Shepherd Murosa smiled, and the general nodded to his spear-wielding bodyguards, who went to bring forth the man. Murosa had felt uncomfortable three days prior admitting the strange man into his army, and only admitted him when he couldn’t come up with any good reason not to. He felt more comfortable now, ready to give the man what he wished and send him on his way. Murosa wore his battle uniform, an ornately tailored robe with lines and patterns, a matching hat upon his head, and a simple short sword on his belt. He couldn’t remember the last time he had needed to use the thing, but it was a precaution. Murosa was growing old, his hair mostly gone, his face hardened yet flabby, diplomatic (he liked to think), with searching brown eyes and a flat expression.
Konro approached, drawing down his cloak’s hood and face covering, revealing his hideous appearance.
He was just short of Boggre-like, his dark-reddish skin sullen, facial structure sagging and bloating all at once, nose partly eaten away. It would have made any child cry. To Murosa it gave only the faintest twinge of pity.
“Konro, is it?” he said.
“Yes, Shepherd.”
“I imagine you’ll be taking your leave soon, yes? It was good to have you with us. You’re a natural born Noshev, is that right? Forgive me if I have forgotten—your features don’t give too much of a clue of your background. As far as nationality goes, anyway.”
Konro breathed calmly.
Murosa opened his mouth again. “Tell me again why you came to help us win this battle.” He sat back down in his chair. It was battle- and weather-worn, out of place in this field of waste, but he treated it like a grand throne, as he would anywhere he sat.
Konro’s face was as a still pond. “I came because I wish to learn of your judgment.”
He smiled, amused. “A judgment of my Judgments? What is your conclusion, then? Do I meet your standards?”
Konro met his eyes. Although he spoke slowly, he let the words flow without taking time to nicely prepare them. “I’ve committed myself to speaking truth, so I can honestly say that I find the locals’ appraisals of you to be mostly correct. You spill blood that does not belong to you on these lands, slowly turning them to wastes, so you can hold your little kingdom in your hand. You believe it is your right to defend yourself. Yet not a year ago, you were in the same spot as those invaders we routed, winning this land from those who had won it from the last Shepherd who reigned here. An endless cycle of blood. This place will forever be a waste because of you. You are no paladin.”
Some of the bodyguards stirred suddenly, eyes wide at Konro’s words. They put hands to their weapons, alert and ready for the command to cut Konro down as punishment. But Konro saw this, and a small part of him could not help but smile. The truth cut through them.
“As I said, I fear not to speak the truth, no matter where it leads. You may kill me if you fear my words. I would be honored to die with the truth. Perhaps instead you may simply tell me I am mistaken in my assessment. I hope I am.”
A twitch wobbled Murosa’s eye. After a moment gave a bare, blank hint of a smile. “Why hope I am just, young lion? For your sake, or mine? Surely you don’t seek the welfare of my soul.”
Konro barely moved. He was a bronze statue, his ugly frame fading against his cold, firm words. “I am not here on religious errand. I find Arcranism lacking in explanations for all the things I have seen, although I confess I have not studied as much as some. What doctrine I do know clearly states that Arcrana gave us the Shepherds to lead us justly. Do you feel that burden, Murosa?”
At that, Murosa chortled. “You claim no expertise in spiritual matters, yet you slyly sling mud at me with scripture! You’re not very clever, are you, Konro? You’re stable enough, yet I think behind those iron eyes and that ugly skin, you tremble with fright and doubt.
“Perhaps you know of another scripture—there are a number like it—from the words of Leizear: ‘A Shepherd knoweth the will and ways of Arcrana; he leadeth the people under his wings of wisdom.’ Now, I don’t know how I may lead my people under my wings if they’re massacred by invaders. I’m open to suggestions, of course. Surely you’ve brought to me the eternally-elusive solution to the problem of conflict?”
A few of the men chuckled.
Konro’s face hardened. He spoke low and with utter soberness. “How many did you massacre when you took this land?”
One of the bodyguards gripped his spear and pointed in in Konro’s direction, fuming. “Marred filth! Speak another word and—!”
Murosa raised a hand, cutting him off. “He’s harmless, Chamrea.”
“Sir!” interjected a loud voice. It was an approaching captain with a short muttonchops beard. Two Boggres flanked him, these ones belonging to Shepherd Murosa.
The creatures approached like docile lions, breathing deeply and showing sharp teeth in their mouths. They were hulking beasts, each over six feet in height, with reddish, rough, ailing skin, mangled noses, hairless craniums, and dead-looking reddish eyes. They wore ratty-looking bits of clothes and carried simple iron axes. The one to the general’s right was dragging a wounded man behind him. The sight of them sent a wave of shudders down Konro’s back.
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