I. Sprinkles of Truth (Chapter One)
“Wait up, Allard!”
You and Burt struggle to keep up with the golden figure striding west through the streets of Windrose City. Everyone had packed with such haste that you worry if anything might be left behind.
“Time is of the essence. Just grab your essentials and spell books, minnows,”
Allard had growled just moments ago, strapping on his huge sheathed claymore and checking that the corrupt shard was safely packed.
“If we forget anything, Nessie can fly it over.”
Nessie, who had grown to the size of roughly a whisker and a half, had outstretched her considerable wingspan at his words. Soon, if she truly was an offspring of the Skullpicker Heron, she would outgrow the cramped Embers guild quarters, but this thought didn’t seem to concern the ever-doting Allard.
“I’ve never seen Allard this worried,” pants Burt. “And he never tells us anything when he’s like this.”
You nod feverishly in response. It takes about three or four of your steps to cover one of Allard’s strides.
You soon reach the West Gate of Windrose, where Allard brushes the guards aside.
“Allard, I know we’re gonna save Quatal and all, but are we just barging into Andromadus?” Burt says, shivering. “Because I need at least a week to prepare myself mentally before I can face that black armored thing again.”
Allard is about to reply when a pigeon flutters onto his shoulder and drops a roll of parchment into his hands. Allard hastily unravels it and reads.
“No word from Frostfish and Whirlfish, but Gladefish has pledged their elite guerrilla troop.” You can barely hear him muttering to himself. “Better than nothing, I suppose. We can’t have them storming the Saxum de Phasma; Andromadus would surely be prepared with an ambush. Perhaps we can meet them at Northfall later, though negotiating with Melkezadek has never been easy either.”
Burt loses his patience and kicks Allard in the small of his back, but yelps in pain as his foot bounces back. Allard, who doesn’t seem to have felt the kick, turns around at Burt’s yell with his arms akimbo.
“What are you doing?” he growls as Burt rolls around, nursing his toe.
“That’s my line,” Burt retorts. “We always rush off without you sharing vital information with us.”
Allard sighs.
“Get up, Burt. I’ll explain as we walk. I was waiting until we got out of the city anyway. There are too many nosy whiskers around.”
Burt rolls his eyes and accepts your hand to pull himself up.
“Remember I sent word to the other guild branches back at headquarters?” Allard says, resuming his westward march. “Well, Frostfish, Whirlfish, and Gladefish are the names of the northern, southern, and eastern branches, respectively. Their locations are well hidden. Not even the heads of the Windrosian branch know where they are. I guess they have some magical message relay to communicate. They wouldn’t share that sort of thing with a field agent like me. Security risks, among other things.”
You nod your head in wonder, trying to imagine what these clandestine guilds look like, but Burt snorts.
“I already knew that. What do you mean Gladefish is the only one sending troops?”
“That’s exactly what I meant, ya squirt,” Allard says. “Frostfish and Whirlfish have always been reserved about getting involved in combat affairs, but our ties with Gladefish are stronger. That’s partly the reason why I was keen on helping young Soraya when she came knocking on our door.”
“No, the reason you helped her was for her gigantic offer of money.”
But there was no sting in Burt’s words as his eyes drifted apart at the mention of Soraya.
“I wonder why Soraya didn’t ask Gladefish for help on her quest.”
“Too close to home, I suppose,” Allard says. “We don’t know the level of entanglement between Gladefish and the Mudpearl Corporation. No, it was safer for her to come to a neutral guild.”
The party walks in silence for a few shades. The beautiful Barley Lake expands out to the left of the path. You see a few whiskers along the shore, throwing their fishing lines into the clear blue water.
“Check out that chump.”
Burt points to a figure lounging on a beach chair beneath a billowing purple and orange umbrella.
“I’d give anything to switch places with him right now.”
He is a yellow-spotted whisker adorned with pointed sunglasses, sipping on a bubbly blue drink. Several water sprites fuss about him, checking to see if there is work to be done.
“Don’t be rude, Burt,” Allard says, clipping Burt on the back of his head. Burt flies forward and skids across the gravel. “That fine fellow is Mr. Micci. He is a regular supporter of our guild.” He raises his voice. “A fine day, my good whisker. How are the waters?”
Mr. Micci passes his drink to one of the sprites and lifts his glasses to see who is addressing him.
“Why, why, Sir Allard! A pleasant surprise. The waters are fine as usual. What brings you to this corner of the pond?”
“Trouble in the West, Mr. Micci,” Allard says. “I have business with some old acquaintances.”
“Really? Well, I did hear something brewing over the old Barren Hills. Who owns it and whatnot. But this whole Wisterian family infighting is such wearisome news,” Mr. Micci says with an exaggerated sigh. “But I suppose our Queen must have her way.”
“Indeed, indeed.” Allard frowns.
“Do you fine whiskers have time to join me in a tipple at the Royal Vineyard? I’m just about to head there,” Mr. Micci says. “I do love a good chinwag, that’s for sure.”
“I do appreciate the offer, but not today,” Allard replies, unconsciously grabbing the scruff of Burt’s neck. “We do need to get going.”
“All is well. Adios, my friends.” Mr. Micci waves a lazy hand and takes back his drink from the water sprite, who had promptly refilled it.
“Let…go of me, Allard.” Burt coughs and struggles against Allard’s death grip. “I wasn’t going to go to the Royal Vineyard. Quatal needs us.”
“As long as you understand,” Allard says, releasing him.
The evening falls, and you make camp at the western edge of the lake. There is a glade of bushy trees that provides shelter from the dusty roads, and there are even some wild raspberry vines laden with fruit.
“So, what’s the plan?” Burt says thickly, his lips bright red from gorging on berries. “We storm the Saxophone de Fantastic, whip the black beetle’s bottom, grab Quatal, and dance off into the sunset?”
“We’re meeting with an old friend in Castle Wisteria,” says Allard, who is delicately picking through the fruit.
You have had your fill of the juicy raspberries and are warming yourself by the campfire.
“Though we can go straight to the Saxum de Phasma, I’d like to make the most of our encounter with Andromadus. Our friend will be able to help us here. It’s a bit of a long way around, but Andromadus wouldn’t dare hurt his quarry. He knows I have what he desires.”
“Don’t you think a bit highly of yourself? And pray, tell us what this amazing Wisterian whisker is going to do for us?”
“Watch your tone, fish fry,” Allard rumbles. “There is an artifact that will help us extract some information out of that armored fiend. Enough questions. Go to sleep.”
Allard extinguishes the campfire with a stomp of his golden foot and whips a blanket around him. Within a minute, he is snoring.
“Don’t you hate it when he does that?” Burt says incredulously, pulling about his own bedding.
You awaken to the sharp snap of a twig. The moonlight filters through the sparse foliage of the surrounding trees, and a soft breeze rustles the leaves. Thinking Burt is trying to prank either you or Allard, you slowly push yourself to a sitting position. Both Allard and Burt are snoring loudly beside you. What was that sound? Your nerves tingle, and you resist the urge to wake Allard. He could be a real grump when disturbed during his sleep.
You hear the soft lapping of waves from the lake and, since you are now wide awake, decide to go for a short walk down the shore. You crawl through the underbrush of the glade and straighten as you step onto the gritty sand. You take a deep breath, savoring the crisp air, when a powerful hand clamps over your mouth.
“Don’t make a sound, or it’s skewered fish for you, little koi,” a terrible voice whispers in your ear. You feel a blade pressing against your belly. “Search them.”
You struggle vainly against the whisker holding you while another thoroughly frisks you from head to fin. Under the full moon, you see him wearing a black cloak tied at the chin with a dark button.
“This one ain’t carrying anything,” the second whisker says with a grunt. “Shall we toss ‘em in the lake?”
You let out a squeak of terror.
“I said shut it!” the first whisker snarls. “I thought we could hold this one hostage, but it looks like they won’t keep quiet. Run your knife through them.”
“My pleasure, capt'n,” says the second whisker, drawing his blade.
You kick out with both feet and ram your elbows backward, but it is no use. The first whisker is much too strong. The second whisker raises his knife, grinning menacingly. You squeeze your eyes shut as tears fall freely down your cheeks.
“Wait, is tha’…is tha’ music?” The second whisker lowers his weapon and whips around.
“You imbecile! Quickly do away with this one,” the first whisker hisses.
The second whisker turns back, but he sways on the spot.
“Is it just me or... are you gettin’ sleepy?”
The first whisker lets out a muffled roar and tries to draw his own weapon, but you can feel his grip loosening around your head. You break free with an almighty flail, but after a few steps, you too tumble to the ground as your vision blurs.
“My, my, it worked better than I expected. I’m sorry, dear adventurer, I hope you’ll understand.”
A low, familiar voice is the last thing you hear before falling into a deep sleep.
You snap awake for the second time this evening, but this time to the sound of outraged yelling.
“Who do you work for, and why are you here?” The voice is unmistakably Allard’s, and you are dearly thankful that you are not on the receiving end of his fury.
“They’re not going to speak, Sir Allard,” the familiar voice says. “I say we put them back to sleep and hand them to the guards.”
“I say we cut their slimy heads off and hang their innards up in the trees,” Allard replies.
“Oh, look who’s awake!”
Burt’s relieved face pops into view. You slowly stand and take in the scene. On the ground are the black-cloaked whiskers who had threatened you by the lake. They are bound by thick rope and trembling, though you tell yourself that even the most courageous whisker would struggle to keep their cool when confronted with a raging Allard holding his huge golden claymore directly above them. Standing beside the golden whisker is…
“Soraya saved you! And she’s real this time,” Burt says, clapping his hands.
You nod, unsure of whether Burt is happy for your rescue or for meeting the Borozon whisker again. Soraya notices you’re awake, and her face lights up.
“Oh, Adventurer!” She runs and gives you a hug. “I’m sorry I put you to sleep. I don’t quite have the magical level to be precise with the Lullaby, but I figured as long as everyone drops, you can’t be harmed.”
“It was a smart move, that’s for sure,” Burt chimes in, beaming with enthusiasm.
“Thank you, Burt. You really don’t change, do you?” Soraya says. “I say, Sir Allard really is as frightening as the legends say.”
You peek over her shoulder to see Allard lower his blade and brutally knock the heads of the two ambushing whiskers against each other. They slump to the ground.
“How did you find us anyway? And what’s this new getup?” Burt says, his mouth agape.
You realize that Soraya isn’t wearing her trademark Borozon garb and instead is clad in a body-fitting armor with plates made of thin metal and leather. In fact, if Burt hadn’t pointed it out, you wouldn’t have noticed her attire, as it blends so well with the shrubbery behind her.
Soraya straightens and salutes with a giggle.
“Gladefish Guerrilla Cadet, Soraya Mudpearl, at your service. This is our troop’s uniform. Let’s us meld with the forest at will, you see.”
Burt’s mouth forms a soundless “wow”.
“I figured I was just too weak physically and mentally to take down the Mudpearl corporation, so my best bet was joining the Guerilla Troop,” Soraya says, patting down her uniform. “I’ve gone ahead of the group, but working independently is a valued skill in our ranks. And did you just ask me how I found you two, Burt? You don’t know me very well, do you?”
Soraya tosses a scroll in front of Burt’s face.
“The Watcher, of course!” Burt says. His face turns indignant. “Wait a second, so you secretly cast it on us before you left the guild?”
Soraya gives him a self-satisfied smile and stashes her scroll.
“They said I had superb natural talent when I joined the troop.”
You thank Soraya profusely for saving your life and ask her what she plans next.
“Oh yes, that reminds me,” Soraya says. “Sir Allard!”
Allard has both whiskers dangling by their feet from his hands. He drops them promptly on their heads before turning to Soraya.
“Yes, lassie?”
“I must be heading back,” Soraya says. “My orders were to report to you that our troop is heading to Swiftgale to hold council with the Baronesses Amelia and Alunas Stoneheart. Though they carry the stubbornness of the Wisterian Royal family, they have good hearts, and Gladefish have always maintained a friendly relationship with them. We will determine what our best course of action is if Moonfabias decides to mobilize her army on the Barren Hills.”
You and Burt look at each other, bewildered.
“It is as I feared then,” Allard says with a defeated sigh. “Though I do not know the details, we are on our way to one who will be able to tell us. I do not wish to hold you any longer, young Mudpearl. Tell your leader that I will meet her at Swiftgale once I take care of this business. If we do not arrive within three days, assume the worst and march straight to Northfall. Although Melkezadek is not the easiest to deal with, an alliance with him would be the only way to quell any movement from Moonfabias.”
“Understood, sir. Of course, there are certain risks in siding with Northfall in the Wisterian feud, but our leader also fears that Moonfabias may not be right of mind.”
“Yes, Tsuga has always been a wise one. I do miss seeking her counsel when we once worked together.” Allard regards her for a moment. “So, I take it that Gladefish and the Mudpearl Corporation have no business with one another.”
Soraya throws him a swift, searching look.
“Lady Tsuga would never allow it.”
Allard nods thoughtfully.
“We will meet again at Swiftgale, sir,” Soraya says with another salute. “May the tides flow in your favor.”
She gives you and Burt a brief squeeze before disappearing into the night, as silent as a drifting leaf.
“It’s good to see young Mudpearl doing well.” Allard crosses his arms and nods in satisfaction.
“What was that all about, Allard?” Burt demands. “Why are we always the last ones to know?”
Allard gives Burt a hard look before relaxing his arms.
“I’m sorry, Burt, but the extent of my knowledge is almost as limited as yours. I’m sure our friend in Wisteria will shed light on everything.”
He looks genuinely apologetic, and Burt swallows his retort.
“What are we going to do with them?” Burt jerks a finger towards the bound whiskers, now face down on the ground and breathing laboriously.
“Hmph,” Allard says with disgust. “While I’d like to personally gut them, we’ll take them with us for now. We’ll see what the castle guards make of them.”
Allard grabs another length of rope and wraps it around both whiskers. By the time he is done, they resemble wonky cocoons. He hoists them onto his shoulders and stomps out of the glade.
“Wait, Allard, we aren’t going to wait until the morning?”
“Make haste, Burt,” Allard roars back.
“Can you at least tell us who we’re meeting in such a hurry?”
You and Burt sprint to catch up to Allard, who doesn’t seem to be weighed down at all by his extra load.
“An excellent soldier. He could slay a whisker with a twist of his wrist. He pretty much single-handedly developed the deadly Wisterian martial art all the army recruits are required to learn,” Allard says. “Oh, I hear he is also now the finest baker in the entire Western Kingdom. Owns a café of some sort.”
You and Burt gape at each other.
“Mr. Sprinkles?!”