Cole

Cole had no formal place to sleep in Spiral City. All the inns had long been filled by soldiers and spectators. Some were so stuffed that beds were laid out in the common rooms and others were bought entirely to serve as barracks for certain companies. Cole reckoned that the population of Spiral City had to have tripled this last week. The first night he had slept in an alley, thinking it no different than sleeping outside of Ramuf. Even into the latest hours, the city was alive with activity. It was like trying to sleep in the center of an academy hallway.

The second night he had patrolled the outskirts of the city until he found an unused, unguarded stable stall with ample hay. Following his day at the Pavilion, and all the strange encounters experienced there, he checked in on that stall and was dismayed to see it filled by a large gray stallion. Heartbroken, he put his back to the nearest wall and slid down it until he was a tight ball on the floor.

“I miss beds.” He groaned.

“That’s an odd thing to say.” Answered a calm voice.

Leaning against the same wall as Cole was a red-tinged diablan. He was dressed in a coarse-looking uniform that was colored like the kind of hazy dream one might have after passing out in the Ramuf fruit market. His hair billowed out behind him like smoke. He had the expression like he had been observing Cole since he arrived and was hazarding conversation.

Cole would return the offer. “Not that odd when you’ve gone without one for so long. The last true bed I slept in was two weeks ago. Makes me appreciate how great an invention they are, especially when shared.”

That made the diablan hum thoughtfully. “Judging by the north in your accent, I’d guess you’re a traveler. What brings you to the chaos of Spiral City without plan for a bed?”

Cole exhaled wistfully. How best to explain this?

“I sought romance and found reality. I am a bard abroad waiting for my allies of circumstance to join me in this chaos. Cole, the Wanderer.”

“A bard abroad?” The diablan cocked his brow and made a slight smile. He dropped next to Cole. “We could make a two man band. I’m not a bard abroad, but I am a bard expelled. Fern Sannata.”

The two men shook hands. Cole’s exhaustion and dejection vanished at this development. “Expelled? Poor performance, or poor behavior?”

“Poor sense of fairness.” Fern rolled his white-fire eyes. “Hard enough for a diablan to join any academy. Academy Arikahs in Cactus Cascada made an exception after my repeated pestering. They let me complete any course I wished, but they would not let me hear the Song of Songs. Y’see, that would be willing exposure of a diablan to an arcane source, and the Confederacy has strict laws against that.”

Cole thought about Legion and how nervous he was to reveal his arcana. “They’re afraid you’d hurt people with it?”

“Of course. Every law about diablans is because people are afraid of us. We can’t own property in most territories either, because they can’t fathom us wanting a home of our own for anything other than ‘hiding’ something.”

Fern made an exasperated bleat like a goat. “I’m sorry, I should have asked if you think diablans are inherently evil before I started talking.”

“I in no way think that.” Cole shook his head as non-threatening as he could. “So you can’t perform song arcana?”

“Oh no, I can, but only just. I snuck into the ceremony and was ripped away halfway through. I have arcana, but it’s not a part of my entire being. I am eternally stuck at lesson one.”

He whistled three short notes, causing small fireworks to burst around his fingers. He dropped his head against the wall. “So that’s why I was expelled, and why I’m a wanted criminal in Cactus Cascada.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Cole grimaced. “If it’s any consolation, I haven’t even heard the Song of Songs. So you still have an advantage over me.”

The two were silent for a spell. Sat against the wall, they watched two Red Watchmen drag a day-drunk human to the city walls.

“It was nice while it lasted.” Fern said in a melancholy breath. “Sometimes it was frustrating. Never fun to study a ballad about some ancient war only to find your people are on the wicked losing side. Everyone keeps glancing at you to see your reaction. At first I was fine with it, but by the seventh ballad I started to spend my free time searching for materials written by Diablans for Diablans. Shockingly hard to do that. Fortune to the professor that let me. I like to think I made a difference in the minds of my classmates. I certainly did the day I whipped out the story of The Diablan’s Purpose.”

Cole turned to Fern like a hopeful child. “Can’t say I’m familiar with that one.”

“Don’t take it as a failing. It's not a story you’d hear outside certain circles. It conflicts with...well let's say it makes the average non-Diablan feel like a pendejo, and the average Diablan feel as if their life is pointless.”

“So not a fun story.”

“Distinctly not. It’s not a long story if you have the time, but I think I may not.”

Fern’s eyes were set on the building across from them. It was a medicinal apothecary that stood out from the surrounding buildings due to it’s sunset red coloring. Exiting the building was a duende dressed from head to toe in green. Even his ranch hat was made of a grass-green felt and helped identify him as he wove through crowds to get to the other side. The entire time he flipped a gold coin to himself.

When he got close enough, the duende tipped up his hat to reveal pale skin, flaxen hair, and an X-shaped scar that crossed from his brows to his chin.

“The deal is done. We have fifteen minutes to move the medicine.” The man spoke hastily to Fern. His north-fae accent confirmed to Cole that he was not a duende, but a hob.

“Might work faster if we have extra hands.” Fern jerked his thumb to Cole. “Cole the Wanderer, Pallet Painterstool.”

“Another traveler from Fae’Riam?” Cole extended his hand to the man.

“Better word would be immigrant.” Pallet took Cole’s hand and cast an anxious look back to the apothecary. “I’m fine with extra hands, but don’t expect a fast reward for it.”

“That’s fine.” Fern draped his arm across Cole’s shoulders. “Cole here will work for a bed with a roof over it.”

Pallet performed a double-take paired with an exasperated sigh. “Oh. Does he even know what we’re doing?”

“He does not.” Cole stated firmly, his eyes throwing questions at Fern. “—But he would like to, given how sudden this is.”

“It’s nothing illegal, but it may get you in trouble.” Fern explained as he led Cole across the street. “We’re supply runners, and today’s delivery is much needed medicine.”

There were two crates of medicine. Each one came to Cole’s ankle and contained sixteen corked bottles. It wasn’t a heavy package, but it was unwieldy, especially since the contents had to be handled with care. Cole and Fern hoisted their chosen boxes and followed Pallet into the street.

“So if you had not convinced me to help…?” Cole grunted as he attempted to find the best gripping point.

“-Fern would be carrying both crates.” Pallet quipped with a sly smile. “I only have this much upper body.”

Fern grinned to Cole. “Very happy to have you along. Don’t worry, we don’t have far to go.”

It was hard for Cole not to feel as if he had been duped into something. He was curious about where these last few decisions would lead him, but that nagging despair from early still clung to him like a soaked robe. The faint promise of a bed at the end of this was worth the effort of carrying this crate and setting aside his sense of self preservation.

Pallet was extremely intent on putting the apothecary behind them. His green hat bobbed at the bottom of Cole’s vision, acting as a marker for where he should be walking. Every new intersection they reached that green hat would pivot as Pallet cast his head back to see if anyone other than Cole and Fern were following them. He rubbed his thumb tightly over the gold coin in his hand. Cole wanted to ask where they were going, but both Fern and Pallet were focused on walking as fast as able without upsetting their cargo.

After putting several streets and buildings between themselves and the apothecary the trio slowed to a casual pace. Fern stood shoulder to shoulder with Cole to speak directly into his face. “Now’s a good time to ask, do you think minotaurs are inherently evil?”

“I- er…I’ve never met one.” Cole stammered. His attention was split between Fern, the oncoming traffic, and the medicine. “Are there minotaurs in Spiral City?”

“Here’s your answer.” Pallet brought them to a full stop at a street corner. Around the bend was a man that towered over Cole and Fern. His fur was the shade of dark ash and was trimmed short on his head, save for a trailing goatee. He would be reminiscent of Frost shifted, were it not for the obvious bull features, such as his black tipped horns.

“There’s a third one?” The minotaur asked in genuine confusion. His voice was as deep as his dark eyes. Cole noticed the imprints in the dirt road where he had been anxiously tapping his hoof.

“New recruit, eager to help others.” Fern spoke quickly for Cole. He set his box of medicine down at the minotaur’s feet.

Cole did the same and quickly bowed to the man. “Greetings. I’m Cole…the Wanderer.”

The minotaur huffed a laugh. It was remarkably expressive for having such an alien face. He dropped to one knee to inspect the medicine. “Oh he has a title? You’re a good man Cole the Wanderer. This will relieve the pain of many people.”

Cole nearly jumped when the beast offered his massive hand. “Thezzus Brahmin, no title needed.”

Cole watched his own hand be enveloped in Thezzus’ calloused mitten. “Forgive me, but in all honesty, these two have told me nothing.”

“Untrue.” Fern snapped. “I told you my life story.”

“And I told you where to go.” Pallet nodded.

“They’re a fast-talking duo.” Thezzus chuckled. He hoisted both crates with ease, nestling them in his shaggy arms. “They get my people supplies from those who won’t sell to us.”

“And your people are…more minotaurs?” Cole asked. He had not seen a hair of this race since arriving in Spiral City, and they were a hard people to overlook.

“They are. We’re refugees from Finis following the Order’s rise there. It was earlier this year that our herd arrived at the walls of this famous capitol, this city with so much room to spare, only to be turned away because the public feared us. We molochans know what we are best at, or what the public thinks we’re best at, so we sold our strength and size as labor. That was the trick to allowing us into the city under the agreement our living quarters are sequestered. They call it the Tauren Row”

They were nearer to the center of the city now. Perforacielo Mountain cast a shadow over this section, giving it the appearance of night in the evening. Cole noticed the buildings drawing closer together. Most of these buildings were not residential, but instead were smithies, foundries, and great storehouses. There were no soldiers here, only laborers carting materials from one building to the next.

Pallet tugged on Cole’s sleeve.

“Thezzus’ is the current leader of the herd.” He muttered. “He’s the one you need to convince to give you a bed.”

Cole nodded slowly. He knew just what to say.

“I absolutely hate the Order of Suffering.”

Thezzus’ big head craned back to Cole. Pallet regarded Cole with the kind of bemusement reserved for children. Fern wheezed into his arm.

“I mean it.” Cole didn’t break eye contact with Thezzus. “I spoke with Ghetsis earlier today. He told me that…that he plans genocide for when he takes the Cracked Throne. I never thought I’d hear a man say that to my face, especially with how calmly he did it, like he was certain I’d agree with him.”

It was hard conceive this massive being looking so soft and vulnerable, and yet Thezzus did. Land to the West had mentioned the minotaur population on the west coast of Athshin. The drawing accompanying this knowledge was of a scarcely dressed bull creature on it’s hind legs bellowing at the reader. That was not the creature Cole was looking at now.

Thezzus spoke slowly, so that he could choose the right words. “It is a relief that some will still react to the idea of a purge with revulsion. I wish there were men like you in Finis when the Order first appeared. Maybe Ghetsis wouldn’t be this close to the Cracked Throne if there were.”

“However…” His large dark eyes sparked conviction. “Talk is just air. What will you do to oppose the Order?”

“I…” Cole’s voice trailed off. He had no plan for stopping the Order. He was waiting for his companions so that they could hunt a necromancer. Stopping genocide was not part of his travel plan. Beside him, Fern was silently encouraging Cole to say more.

“…I can’t do much. I sing, I tell stories, I study. But I want to help. I do. If a man, if people, like that come to power and all I did was watch…that’s not the story I want to tell.”

“Well said.” Pallet patted Cole’s lower back.

The dense buildings of the foundries gave way to wide street with no intersection. A dead end flanked by tall stone buildings. There was a strange scent in the air, a mixture of musk and tilled soil. This was the Tauren Row. Minotaurs sat in circles in the road, deep in discussions as their children played with blunted tools from the prior district. The adults took immediate notice of their arrival and rushed to help Thezzus unload the medicine. Thezzus gave some directives in their native language, which were obeyed with a firm nod. Cole felt as small as Pallet amongst these people.

“I shouldn’t be so stern.” Thezzus said as he turned back to Cole. “I’m sick of being terrified of the Order and what they represent. There was a moment, brief as it was, that I convinced myself that we could build a new life here in the Confederacy. Three months later I saw the Order’s symbol on a banner in the streets and all the old emotions of the revolt rushed back. They’ve only grown stronger with each passing day, and now, with the Emperor’s Clash coming…I’m terrified for what comes next for my people. I suppose there’s always the Dune Seas to the south.”

He patted Cole’s shoulder. It was the most affirming thing the boy had felt in days. “You want to help and already have. Our primary healer has been missing. Bottled medicine is no replacement for divine magic, but it will be enough. Pallet and Fern share a room here, if they are willing, then you can board with them. We who hate the Order of Suffering have to stick together.”

Cole bowed his head. “I’ll do what I can.”

Thezzus bade them farewell. Even though he had been genuine in his commitment, Cole still leaned over to Fern to ask: “Now where is this much promised bed?”

Pallet and Fern shared a dingy two-room house at the entrance to Tauren Row. The ground floor shared their beds and a small kitchen, while the upstairs was used for “storage.” This turned out to be a hoard of useless items, whatever seemed to catch Fern’s fancy. There were three hole-riddled rugs rolled in the corner. A crates of empty bottles were stacked to the ceiling. Small wood carvings, caricatures it seemed, weighed down a stack of loose papers. Spread amongst the filth were a few weapons, chosen for their uniqueness rather than their lethality. The smell of this attic made Cole’s eyes water and his throat shut.

“It is mostly trash. I will confess, but you never know. For instance.” Fern cleared aside some of the clutter to reveal the edge of a bed. It was being used as a shelf for other items.

Cole was so eager for rest he was willing to put in the effort to clear the space so the bed would be bare. Fern of course assisted, while Pallet was off aiding Thezzus. As they worked, a question returned to Cole.

“So what is A Diablan’s Purpose?”

“Oh you want to hear it now? I guess I did say it was short.” Fern took a seat on one of the crates.

Fern grabbed his head in both hands and twisted clockwise. There was a series of cracks that caused him to gasp in relief. Prepared, he leaned forward and took a deep look into Cole’s eyes.

“Every bard should know at least five uncomfortable stories in the off-chance that the discomfort will make people live better. Let this be one of yours.”

“The final Morning War was a fight on two fronts. The Divines were against both the resurged Elder Elementals, and the apocalyptic beings of Muspilli. Spread so thin after the repeat wars, the Divines turned towards their foe of the prior conflict: The Infernals. Infernals have their own stake in existence continuing, so their leader, Gargarensis, struck a deal with the Divines. They would take the burden of fighting the Muspellr, seal them away if they could, in exchange for certain boons. Having no choice, the Divines agreed.”

This was a piece of history that most people knew. The Last Morning War, where the balance of the cosmos was finally set before the First Era of Domhanda.

“Gargarensis capped the doorway to Muspilli with his own fortress, and all thirteen Hells above it. He is the first line of defense against the apocalypse and for it he was allowed the boons he requested. Of most importance to our story is he was allowed to create a race of his own in the new realm of Domhanda.”

“The creation of the Diablans has always been a mystery. Not the how, but the why. Why had Gargarensis wanted his own race when Infernals cannot be empowered by worship? Why had he placed them so far from each other, with no guidance or further blessings? For races of the Divines the answer was obvious: he had a wicked plan and his creation could not be trusted. Diablans have always been purged, but we always return. Still, no one can say for sure what Gargarensis was planning with our creation.”

“In the Second Era there was a scholar. A diablan who forfeited his name for reasons to be revealed later. This question of why? burned in him like the fire of ten sun gods. He had to know what Gargarensis’ intent was. He did not expect Gargarensis to respond to the summons, but the three-eyed devil did, and quite amicably too.”

“‘I will give you anything you want.’ The scholar said on a bent knee. ‘Take all that I am without struggle, make me a meal or a victim of torment, but I must know what you want from my people.’”

Fern cleared his throat to properly capture the essence of the master of all Infernals. “‘Heh. Want? What do I want? I want what I always want: to prove the Divines are flawed. You are a component to that. Nothing more or less.’”

Fern shrugged. “The scholar needed to know more. He had gotten this far, hadn’t he? ‘But what is that component? Are we your soldiers? Your worshipers? How can we follow your course when you have given us no direction?’”

“Gargarensis laughed again. It's described as being oddly warm despite what followed. ‘Having no direction is precisely what I intended. I’ll tell you a deep secret that will shake your core: You exist to make others sin. I built you carefully, oh so carefully. I made you in my image. The same image that children are taught to fear as the scion of all evil. A painting of you fits comfortably in a gallery on devilkind. I could have made you look like anything, but it had to be clear that you are the race I made. You would not exist without me and that very fact drives other mortal races mad with suspicion. Do you understand me?’”

Fern asked it both as Gargarensis to the scholar, and as storyteller to audience. Cole shook his head. Fern smiled grimly.

“‘You are right that I have given no guidance to your kind. I made you and forgot you. And yet...how many mortals would stake on their lives that I did? How many would swear on the trail of every cloud in the sky that there is a conspiracy I laid long ago to my loyal creations? How many mortals would go to war believing in that conspiracy? Commit genocide to end that conspiracy? Here is another secret: You and all your kind have free will. Your lives in this mortal realm are yours, not mine. That means you are innocent until you decide to commit evil, and when a mortal kills an innocent it is a sin. When a mortal devotes their mind to the hatred and second-guessing of an innocent it is a sin, and when mortals band together to murder innocents en masse it is a sin so powerful that their souls are mine forever. The only flaw I gave you is what you call Infernal Madness. The joke of that being you are no more prone to madness than any other race, but it is unique to you so it must be part of my scheme.’”

Fern seized the empty air in front of him. “Gargarensis gripped the scholar’s head. ‘You wanted to know what you are? You are a scapegoat. A sick, misshapen little scapegoat I introduced to the flock to frighten the sheep and be culled by the shepherd. You exist to die on the sword of someone who believes they’re making their god proud.’”

“The scholar was shaken by the fiend’s words. ‘What now?’ he asked.”

“‘Now I think you will have till morning. That is when the madness will take you. Make them afraid little scapegoat. Make them hate.’ Gargarensis left the scholar with only hours till daybreak. While his mind remained he wrote down all that the Infernal had told him. The madness took him suddenly, and where he lived Diablans are no longer allowed.”

Fern flourished his hands to show the end of the story. Cole raised his hands to applaud, but it seemed the wrong response. He was silent for a long time.

“Do you believe that story is true?” He asked Fern.

Fern sighed again. “I guess I must because I keep telling it to anyone who’ll listen. It would be very nice to know I’m not inherently evil. Not so much the other parts.”

Fern was right, the story did make Cole feel like a pendejo, and yet he asked: “Could you…write that down for me?”