Author's note: I have a new story up called The Deeds of Kalon. It's a fantasy epic poem in the style of John Milton. If you like the prose of Drinker of the Yew, you will probably like that book as well. 

The long winter I spent in Huroncenth laid bare the necessity of Carinon’s actions, despite her guilt and many restless nights she spent reading by the light of runes and candlewick, seeming as a means of penance.  Many brutal winters, I have seen, and that winter was so chilling and rotten that it rivaled the bitterness of the final winter I spent in my village. Had we not conquered the city atop the plateau, succumbing to Extirpation’s will, the cunning and powerful mages of Junumianis would have eliminated us with utter certainty. 

Despite providing strategic refuge, Huroncenth presented its own difficulties for us mages and the army. The food stores were diminished due to the demands and ruination that all-consuming conflict had brought upon the land, leading much of the citizenry to riot in anger and starvation as their sick, weak, and injured perished of our damnable conquering. I will not pretend that the Kalipaonin regiment were compassionate or virtuous, for that would be a lie. It was Extirpation’s war, his domain of desecration, even the good and virtuous were allured by the rot of temptation and seeming necessity. And us, believing ourselves righteous, maintained ignorance or our brutality. 

Carinon however, held her guilt deep within her soul and her character. As I said, she was not well-rested, and spoke often of the troubling actions she had taken to conquer the city. So troubled the Master of Bestowment was, that Nestyne relieved her of limitations he had placed on our magicks, allowing her to heal and treat those she desired.This was not a decision the had summoner made lightly, for in making it he knowingly drew the ire of Commander Partelin and other officers. To not ration and supervise a mage’s spells was a significant risk to our safety, our army, and our strategy. Nestyne, however, remained steadfast in his conviction for he feared that Carinon would otherwise not be well enough to fight once the frost faded from fields and winter loosened its frozen embrace of the air and sky.

It was for Carinon’s health that the grisly business of winter was assigned to myself and Quatimonian, for with Huroncenth’s starvation and riots came other troubles: resistance, subterfuge, rebellion, and murder, for the city was known to hold loyalty above all else, and so was our duty to eliminate those violently loyal men before they sprouted and they became too costly to expunge. 

It was also during the winter we spent in Huroncenth that I came to better know Quatimonian, and ultimately befriended him. Of all the mages of the Kalipaonin Regiment, Quatimonian was undoubtedly the most devoted to Kalitian and her teachings. He was not cruel by nature, and did not care much for war. He did not object to violence, but the more I came to understand and befriend the man, the more I understood that this war was a means for him to pursue the two things he valued most: Knowledge and intellectual renown. 

Our meetings and strategizing were never short, and certainly never all strategizing. As I would go about informing Quatimonian of my subterfuge with the spell of unnoticing or other magicks, the mage would often interject with minutiae of spellcasting or other conjectures of spellcraft I had yet to consider. At first, these seemed irrelevant, pointless, and wasteful; I would often get frustrated with him and demand he not interject. Yet each interjection, seeming useless, would slowly reveal itself to be of the utmost relevance to my work and our strategy. 

Quatimonian knew the first language as if it were his original: his castings were swift, easier to memorize, and safer for their precision, and it was for his knowledge that our grisly work in Huroncenth was successful. It was also, perhaps, for his knowledge that the Kalipaonin Regiment became renowned for brutality and cataclysm. When one is so devoted to one singular goal as Quatimonian was, it is difficult to see the damage one does. Waves within a dark ocean are still waves.

Nearly two months of work, but before our most difficult assignment, I put it upon myself to understand why Quatimonian had joined the effort against Junumianis, for he was more suited for research in demeanor and priority. 

“Quatimonian, you are a good soldier, but you show little passion for war or this conflict. It is easy to see you hold Knowledge and Kalitian highest above all else. Why then, did you leave Arimens to fight this difficult and dangerous war?” I asked Quatimonian amdist one of our many meetings.

“I had few reasons, Nayinian, to pursue my role in this war. First and foremost it was to honor the man who gave me lessons of Kalitian and Knowledge: Yularelian. My master asked of me to fight this war, and I believed myself to owe a great debt of gratitude to him so I did as requested. He was a good master, and is a good man of Virtue and Knowledge, and without him I would not be able to pursue magicks in all forms.”

So Quatimonian spoke of his first reason, and I found myself bothered. I could not think of Yularelian as a good man, only a scoundrel with a distaste for all things womanly. Quatimonian continued to his second reasoning.

“My other reasoning was because I knew I would only grow to better understand the first language better through practical application, rather than purely research. Language, Master of Subtleties, is how it is used. One can pour through hundreds of fraying scrolls and dusty tomes in search of lost knowledge, but to truly understand the true language requires knowledge of how words are intended to be used. 

“Read all one desires to read about water, and you will know what people have written of water. Dive headfirst into a river, and you’ll know what water is. The same is true of the first language and the careful motion of the body we use in casting our spells, and my theory of use is why my master gave me the title Master of Flows. Water’s nature is not to bend and flow as poets write, but to carve and move unrelentingly on its path. This is why when I manipulate water my words are terse and forceful, and why my motions are stiff and sturdy.”

So Quatimonian spoke his two reasons for joining the Regiment and gave another lesson that I would not yet realize its use until much later. In many senses my friend’s words saved my life. Yet, despite his intentions and devotion to Kalitian he could not see the wake he carved within the dark ocean of war. For, as I mentioned, it is perhaps his devotion to Knowledge that gave the Kalipaonin Regiment its brutal reputation.

Our most difficult assignment during the long winter was to root out a rebellion within the city. Several of our men had already been murdered in shadows and quiet places, and the rebel group had proven difficult to find. Seemingly, these rebels had prepared themselves for us, for I do not doubt that they had information on all wizards of Arimens and Moringia. 

The spell of unnoticing, while excelling in avoiding trouble and subterfuge, was not useful for when one intends to kill or when one is expected. The nature of the spell was subtle illusion and sleights of fields and grasses and reeds. I could not simply walk among confined quarters undetected when those hallways and corridors are under constant surveillance. If one is expected, then one will still be seen. Still, the spell remained useful as it always had been.

So, rather than a solution by one simple spell and simple killing, our investigation became a project of many faces and many pages. Connections were drawn from man to man, woman to woman, child to child, forming an interlacing web of uncertainty. Yet, one conversation I eavsed with the spell of unnoticing, began to make clear the clouded pond of the resistance. Soon, man by man, the list fell into place.

I knew who provided our foe their weapons. I knew who murdered our soldiers. I knew which children served as pawns for the sake of their family’s survival, and eventually, I knew where to find them. Their base was hidden within a small chapel to Daristian, who serves nature. The windows framed with bent ivy of silver, and subtle shades of purple marked the ninth saint’s domain. Under the pulpit, concealed with rugs and offerings to the saint lay a simple wooden door flat to the ground which opened to a lengthy ladder which delved into the catacombs of Huroncenth. 

Within those catacombs lay thousands of the dead ancestors of those who lived within the city. The city, much like the machinations of Extirpation, was built on a foundation of slaughter. And it was within those catacombs that the rebellion of Huroncenth kept its base. 

Commander Partelin gave the word to strike during the evening, for they were weak and could not resist. When asked if we were to spare any of the traitors, Partelin decreed that we would not. They had already resisted once, and the same crime twice should be met with death, for it was a war of greed and power. 

Within those catacombs, I witnessed the dark waves of Quatimonian’s devotion to Knowledge his obsession with the first language, for he declared that send more than himself under the city would be a waste of time and men.

“What you need a hundred men for, I will need but a barrel of water.” The Master of Flows boasted. I believed him immediately, for I knew Quatimonian to not be a gambling man. At first the Commander was resistant to the suggestion, but after many reassurances he granted Quatimonian his wish under one condition: he would bring 10 men and another mage with him. I did not cast a single spell, nor was a single one of our swords drawn. Let me tell you, then, of a portion to why the mages of the Kalipaonin Regiment were the most feared of all Moringia.

It was the dead of night when Quatimonian, myself, and ten men descended into the Catacombs. So cold, it was, that many of the skulls had frosted over, but Quatimonian showed no signs that he was wary of the cold. Before I could ask him what he intended the barrel of water for he took a hammer and smashed its contents upon the floor, creating a pool of mud. Without hesitation, he cast a spell with few words and violent gesture, and before him floated an undulating mass, a potent mire of destruction.

Then, holding onto this muddy constellation he slowly walked through the surveilled tunnels in search of our enemy, and with each one presented the most terrible fate as streams of cold and wet dirt filled the lungs of rebellion. Those who ran were grabbed by a dirty tendril. Those who screamed in death were muffled. Those who begged for forgiveness did so in vain. And so, with one spell, an entire rebellion fell to a devotee of Kalitian, for Extirpation found his way within all domains and all men.