Savage Divinity

“It ain’t right,” Jorani grumbled as he wiped the sweat from his brow, the chill autumn air hurting his lungs as he puffed in exertion. “It ain’t right. We signed up to be Bekkies and do the bossman's killin’ and lootin. Said we’d be in fer some training or something, teaching us how to fight right and proper, but he’s had us choppin’ bamboo like damn woodsmen fer days now. It... it ain’t right.”

His words went unheeded over the rhythmic thwack of Ral’s axe, adding to the din around them. Wearing a shit-eating grin, the lumbering oaf put his back into every swing, felling the thick trunks faster than anyone without a Spiritual Weapon. The thought put Jorani’s temper back on edge as he tossed his hatchet to the ground and continued his tirade. “Treatin’ us like free labour. I’m Hangman Jorani o’ the Mother’s Militia, I fought against the Defiled hordes of Butcher Bay. A right proper hero of the Empire is what I am, coulda done anything I pleased. If I wanted to work like a dog, I’d never have left Sanshu. Plenty o’ work to be done back home, and I woulda been much appreciated there too. Horseshit is what it is.”

Bah. What use was there in being a hero? A few drinks at the bar and a few kisses from the whores, the sum total of all his rewards. Meanwhile, Falling Rain loots Yo Ling’s manor and leaves nothing for the rest of them. Even if the bossman eats meat, he ought to know enough to let those beneath him drink broth, right? It’s only what’s proper. Jorani made more money as a thief and looter, though he couldn’t imagine going back to that life. The lack of respect ruined it, he could never be a mere scavenger again.

The creak of timbers signalled Ral’s work had borne fruit, and the big oaf opened his mouth to shout, “Timber!” A handful of voices echoed the call, but there was no one in the path of Ral’s falling tree. After watching it crash to the ground, Ral turned to Jorani with a solemn look. “You shouldn’t slack so much Jor. We’s Bekkies now and Chey says the bossman’ll treat us right if we pulls our weight, which means earning our keep, which means-”

“I know what it means, ye slack-” Swallowing his words with a guttural groan, Jorani reigned in his temper. “Ral don’t mean no harm,” he muttered to himself, a habit he’d picked up during their journey to the Bridge. Wasn’t much else to do while sitting in a wagon for three-quarters of the day. With Ral and Chey all lovey-dovey and Kabi deader than dirt, Jorani had no one else to keep him company. It’s lonely at the top. “Can’t keep snapping at him like ye used to, he’s done right by ye, saved yer hide more times than he can count. Now, he can’t count too high but it’s still an accomplishment to be sure. Remember, he had a choice, coulda gone with Chey but he’s here with ye, that’s sayin’ something. Ain’t much but more than ye got without him, so be grateful.”

Ignoring Ral's concerned queries, Jorani unleashed his frustrations on the innocent bamboo tree. For the better part of the day, he grumbled and chopped, only pausing to shout ‘Timber’ or wipe his brow. “Discriminatory is what this is. Don’t see Mister Rustram out here breakin’ his back, or Ravil and Bulat either. Black-hearted scoundrels is what they are, probably back at the bridge drinkin’ and whorin’ like proper soldiers, havin’ themselves a proper laugh at my expense. Hangman Jorani, Leader of the Mother’s Militia, reduced to labouring like a common peasant...”

He wasn’t even good at this. Thirty strokes was his record, thirty strokes of the steel hatchet to fell a bamboo tree no thicker than his thigh. Meanwhile, Ral felled thicker trees with five or six sturdy chops, while Ulfsaar took them down with a single swipe of his battle-axe, yielding more than twice the results with half the effort. Using a Spiritual Weapon to fell trees, whatever beastie died for that weapon died a dog’s death.

A damn shame Jorani couldn’t use his cord the same way.

...Or could he?

The way others described Honing as using Chi to form a blade, so if the Chi was doing all the work, then why would it matter if his weapon lacked an edge? Unwinding the cord from around his waist, he wrapped it around the base of a bamboo trunk. Bracing one foot above the cord, he sawed the chain back and forth, using the soothing grating to lull him into a meditative state. Eyes narrowed in concentration, he emptied his mind and imbued his Chi into the Spiritual Weapon.

According to the old bastard, visualization was the first step to controlling your Chi, but it wasn’t as simple as imagining the cord slicing through wood. He had to visualize how it sliced through the wood, give his Chi a function to carry out, a goal to achieve. “It ain’t a cord I’m holdin’,” Jorani mumbled, all his attention focused on the task at hand. “It’s a thread, a wire, like the ones Ma used to cut clay with. Wood ain’t much harder than clay, don’t see why this wouldn’t work. Only a handspan of cord needs Honing, not the whole damn thing. Keep it simple and short, ain’t no reason to work harder than ye need to.”

In his mind, Jorani pictured his Chi gathering along the section of finger-thick cord scraping against the bamboo. He envisioned all manner of things, from adding an edge or three to his cord to heating it until it’d melt through the wood, but nothing worked. Finally, he tried a different tack, adding short, rough ‘teeth’ to the Chi layered on the cord, like the fraying threads of a wool garment. The abrasive surface bit into the wood as he worked the cord left and right, and slowly but surely his weapon carved deeper and deeper into the wood until the trunk gave way under his braced boot with an ear-shattering crack. “Timber!”

Letting the cord hang free, Jorani welled up with a sense of self-satisfaction as he watched the tree topple over, his cheeks stretched in a grin and shoulders aching with strain. Hands on his hips, he glanced about to see if anyone had noticed his handiwork, only to find himself standing alone in a cleared grove with the day almost done. What the hell? How long did he spend taking down this one tree?

After stripping off errant leaves and flowers, Jorani exited the bamboo grove dragging the tree behind him. Finding his crew packing to leave, he waved at Ral who greeted him with a loud, “Jor!” Bounding over, Ral clapped him on both shoulders, the big oaf forgetting to control his strength. “I’m so happy you’re better now, Jor,” Ral gushed, too excited to notice Jorani’s wince of pain. “I was so worried. You wasn’t answering, no matter how much I talked, you kept standing there rubbing your rope around the tree and muttering to yourself about clay and teefs.”

“Er... How long was I out fer?”

“Hours Jor, hours. I was so scared I ran out to find Miss Tursinai for help, but all she did was come over and giggle. Told us to leave you alone she did, said you were havin’ an insight.” Cocking his head, the big oaf’s long dog ears flopped to one side, making him look more ridiculous than normal. Chey had them neat, triangular dog ears, not long, drooping ones like Ral. What an unlikely pairing, like a flower growing in a pile of... mud. “What’s an insight, Jor? Is it good?”

“Yea, it's good.” Insight, so that’s what it was. Odd time and circumstances to receive the Mother’s guidance, but Jorani’s chest puffed up with pride all the same. Glancing around, he noticed the others staring with eyes full of awe and admiration, one or two even muttering prayers and invoking the Mother beneath their breath. “Truly the Mother’s chosen,” a voice whispered, “Blessed by her attentions and favour even while chopping wood.”

Hiding his glee with a feigned growl, Jorani barked, “What’re ye all eyein’ me fore? Ain’t ever seen such a handsome rat, have ye? Get back to work ye slackers, the Mother abhors the lazy and favours the hard-working. Come now, we’ve a schedule to keep, can’t keep  her favoured son the bossman waitin’ on yer sorry asses.”

Far from taking offence, the gathered former bandits all hopped to, throwing themselves into their work with enthusiasm and fervour. The majority of Jorani’s ruffians had been converted into real head-scraping, knee-taking, creed-spouting Mother-lovers over the past few weeks, and seeing how most were stronger than him, it couldn't hurt to play along. Besides, he could never get enough of seeing all these intimidating thugs hanging on to his every word. Hell, maybe the Mother really blessed him for whatever strange reason, or maybe it was his Ancestral Beast blood finally coming into play, who knows. Either way, Jorani had a new Insight to mull over, his strength and skill increasing in leaps and bounds.

He didn’t dare dream of soaring through the heavens like a dragon, but he’d settled for scurrying across the ground like a rat. For all their faults, rats were survivors, and that’s what mattered.

The short wagon ride back was uneventful, their roosequin-mounted escorts finding no trouble at the gates. Then again, what guard would close the gates to Senior Captains Tursinai and Tenjin, the heroic duo who survived a clash with Yo Ling, the Defiled Bandit King? Jorani himself didn’t merit the same level of respect, but it was to be expected. All he did was hold off a horde of bloodthirsty Defiled while a half-dozen Demons battled not fifty meters away, all in front of Yo Ling. No big deal, nothing to write home about, right?

Still grumbling beneath his breath the entire time, Jorani helped unload the timbers before reporting to Diyako and Chakha as ordered. Wholly ignoring his presence, the two craftsmen arguing while they stood in front of a half-built lattice bamboo fence. “Ain’t no chance of working,” Diyako said with his nose held high. “Don’t matter how much leather and fur you stack on the walls, a tent’s still a tent. Yer wasting time and resources which could be better spent.”

“Listen here ye insufferable twit, it’s called a ger,” Chakha replied, gesturing to a sheaf of parchment in hand, “and my ancestors thrived in em. Ye take a lattice fencing for walls, a dozen or so flexible bamboo poles for ribs, add in a door, a door frame, maybe an interior post or two, and a compression ring to top it off. Then ye cover the whole thing in canvas and leather, set a nice little furnace in the middle, and you’ve got yerself a ger. After the first snowfall, ye pack snow on the walls right up to the rafters and it’ll insulate the whole damned thing. With enough charcoal, it’ll keep ye nice and toasty all throughout winter.”

“Ye ever spend a winter in one?” Diyako asked.

“No, but I’m tellin’ ye it’ll work, ses so right here in the histories,” Chakha replied, shaking his parchments.

Seizing a lull in the conversation, Jorani jumped in. “Excuse me sers, wood’s all stacked and unloaded. If there’s nothin’ else, me and mine are hungerin’ fer dinner, so by yer leave...?” Fuck, did they cut all these trees down just to make charcoal? What a damn waste of effort.

“The histories only you can read!” Diyako retorted, ignoring Jorani out of hand. “Bunch of nonsense scribbled onto animal hide, who knows what it really says or if it’s even accurate. How are you going to deal with the smoke?”

“Ye put a pipe on top of the stove and throw in a flue. Need me ta draw ye a diagram too?”

“You think iron grows on trees? That we have so much of it we can afford to give it away for next to nothing? And who do you expect to build these stoves, pipes and flues? All the idle blacksmiths we don’t have? Tents and stoves, if the problem were so easy to solve, the Empire would have done it centuries ago. You know how much charcoal we’ll need to keep everyone warm?”

“Bah, bamboo charcoal is easy enough to make.”

“Ye got an answer fer everything don’t ye? How are we to make clothes for everyone if you’ve used all the leather for tents?”

“Plenty to go around, all them horse, garo, and ursadon skins ain’t gonna do any good sittin’ in storage.”

“Except they belong to the army and I doubt they’ll hand em over for a failed tent-building venture. Look, be reasonable and accept that this won't work. How ye gonna keep heat from leeching away into the ground or from escaping out the door every time it opens? Tents ain’t good enough fer winter living, enough is enough.”

Eye twitching at being ignored, Jorani scoffed at their idiocy. Easy to tell neither Chakha nor Diyako had ever lived in poverty. Charcoal? Iron stoves? Leather walls? These were luxuries few peasants could afford. “Instead of charcoal, burn dried animal shit,” he said, expecting to be ignored again. “There’s plenty of it and it’s free. Don’t need no fancy iron stove or piping either, any copper or stone brazier’ll do nicely. Sides, you’ll want the tent-” Chakha’s glare gave him pause and Jorani reminded himself that this fox-eared carpenter was the Young Wolf’s father. “The ger,” he corrected, “to breathe, on account of all the dung yer burning. Ye hang a quilt in front of the door, put the gers on raised wooden platforms, and it’s plenty better than anything I slept in growin’ up.”

By the time he finished speaking, the two craftsmen were staring at Jorani with wide-eyed wonder. Not the same look of admiration he got from his Mother-lovers, no this was the look you gave a flying chicken or talking pig: pure disbelief. “Oh,” Jorani added, enjoying his moment, “Leather’s no good fer keeping warm, only fer keeping dry. Wool’s best, felt or linen works too. In a pinch, ye can also stuff the shirt yer wearing with other clothes or hay and ye’ll be fine.”

“Oh Jorani,” came a sing-song call, and he turned to see Tursinai calling him over as his people rushed off for food. “A word, if you please.”

“By yer leave, good sers.” Giving Diyako and Chakha a cursory bow, Jorani marched over to the buxom, flirtatious Senior Captain. Not that he had any designs on her, no, he’d seen what Tenjin did to Yo Ling’s armour, but a man couldn’t be blamed for taking in the sights. “Yes Senior Captain? What can I do ye for?”

Her giggle made him realize how inappropriate his greeting was and he inwardly cursed. “So, Great Hero Jorani,” Tursinai drawled as she linked their arms together, “any new Insights to share?”

While explaining his insights, Jorani glanced around to see if Tenjin was nearby. After finding no sign of the brooding Bekkie warrior, he relaxed and enjoyed Tursinai’s company, happy to be near such a lovely woman. Seemed like there were damned couples everywhere he looked these days, Ral and Chey, Ulfsaar and Neera, the boss and his ladies. Even ugly Bulat had himself a pretty young thing, a lovely lass named Dei An. Meanwhile, the most intimate relationship Jorani could remember was the one he had with the tree back there, spending hours trying to get it on its back and strip it bare.

As Tursinai led the way to dinner, Jorani spotted the bossman with his little family. A touching sight seeing the Undying Savage flying kites with a pair of kids, all three of them laughing as they ran across the field with a train of happy animals in tow. It was easy to forget how the boss wasn't even twenty years of age. Hell, he looked even younger with a smile on his face, barely old enough to drink and without a whisker on his cheeks. Still, Jorani had to say something, it wasn’t right how the former bandits were being treated like common labourers. Not wanting to interrupt the bossman’s family time, he leaned in to Tursinai and whispered, “Begging yer pardon miss, but do ye know how much longer we’re gonna be stuck playin’ lumberjack and labourer?”

Affecting a pout, the charming woman fluttered her lashes and asked, “Are you not satisfied with the work? Should I bring it up with dear Rain on your behalf?”

“No, no,” he said, shaking his head vehemently. This provocative woman would be the death of him. “We’re doin’ good work here, helpin’ the people, and I don’t dare question his orders. It’s just... well, the bossman promised he’d train us to heal and fight, and we’ve all been eager to get to it, is all.”

There was something unsettling about Tursinai’s grin, a worrying delight which raised all sorts of alarms in Jorani’s mind. “Don’t you worry, Hero Jorani. Our dear Rain wanted to give you all some time to rest, but since you’re so eager to begin, I’ll let him know he can start tomorrow. He’ll be thrilled to hear how... enthusiastic you are.” Her words didn’t sink in until he finished watching her sashay away and a cold pit of dread drilled itself into his stomach.

By the Mother’s sagging tits, if hard labour was the bossman’s idea of rest, then what was training going to be like?

After thinking things through, Jorani was certain he’d just made a huge mistake.

Chapter Meme