Dolohov Family/Rescue

Chapter One: Messengers

Rasputin Dolohov swatted mosquitoes, seated in his judicial palanquin for the trip from Bolkenia to Rueffilo -- his old stomping grounds! He was Grand Justiciar, now, though, and Riombaran law had required that he give up his landed title.

Peering out the bamboo slats, he watched the reconstruction of the southern road, a few ditch-diggers clearing out the old drains, and bricklayers rebuilding the sides of the bridge. Off in the distance, a new silo was going up. The undead had not been kind to the region, not at all, but under Riombara's banner, it would thrive again -- the only problem was people! All the tools were there, plenty of gold, only the occasional hiccup in the food supply. But half the houses that still stood, stood empty.

The palanquin came to an abrupt halt, and Rasputin banged the roof with his fist. "Steady on! What's the matter?"

"Scruffy-looking foreign fellow to see you, sir. Says it's urgent."

"It's always urgent. Give him some money or candy or something and make him go away."

"Says he's got a message for you, sir."

"Bloody hell... All right, put me down."

The bearers moved off the road to a patch of grass, and set the lacquered-bamboo palanquin gently down in it. Rasputin put on his straw hat, grabbed a fan, and climbed out. The tropical sun beat down on him as soon as he did; it was hot and sticky, typical weather for the south of Beluaterra. Rueffilo didn't have the benefit of a sea breeze, either, just the river -- which was breeding ground for mosquitoes.

The judicial guards were detaining what looked to be a scruffy-looking foreign fellow. Too pale to be from Riombara, fancy clothes like from Atamara -- but tattered and stained. He gave Rasputin a toothless sailor's grin and presented a rolled-up piece of paper, as tattered and stained as his clothes. The guards brought it over, and Rasputin unrolled it to find familiar handwriting, a memory from his boyhood far away. He read it silently, twice through.

" `You're the only one I trust', eh? Silver-tongued old bastard. Gotten himself into a hell of a scrape from the sounds of it. You there, where'd this come from?"

"Well west of `ere, it did. Feller named Vassly or somethin."

"Tall fellow, strong as an ox and twice as brave?"

"Eh?" The messenger looked puzzled. "No sir, he's a short bugger, skinny. Wears glasses."

"That's my Uncle Vasily, then, no mistake." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, and mumbled to himself as he re-read. "A bit of adventure sounds like just the thing. Reconstruction's all well and good, but I seem to have gotten my gardeners killed, and the job's mostly done. Just a bit of repopulating to do..." Rasputin paused a moment, but shook off that thought, however attractive. "Wouldn't mind showing up that blighter Al, either."

Rasputin snapped his fingers and called over a scribe. "Take down a message for Lord Delvin; I'm going to be taking a leave of absence."

---

The messenger from the General of Sandalak poked his head into the biggest hospital tent in the Sandalak encampment at Abykal, and immediately regretted it -- a valkyrie of a nurse, clad in a blood-spattered white uniform shrieked at him and drove him away with the fury of a Yayhan rottweiler. Lord Sebastian's livery did not make his messenger a popular person with the healers. He had come straight here from the battlefield outside the walls, and still smelled of whiskey. Sandalak's victory, however, had laid a few TLs out, Lord Alexei Dolohov among them with an arrow in his left arm.

Sebastian's orders had been quite clear, though: find the Golden Griffons, Alexei's battallion, to give them orders, then determine how soon the former Dictator himself would be up and ready. The sooner he accomplished the task, the sooner he could get back to celebrating in some cozy pub in Ibyp.

So he looked around cautiously, then turned his tabard inside-out and crawled under the side of the tent. He snatched a white doctor's tunic and threw it on over his clothes, then picked up a saw and found a nurse.

"Where's Commander Dolohov been put? I think that arm's going to have to come off."

"Right this way, doctor." The messenger followed the nurse to a smaller, more private tent. The nurse slipped inside and called quietly, "Milord, the doctor would like to see you. Milord? Damn it!"

She bolted outside and cupped her hands at her mouth. "We've got a runner!"

The messenger took advantage of her distraction and entered the tent -- a nice little spot with a desk and a comfortable-looking bed. An empty bed. He poked around the various belongings, and was soon rewarded: onto the ground fell a tattered letter. Nobody was around, so he read it.

"Island far to the west... lots of gold... fellow captured by his own ship's crew... 'You're the only one I can trust.' Signed, Your Uncle, Vasily Dolohov." He tucked it into his messenger's pouch and went for his horse. Lords Boswick and Sheldar would not be happy.

---

General Kepler Dolohov returned to the family home in Chocxal, the messenger following closely, and the message folded and tucked into the belt of his loose tunic. Ignoring the messenger, he sat immediately at his writing desk, pulled out a piece of parchment, and started to write.

Bored, the messenger went to wash up in the large basin by the door, covered to keep sand out. Then he poked around the General's apartment. Nothing fancy -- downright humble compared to the rest of the household, shared with aunts and cousins and the occasional guest. Those large, cavernous rooms were hung with elaborate tapestries with red and gold threads, and the spoils of war: splintered lances, foreign works of art, banners from Lamar, RedSpan, Abington, Norland, Falasan, and the Ash Sea Islands. Kepler's apartment was small, just a few rooms with a simple bed and a clean marble basin. On one wall hung a suit of simple, scarred armor with a large hole. On another wall a Talerium banner was mounted, of a slightly older design, with several tears that had been mended by hand.

Kepler blotted the paper, folded it neatly. He sealed it with yellow wax, and imprinted it with the Dolohov family crest. Thus sealed, he handed it to the messenger. "Return to my father, and give him this."

"Sir, are you not coming with me?"

"I do not know why my father thinks he can come to me, after not so much as a word in ten years, but I have responsibilities here. If you didn't notice, there are Darkans in the backyard, and I am obliged to deal with them before they soil it further."

The messenger boggled. "You're not going to go and rescue your own father?"

"I am not. If I am, as he puts it, the only one he can trust, then he is truly beyond help. Now, if you will excuse me, Thor will have my head if I don't see to these incoming scout reports."

"Wait, sir. I hadn't wanted to show you this, but..." His voice trailed off as he rummaged in his sack, then came up with a small thing, like a large dried apricot.

Kepler took it, and looked it over, fingering the ragged edge. "His left ear, is it?"

"Yes, sir. It was on the floor when I last saw him. He's in a bad way, sir, and regardless of your feelings, he's flesh and blood."

Kepler pursed his lips, eyes intent on the shriveled bit of flesh. He placed it carefully on his desk. "Very well. Go downstairs and fetch my scribe. I will pack."