Tales From Zemlharos

Peter stepped out from the infirmary basement, where he had been working on his fermentations over the last couple of weeks, utilizing what little he did understand of modern medicine to continue treating the people who were still needing the worst of their wounds cared for under their neglect of the striga. He carried the liquid substance that he used to treat the worst of the bacterial infections his people were plagued with.

The infirmary in Zemlihaors was a simple two-story building, and while it wasn’t as packed as the dungeons below the tower were, they were still far from ideal for the city’s diminished population. Several of his people were still suffering from dysentery and skin infection, and while he knew his vaccines from the old world made him far more immune that the common peasant, the thought of being around all these sicknesses still made him a bit queasy. But he knew there was no one else better suited for the work.

As he made his rounds, he stopped by the young boy Baba Roga had held hostage during what had already seemed like a lifetime ago. He shivered as the scars he developed from the witches nails had dug into his skin. He motioned for the boy to lean back and drink the substance. He drank the prototypical penicillin and shuddered at the taste.

“It’s ok, you’re incredibly brave you know, standing up to that witch like that.”

The young boy shuddered, “Aren’t you afraid you’ll get sick too?

Peter smiled a little, “Of course I am, but I have to be brave like you. We’ll all need to be strong, but once we’re better, everything will get better. I promise.”

The sound of gunpowder booming roared in the distance. Peter jumped in place, rushing out of the hospital and outside of the city walls. Near the gates, Davorin, the city’s local blacksmith shot his newfound boomstick at a piece of his armor. Several of the city guards gawked and laughed at the sight they saw in front of them.

Peter pushed them out of the way, “Davorin, you need to set up further from the city walls to test this!”

“Apologies, Your Grace, Antonijo and Baldo wanted to see the boomstick in action.”

“There will be plenty of time for that, far outside the city walls.”

Antonijo and Baldo rushed along on their patrol, leaving Davorin to fend for himself. Peter looked around before lowering his voice, “How’s my project coming along?”

“Project Flintlock, Your Grace, I haven’t been able to crack it yet.”

Peter put his hand on his shoulder. “Once you do, it’ll make Zemliharos the most powerful country in the Duchy, and you one of the richest. Keep at it.”

Davorin nodded his head. Peter looked up at the sun and realized it to be nearly noon. He nodded to his blacksmith and rushed through the city square, where scaffolding, and small crowds and merchants had begun to set up shop once more, rising back from the ashes. He continued his mad dash, nearly out of breath by the time he reached the docks. There, he saw Jakov with the few men still strong enough to handle a voyage at sea. Jakov turned to see his huffing Lord, raising his good hand to hug him.

“Your Grace, it’s an honor.”

“You know I couldn’t see you off on your own.”

Jakov scoffed at the thought, “Our people need you more than ever, I am but one humble servant.”

“You're the servant who has to keep the Ragusiic court at bay as they demand more and more from us, far from one humble servant. How have the mines been?”

“Slow, Your Grace, we don’t have the manpower yet to fully repay them, the Kraji won’t be patient forever.”

Peter put his hand on his shoulder. “If what I’m working on pays off, they’ll be paying us soon enough. You’re a good man, Jakov, I know you’ll do well.”

“What I lacked with a sword, I may make up for with the pen yet.”

Peter hugged Jakov one last time, before watching him board the ship, en route for Ragusiic. Peter shuddered a little at the thought of losing his greatest ally during the most vital period of re-building, but he needed someone he could fully trust on his behalf in the capital, and he knew no one would lend a better hand than Jakov.

As Jakov looked towards the rolling hills he knew there was one more place he had to visit today. He tried to keep a stiff lip, but the thought burned at him from the inside. It was time to keep his word.

…

As Peter walked up the rolling hills of Zemliaros, where the wineries sat with this season’s unkempt batch of grapes, he saw High Priest Dabro waiting for him.

“Your Grace, a pleasure that you came to visit.”

“How has the court taken it?”

Father Dabro laughed, “About as well as a Court ravaged by those things could. But House Hovart has been fully reinstated, with no heirs. This vineyard belongs to the church, until an heir returns.”

Peter took a seat outside the court staring at the hedges of vines in front of him. “Do you think there’s any hope of bringing her back, if we find her?”

“Stranger things have happened Your Grace?

“Yeah, like you surviving in a crypt with a dragon.”

“Those without faith-”

“-Cannot see, I know.”

“What I do know is I cannot see what must be a glorious view. I’ll leave you to your thoughts, Your Grace. You’re always a welcome guest at the Hovart vineyard.”

Father Debro got up and returned inside the estate. As Peter looked over the rolling hills, leading down to the bay where his people lived, he felt a bittersweet sensation fill his body. While he never saw himself as any sort of leader, let alone a Lord of a city, he hoped his efforts would one day restore the Zrinski name in this world. And even if he could never see the Lyana he came to adore again, he knew the gesture would make her smile. He knew the road would be long and hard, that he’d make as many enemies as he did friends, that he’d make mistakes that might cost those he swore to protect their lives, but he felt at peace with himself, for the first time in a long time. For he was a Zrinski in this world, a world that needed him more than ever. He was where he was supposed to be, in Zemliharos.