough that two carts could pass. Halfway along stood a squat barbican like a clenched fist, pierced by narrow arrow slits. The soldiers on top smiled at us and bid us welcome.
The fools.
The gate passage beyond was a throat of shadow, roofed in heavy wooden beams blackened with old pitch, fitted with a latticed ceiling of murder holes and two iron portcullises. The outer doors stood open in welcome, their bronze facing plates chased with verses and curling floral designs.
Above, the main walls showed alternating square and half-round towers at measured intervals, and each crown was toothed with merlons. Stone corbels jutted under the parapet to support shallow machicolations, and from several tower roofs rose tall windcatchers, their high vents turned seaward to gulp the cooler air and pour it down into the chambers below. Between two larger towers, a slender watch tower climbed still higher, minaret-shaped, its gallery hung with signal lamps wrapped in colored glass that had just been recently lit in celebration.
This place, I had begun to realize, would have been impossible to storm with only seven hundred men. Perhaps, I thought for a moment, even impossible for me. The Sultana had sent Damien and his men to die, the cruel bitch. I swore then and there that I would save them. Save them all, if just to spite Aelayah’s wishes. Yes, even my current escort.
We were within the first ring of the fortress now, and before us rose a second inner wall, set back just far enough to make of the space between a clean killing ground.
The keep proper loomed beyond that next curtain, less some dainty palace than a piled mass of stone, layer upon layer of terraces and inward‑facing arcades. Even its severity could not wholly hide certain refinements cunningly worked into their forms.
Through yet another stout gate we passed and saw cool, shaded iwans opening upon a court where a thin fountain flickered beneath great prehistoric horsetails swaying like feathered spears. Bird lofts clung to an upper corner; a restless cloud of white, soft‑feathered creatures lifted and settled in uneasy whirls.
Men moved everywhere. Servants went about trimming wicks for the coming dusk; a file of porters trudged by beneath the weight of amphorae sloshing water and wine; a pair of armorers bent over dented mail and a brace of vambraces in the yard at an anvil. Above, seabirds wheeled and cried, their harsh voices cutting across the thin music of pipes and the slow throat of drums that drifted around us.
A man in long red robes came smiling to meet us. He was neither tall nor short, neither young nor ancient, neither fat nor lean—so bland of feature he might have been cut of stiff pasteboard. Yet a nervous energy shivered about him that set him apart.
“Greetings. You must be from Lord de Savant of the Guild,” he said, spreading his hands wide. “I am Samir, steward and wakil of Pasha Teshik. My lord bids you and your men welcome. This way, if you please. Pasha Teshik offers you the greeting of his hall.”
I saw no need to correct him.
A small entrance hall received us, its stored cool wrapping close as a soft cloak. Young women looped flower garlands about our necks and pressed trays of drinks and sugared things upon us. We refused, each man giving the same polite words, that we would see the Pasha first. They had their orders.
Samir took no affront. His smile only thinned. Foreigners were always hasty, he told us; we should breathe and be at ease, for the evening’s entertainments would last well past dawn. I gave him a brittle smile as an answer.
“If I may, samasa, your men must wait here a moment. Let them ease their feet while the Pasha gives you his greetings,” he said pleasantly.
“Very well. Wait for me here,” I told the men. “I shall be as long as I need to be.”
With the steward leading, we pressed deeper. The floor beneath was poured in polished marble tiles, each flecked with gold so that it seemed a dark sea strewn with fallen stars. Two guards in plumed, almost gaudy, ceremonial harness drew open a tall pair of doors. Samir and I dipped our heads as we went through.
Pasha Teshik was, as I had expected, an old man long past the best of his vigor. A few wisps of grey showed beneath his turban; his beard hung thin and scraggly. Robes sat poorly on his frame and only heightened the frailty that clung to him like a smell. Beside him perched his lady, doubtless of more than half his years: a pretty thing, olive of skin, with tilted almond eyes drawn long at the corners in kohl.
They both smiled; the old man squinted to see me.
“Lord Damien de Savant, Dragon Commander of the Mercenaries’ Guild,” the steward Samir intoned.
“Unfortunately, wrong on both counts,” I said. “I am Gilgamesh of Uruk, First Tamkar of Al‑Lazar, and I come with Justice this day, Pasha Teshik.” I let the words go slowly and iron, letting the iron of their weight sink, letting what Charisma I possessed seep into the hall.
Silence held an instant, then steel hissed as every guard drew, a rasping circle of sound.
“Peace be upon our new Sultana, we are ever faithful…” the old man began, voice thin and reedy.
I raised an armored hand and he fell to quiet.
“You would draw weapons against the messenger of the rightful ruler of these lands? Before you have even heard what the word of the Sultana Aelayah the First? Must I remind you, I am but the messenger,” I sneered, letting my gaze travel over the awestruck courtiers.
Teshik’s lady was trading quick, meaningful looks with the nearest guards.
“Then speak,” the Pasha said at last, resignation sagging his shoulders. “I will do you the honor of hearing it, at least.”
Weaving half-truths and pleasant lies, I savored the theater of it. “The Sultana has named you traitor, Pasha. Traitor to Al-Lazar, traitor to your people, traitor even to your own race.”
Again, the guards stirred, weapons wavering uncertainly. Beside Teshik, his young wife dug painted nails into the carved arms of her throne, eyes flashing like a cornered viper. I marked her mentally as a potential problem
“I await your denial,” I said evenly.
The old man chuckled bitterly, but laughter soon twisted into a wracking cough. “What good would denial do me now, Gilgamesh? We both know how this dance ends. Better to speak my guilt plainly, and be done with the whole sorry farce. You have already judged.”
“You shall indeed die today, Pasha Teshik,” I said, standing as unmoving as polished granite, “but the manner of your death, and the number who join you crossing the Shallow River, is still yours to influence.”
“Lord Pasha,” Samir stammered, turning pale, “I did not know—”
“Silence, fool!” snapped Teshik. “You have brought death to my hall!”
“I will summon the guards! Guards! Attack!” Samir shrieked in desperation, his voice shrill as a frightened girl’s.
The guards took uncertain steps forward, jostling panicked courtiers as they approached.
“Hold!” shouted Teshik, voice cracking sharply before dissolving into another coughing fit. When he caught his breath again, his face was drawn, grey, and drained of color. “Add no more foolishness to this folly...”
“But Pasha—” Samir began again.
“Know you nothing?” the old man rasped. “This one is the Slayer of Thousands, by word of our Mer allies. Do you not wonder why he dares walk openly into my hall alone? He is a monster in the skin of a man.”
“There, Lord Teshik, is the very confession of guilt I sought,” I said softly. “Your honesty is commendable. For that, I shall be merciful.”
“What are your terms, Gilgamesh of Uruk?”
“Your heirs shall renounce all claim. Your household may retain only what possessions they and their attendants can carry, and they shall return to lives as common citizens, stripped of all titles and honors—”
“That is not—” Teshik tried, voice rising in anguish.
“Would exile better suit your wishes, perhaps?” I asked lightly. “That, too, can be arranged.”
“I will not hear of this!” the wife screeched, rising from her seat in outrage, voice ringing like hammered bronze. “I shall not allow my children’s birthrights to be torn from them merely because you chose to side with fish!”
“I did what had to be done!” shouted Teshik bitterly, his frail voice edged suddenly with iron. “Without the Mer, there would be no trade. Our House has no fertile lands. We cannot sow crops in the Dust like the other Holder Houses.”
She railed for a while, heedless of decorum, berating her husband and defying reason in the same breath. I allowed her tirade to carry on until at last I spoke, softly but clearly enough to silence her like a blade laid flat against a throat.
“What say you, Lord Teshik? The men and women of your keep await your word, their very lives hanging by it.”
The old man chuckled softly, straightening in his seat, a brittle strength returning to his pale eyes. “Listening to my wife makes me half wish to throw it all away. Forgive me, Gilgamesh, for this shameful display. If I might ask a small boon... when the hour comes, grant me the kindness of sending my dear lady wife to accompany me across the Shallow River.” He smiled grimly.
“If that is your wish,” I replied flatly.
The woman immediately paled and sank back into her seat, eyes wide with fear.
Teshik patted her hand, gently mocking. “Only gallows humor, Selma. Rest easy—I do this for you.” His voice grew firm. “Might I have a little time?”
“You shall have exactly as long as it takes for your heir to arrive,” I answered. “That is the extent of the grace I offer. Do not try my patience, old man.”
“Samir, fetch Mustafa,” Teshik ordered sharply. “Bring that sorry boy here so he might at least learn how a true man meets his end.”
Truth be told, I was mildly impressed. With him being close to the end of his days, I had expected him to bargain and plead. I always thought the old were desperate and petty, clinging desperately to the scraps of life remaining to them. But Teshik, it seemed at least, faced death with quiet dignity, and made my previous assumption a lie.
The old man rose painfully from his seat, but I stepped forward, halting him in mid-motion. Amusingly, the entire hall recoiled, fear bright in their eyes.
“No, Lord Pasha,” I rumbled, letting menace drip from my words. “You and your court shall remain here as witnesses.”
Teshik sat back slowly, resignation weighing heavily on his frail shoulders. His wife stared wildly about, panic finally seizing her.
“Should your heir fail to arrive promptly, you know what must be,” I said coldly.
“Samir!” Teshik barked. “Get Mustafa! Quickly, you fool!”
“At once, Lord Pasha!” The steward fled, robes fluttering behind him like a crimson banner.
A minor functionary, sensing opportunity, made to follow. I used Improved Dash, and with the speed of a striking serpent, I was suddenly before him. He stared at me, frozen in terror, before I hurled him bodily across the length of the hall. He struck the tiles twenty paces distant and sprawled groaning, blood seeping from his head.
“No one else moves,” I said softly, and there was iron in my tone. “You are guarantors of the peace of my blade. Mock not your lord’s honor, nor render his sacrifice meaningless.”
A woman’s shriek cut the sudden silence as she saw the spreading stain of blood on the floor.
I raised one gauntleted hand. “Do not test me this day. Know, it is not my first choice to spare any one of you. We shall all wait here, patiently and quietly, until the heir arrives—or, if the Fates do not smile upon you, does not.” My voice echoed throughout the hall, heavy as the judgment I had brought.
You have gained 1 Charisma.
In my heart, I laughed.
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Hussar L
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