![[CER'RIN.GIF]](images/cerrin.gif)
As tiny specks of water again begin to pelt the world from above, two dark figures continue to ride, even into what most would call "night". They speak surreptitiously, balancing the urge to find out everything each has seen and done since they were split up several years back with the knowledge that any encounter will be handled much more smoothly by both if they remain undetected until it's too late for the enemy.
"...And that's how I managed to evade that squad of Whitecloaks outside of Port Demming." whispers Drakken. "Ssst." Drakken holds up his hand for the other to halt, and both listen intently.
Moments later, a squadron of children storm by, laughing and making other gleeful noises, completely unaware that they passed within yards of the type of people that their parents continuously warn them about. Drakken and Venge stare after the marauding youngsters for a moment, then their gazes meet, and a slow, humorless smile creeps across both faces.
Moments later, the two Endarni squat just inside of some brush at the outskirts of a small human settlement. They both look on, the rain discomforting them far less than it does the humans, as children are whisked inside for the night, and as villagers finally abandon the day. The hamlet folds up for the night, to prepare itself for another day tomorrow.
As one, the brothers each motion that the other should proceed first. Then, scowling, both attempt to move into the village, resulting in whispered profanities and jostling. They stop, glaring one at the other. "Alright!", hisses Drakken "Go." There is a pause. "GO!"
So, casting an uncertain glance at Drakken, Venge proceeds to slip quietly among the small, comfortable homes that surround a carefully-tended square lawn. In the center of the square, a well sits waiting for the morning, when the village women will come and fill their buckets and dish pans from it. The young Endarni moves silently toward the largest of the houses, knowing that the head of the village council or whatnot will live therein. He does nothing to disturb the silence that settled as the last of the townsfolk disappeared inside her home.
It's only a short trip across the commons, and the Endarni complete it quickly. Venge motions for Drakken to go around the house, covering any secondary outlets. He crouches by the door, counts to 7, and then quietly opens the door and enters, relying on the Endarni gift of heat vision to guide him. At the same moment, he barely hears Drakken doing the same from some other portal into the home.
Venge gauges the size and layout of his target. He's fully aware that any monetary gain from this will be minimal, and that he and his long-lost brother are doing this much more to test each other than out of a need for ready cash. Venge stands in the family room, and there are only two others. A kitchen, where Drakken currently stands, and a bedroom off to his left. The three children that he observed being shooed into this house will most likely be up in the loft area, above the ceiling beams.
Drakken appears at the door that leads into the kitchen, giving the hand sign indicating that everything's ok, so far. Venge indicates to him that he should go to the ladder nearby, and proceed to the loft, and take care of business there, while Venge deals with the man and woman of the house. Drakken considers rebuking the order, seeking to ensure that Venge has the fortitude to deal with a few children, then decides against it. After all, children squirm SO exquisitely! He grins and licks his lips as he heads for the ladder. He notes that Venge is already quietly passing through the archway into the bedroom, where momma and poppa lie sleeping. Or whatever.
A few minutes and several jets of blood from severed jugular veins later, a couple of Endarni stand in the family room of a home that no longer has a family. After a quick survey of the place, they come up with a total of 56 pieces of silver, more than was expected, and an obviously old silver serving tray, probably an heirloom. It even bears some initials and a coat of arms.
The booty is quickly stashed, and the two leave out the back, get the mounts, and head south with a glint in their respective eyes, and a spring in their steps.
"Isn't it time to stop for the night, yet?"
"Ain't it time that you stopped complaining?!" While he sounds tired, Darius' voice conveys even more irritation.
Regor pipes up, hoping to stem the irritability that the entire group must feel after travelling for so long, "Look, there's a good place. I also think it would be a good idea to stop now. We'll be able to start again at first light."
After murmurs of assent from the rest, the small group beds down in the lee of a thicket, tethering the horses nearby. Aventgar sits the first watch, while the rest of the group are quick to find the slumber of total exhaustion.
"Hmhmhmhm... Yes, Drak, that is, indeed a very amusing way to retire a little girl." Says Venge, a large grin on his face, "But tell me, how is it that you kept her so quiet whilst you broke all her fingers?"
Drakken Raxlaven responds, "Well, brother, it probably had a deal to do wi' my boot restin across 'er pretty little neck!"
Both of the sinister Endarni laugh heartily at that, and continue the discourse between mouthfuls of food, which was, of course, stolen from the larder of the home in which these atrocities were performed. Acts which are, for the most part, best left to the reader's imagination. Or not. Less uncertain is that the conversation continuing between these two would perhaps do ill to the digestion of the most seasoned warrior.
From Quentin, speaking to Darius, "If you don't mind my asking, friend, where is it you're from? Me, I'm from a little bit of everywhere." As he speaks, Master Reerdon procures his lute, and proceeds first through the checking and tuning of it, and then commences to playing a soft tune, waiting for Darius' response.
"Well, now", says the other, "I'd be from Katar. 'Tis a wee village on th' east coast, not too far north of Vellinost. Th' folk o' me village 'er a warrior tribe, come over from Jhoumael a long time back, and we worship The Morrigan, the Battle Hag. Ye've heard o' the War Bitch, have ye not? Ahh, course ye have! Here, take ye a look at this." Darius grasps a large medallion that depends from a thick chain around his neck, and brings it into better view. It's light blue, inscribed with a white bolt of lightning across a silver sword. Blood drips from the sword's tip. "The Silver Sword crossed by a Lightning Bolt, that'd be 'er symbol. A true goddess o' war she is." Now Darius Whitefang displays all of his teeth in a feral grin. "Course ye notice the blood. It's on me shield, too, aye, an me cloak, me bein' a priest o' hers, an all. The Morrigan, she gives me strength in a fight, and then She graces me the power to heal me wounded fellows when all's said an' done." Darius sits back, letting his sermon sink in for Quentin.
And Aventgar comes over. "If it please you, sirs, I'll be taking the night's first watch. All of you go get familiar with your bedrolls, eh? Been a tiresome day."
"Right enough," Pipes in Regor. "Wake me to relieve you in a couple of hours. I'll take the second." And Darius chimes in offering to stand the third watch. Quentin smilingly muses, "If only the army had so many willing watchers, eh?" Causing a chuckle amongst the adventurers. Except for one. Quent notices that Cynthia has taken something of an insular attitude as the day progressed, and determines to draw her out a bit.
Cynthia seems wary as Quentin strides over to her, but does not object when he helps himself to a seat near hers. He speaks, "You know, I've had a feeling about you since first seeing you, as you were pursued by those soldiers. Would it disturb you to speak with me, just for a while?" And he smiles sooo ingratiatingly.
Expecting less respect, Cynthia is taken aback by the charming young Bard, who presently sits beside her, softly playing a mellow tune on his lute. She warms to him, and they speak of homelands, families, circumstances, and other things, well into Aventgar's watch. Both are smiling as each retires to his or her own bedding.
"And I tell you *I* have the more senior position!" Venge comes as close to a scream as his habits and profession allow. "You will do as you are told, Drakken. Nothing more, nothing less. And you'll feel the bite of my steel if you think twice about it!"
And so it's gone, for some time. Two brothers who both strive to dominate. So Drakken replies, "Venge, if you think for a moment that I have any intention of following after your coattails, you've two more thinks coming!" Drakken is warming to his material, now. "You are the elder, yes. What means that? I am more capable of leading than are you, which is simple to see. I've command over magic, and will in no way follow you."
Venge grips tightly the dagger hilt that protrudes from his cloak. He seethes, and his face contorts in an agony of anger and frustration. Drakken, seeing this, comes to a mental crossroads, chooses a path, and speaks, "Ok, brother." Drakken's features soften somewhat, not that his face would ever be considered soft. "Ok. You have it. No fighting. You lead." Drakken's voice tries to be soothing. "In fact, you get some rest. I think that job you pulled has taken something out of you, yes? I'll stand watch. Oh, and just to show you there're no hard feelings, I want to give you something." The younger Raxlaven tugs a ring from the index finger of his right hand and passes it over to Venge. "It's an enchantment, this thing. It allows the wearer to make an illusion of himself, several feet away. Go on, take it."
So, feeling placated, Venge rolls over into his bed and begins to fall asleep. Totally unaware that he may end up sleeping for far longer than he'd anticipated.
Aventgar is very tired. Not to worry, though. Regor's already said that he'd take the next stint. The Tandrilii makes his way around the encampment one more time, then wakes Regor, and heads off to catch a bit of a wink. He smiles a bit as he remembers the image of Quentin and Cynthia sitting together and talking. And he's still smiling, as he drifts off to sleep, imagining what the woman he'll someday love will look like.
Regor, rough-cut, but yet with a degree of refinement, dons his gear and begins to make his first circuit of the area. He's grateful for a chance to be alone with his thoughts, and the man certainly has many of those. During watch, which it's his full intention to stand for the rest of the night, the priest expands his circle somewhat, looking for and finding on his rounds several herbs of medicinal nature. He neither sees nor hears anything out of the ordinary, though an uncomfortable pang visits him at one point, late in the night. At the darkest hour, that time when one knows that dawn can't be too far off, Regor begins preparations on a meal for the group.
Venge sleeps, and while he does, Drakken seethes. Who in all the hells does that one think he is, anyway? Why should he get to order anyone else around, much less his own brother? These and many other thoughts encroach upon Drakken's peace of mind. But he is waiting.
Finally, Drak thinks that Venge much truly be asleep. Surely he is, especially considering how late it is. How late is was when the two finally stopped arguing. So thinking, he quietly takes out his dagger, holding it such that he'll be able to make use of the large pommel, and steals over to Venge's resting place. He stands for a moment, thinking of how good it is going to feel when he clubs his brother's skull, feels the cracking and crunching of the bones, how wonderful it will be to have Venge bound hand and foot, able to invoke any response from the tyrant that he likes. A smile cruel beyond the ability of most to comprehend oozes onto the young Endarni's face. The young Hraliim, or Dark Endarni. Those who're shunned even more than the black G'thrag'n'darn, because they are born into the light, but yet for unknown reasons consciously turn their backs on it.
Finally, it is time. Drakken brings his arm up, musters his strength, and comes down to break the other's head. But no! Venge is already in motion, his dagger flashing out with supernatural quickness to slash across the torso of his would-be murderer! "Hah!", comes the shout from Venge, as he leaps free of his sleeping blankets, a wicked dagger in each hand, and advances on his bewildered and unbelieving brother.
Without a word, Drakken dashes away, to where the mounts are tethered, leaps up on the first he comes to, and gouges his heels into the flanks of the hapless beast. Venge swears, and pursues, with blood in eyes and heart.
By sunrise, Regor's managed some incredible things. First, he has roused all the rest of the group, while keeping possession of all his limbs and digits. Second, he's provided a most hearty and tasty table for the breaking of fast.
The five actually seem to be companions now, the sun breaking over the horizon lending the perfect glue to seal their good spirits. One might not even think that, just 3 days ago, a trio of these folk bore witness to an horrible abomination, as it killed an unfortunate young man, and then watched as supernatural flames consumed the body, and perhaps more, thereafter. They are happy, and those ill thoughts are far from there minds.
Ere long, the group is packed up and ready to move out. They all mount up as the last of a thin, ground-clinging mist is burned away by the uncharacteristically brilliant sun. Regor is startled for a moment by Cynthia, when she quickly speaks to him, thanking the priest for the breakfast he so painstakingly prepared. "You really should think about a career along that line," she smiles.
So the party moves on, heading ever southward on the still-lengthy path to the capital.
Travelling is easy this morning, with the weather finally showing that it can, in fact, be other than dreary. At various times, the members of this ersatz company consider that they must soon find a place to take on supplies. So all of them consider it a boon when the untracked landscape transforms into cultivated fields and pastures. Soon, the village of Garrul's Fork comes into view.
It doesn't take a keen observer, however, to note some irregularities in this hamlet. No one's in the fields, for one, and several beasts of burden, plow mules, and the like, are left unattended in the outlying areas about the Fork. As the group approaches, they see that there is some sort of congregation happening in town. All the people seem to have clustered about the largest of the dwellings.
Darius is in the lead, as the ragtag group wends its way into the village proper. Some of the men of the place make as if to impede our heroes, but it is a half-hearted effort at best. To the party of adventurers, it seems as if these folk are in mourning. All faces drawn and the few spoken words clipped and terse-sounding. They immediately recognize the raiment of Aventgar, though, and whatever stubbornness in them melts away. Here is their protector, come to keep them safe from the evils of the world.
Aventgar moves ahead, accompanied by the rest, and ventures into the house at the center of all this attention. Immediately upon entering the main family room, evidence of evil works is to be easily seen. There are a couple of men, both openly weeping, carefully moving the blood-soaked corpse of a small child, a little girl, in fact, down out of her raftered sleeping space. The other two children, both young boys, already provide grisly decoration on the ground floor. On impulse, Aventgar hurries into the bedroom, only to stop and take a step back at whatever sight meets him there. "Slayers," issues as a whisper from his slack lips.
Before there is time for further rumination over this awful turn of events, something else seems to happen outside. There is yelling, and the villagers around the house perk up, their natural resilience galvanizing them in case there's more bad news to come. The small band of strangers all rush outside to see what might be happening, and behold a mounted figure dashing across the central lawn. When that figure gets to the congregation that has amassed to one side of it, he rears his mount to a halt, and practically falls from the saddle. "A family...dead," he chokes out, and all notice that his manner of speech is very unusual. In fact, closer inspection of the "man's" features divulge something very interesting. This "man" is Endarni! "They...they're all dead. And their murderer is chasing me!"
As Quentin watches, a man of more than middling years manages to shoulder his way up to the area where practically the entire town is watching and listening to the party.
"Eh, 'scuse me, lads, but I'd be for asking this Forest dweller a question or two of my own." With which the old-timer moves a good bit closer to the Endarni than any of the rest seemed willing to. The hooded figure isn't particularly tall, but even so, the villager is forced to look up into his face. "I got just this t'ask ye. How is it that ye rode inte the village here from the gods know where, but yet ye knew already that some o' our folk had been slain?"
At the question from the elder, the as-yet unidentified Endarni seems to shrink, going pale as clean sheets, at least to those as can see his face. He snaps around with a dagger in hand, moving to close the short distance between himself and the old man, but the shocked pause just prior was a dreadful mistake. Before Quentin or anyone else can act, Aventgar has knocked the dagger from Drakken's stunned fingers with his left hand and used the pommel of his sword, which had somehow made its way into his right. Drakken drops with barely a sound, hope fleeing from him only marginally ahead of consciousness. Some of the blood that is pouring from the Endarni's broken nose splatters onto both Aventgar and Regor. All faces turn wonderingly toward the old man, who grins wryly at his successful deduction.
Venge snickers at the plight of his younger, and obviously much stupider, brother. Foremost in his mind at this juncture is that he should now be able to collect payment for the both of them, enriching himself a great deal in the process. He also spares more than one glance for the ring so recently given him by Drakken. His smile grows even wider, if that's possible. If there's one thing better than a heavy purse, it's a passel of enchantments.
His smile becomes more grim, as the Hraliim realizes that this situation, while going favorably for the moment, is most likely far from over. Much careful planning will by necessity be required in order to overcome a group so obviously competent. No, underestimating them would almost certainly be his final mistake, and he intends to commit no more of those.
Aventgar has just finished binding his prisoner when another face obviously not from the village appears at the front of the crowd. At least, this does not appear to be a Dwarven village, for that is the race of this most recent arrival. He is slim for a Dwarf, with very dark hair, the most prominent example of which is the beard which trails verily half of the way down his chest. His skin has a dusky appearance. His manner of dress is more interesting, however, than his being in this village. By the simple, homespun tunic that he wears, with coarse woolen breeches, a good guess would make this person one of the Ildequar, from far north of here in the Shadir Empire.
Aventgar quickly scans the nearby area for evil, and is unsurprised at finding none, even from the recently bound Drakken. He has heard the stories that folk tell when the Whitecloaks aren't around, the ones that detail the fair and just natures of these peaceful monks. Course, anyone listening to the Knights would believe that they summon Tannar'ri before breakfast and have human blood for tea. The young paladin has better sense than that.
"Perhaps I can assist in escorting this fine individual to the gaol in Vellinost?" queries the dwarf. "It would certainly be no bother. You appear to be a worthy group." he remarks, eying Aventgar pointedly.
Venge is desperately wishing that he could hear what is being said in the village. So absorbed in watching the goings-on there that he is almost taken by complete surprise by yet another new-comer. He breathes a sigh of relief when he realizes that it is Demorral, another Dwarf. Only, as calm and peaceful as Borren may seem, wrapped in his shell of Ildequar mystique, Demorral is just the opposite: a seething volcano on the verge of erupting and destroying whatever is unfortunate enough to be nearby. Even now, as the two greet each other, Venge notes that Demorral still indulges in that disconcerting habit of constantly stroking the haft and blade of that odd-looking ax of his.
"By damn, you look to have found yerself some trouble, right enough", says the Dwarf, in a whisper that would almost certainly be inaudible at more than 5 yards. Venge looks askance at him, responding, "Yes, well, that's as may be, but this is a good bit farther north than our rendezvous point, yes?" To which Demorral replies, "I got bored. So tell me..................."
"By Morrigan's blood, what the blazes is goin' on here?", explodes a very bewildered Darius. He has somehow managed to miss the happenings of the past several minutes. Daydreaming, no doubt. He comes to himself just in time to witness the arrival of the slender dwarf, who introduced himself as Borren of Aginsar.
Quentin and Darius are both quite fascinated by Borren, both having heard tales of the monks of that valley. Darius, determined to find out more, moves nearer to Borren.
"Think ye ta travel with us do ye? Never mind that nobody ask you at all, but, ....I'll nae turn down the offering of help in our travels." Then, leaning in closer to the dwarf and lowering his voice, "There are deeds to be done which ye might be interested in helping with." Raising his voice back up so that others can hear, "Come, let's put this raskel in the local holding cell 'till we kin figger out what ta do wit' 'im."
"Eh, nobles sirs," the old villager begins, edging forward a hair, "I be Willern, ahhh, now the elder of the village.", his face darkens noticeably at this. "There be no gaol er such here. We've not need of one, having no sheriff or the like. If'n ye'd be fer taking that one away, well, I'm fer it, and soon's ye kin get all saddled like."
Borren, Aventgar, Darius and Quentin watch Willern speak, wringing his hands nervously as he does so. Aventgar speaks to the group, "This man is right. No reason for us to tarry here. Let us be on with it, and leave these good people to piece their lives back together."
"Aye," agrees Regor, "Aventgar is right."
"Aye," chimes in Darius, followed closely by Borren and Quentin.
So the group, now again increased in size, all become ready to travel. This time it will be a bit more slowly, as Borren is on foot, and Aventgar has thrown the unconscious Endarni across the back of his mount.
The morning has yet one more surprise in store, though. As the group head out of the village, all practically jump out of their shoes as each notices another mount just to the side of the dirt path, it's reins being held by *another* Endarni, who must not possess ill intent, else he'd have had ample time to use it. He appears about average height for a forest dwelling Nadarn, yet somewhat more muscular, and with an odd tint to his skin. Everyone knows that the Endarni all have very fair complexions. Curious, but none present has enough knowledge of those folk to draw any sort of conclusions about it. Aventgar is unable to detect any evil intent from this newcomer, but that is an inconclusive test, and he knows it.
"Greetings, fellow travelers." This from the swarthy Nadarn sitting his horse next to the dirt track.
"I've said it before, and I'll say it again,.. What the blazes is going on here! Another Endarni? What is this, an bleedin' invasion?" At this juncture, Darius is beginning to sound a bit exasperated. Or that is what one might assume from his perplexed look and the wide-eyed star with which he's currently trying to impale the new-comer.
"I search for adventure and wonder if I might have been lucky enough to find a group of bold adventurers", comes the response, and with it an amused semi-smile. Humanity has provided the Shadow-dwellers with plentiful entertainment since the advent of that short-lived race on Cer'rin several generations ago.
"Who are ye, lad? What are ye doing here, and do ye know this one here?" Darius, tired of being constantly in the dark, has decided that the time for subtlety has passed, yet another thing that he obviously missed over the last half-hour or so. Aventgar places a calming hand on the arm of his companion upon noticing Darius' hand wrapped firmly about the hilt of his bastard sword.
"The name is Ebon", replies the other, his guarded look indicating that he, too, noticed Darius' aggressive stance. He continues, "As I was saying, I've been away from the Forest for some time, seeking adventure wherever I'm able. I was just going to ask if there has perhaps been a recent loss to the party", as Ebon gestures toward the still-unconscious Drakken draped over the back of the horse nearby.
Darius, hoping for some sign of recognition from the captive, is also watching Drakken. In fact, he's scrutinizing Drakken's face at just the right instant to hear a hisss-whumpwhump, followed quickly by almond-shaped green eyes opening as far as they can. A coughing, gurgling sound comes from Drakken, a gout of blood spews frothing from his lips, and he again collapses across Darius' saddle. Darius looks up from the dead man's face and sees a dagger and a hand axe both protruding from the dead man's back.
Regor, Quentin, and Aventgar are all looking toward some high brush to the south-west of the group.
Ebon slides from Obsidian's back in a fluid motion and as he turns to face the south-west, Bloodsong is already in hand. He takes several quick glances at the brush, trying to prevent himself from becoming a potential target for whomever it is that lurks there. The Nadarn warrior catches a hint of movement from the corner of his eye. He moves his head ever so slightly in order to gain a brief view of Drakken's bloody face, and the wide red stripe across the back of Aventgar's mount.
"Blazes!"
Darius, too, slides out of his saddle and pulls firmly on the hilt he'd been fondling only moments before. looking to the bushes south-west in the direction that the dagger and axe HAD to have come from in order to hit the unconscious Endarni lying across the back of Aventgar's steed.
"Aventgar, is there anything to be done for that one?" Darius is observing some apparent movement in the brush as he speaks over his shoulder to the young Tandrilii.
"Hmph. Dig him a grave, perhaps," comes the response.
Quentin finds it a bit odd that, during an attack by unknown forces, he manages to notice Aventgar's facial expression. A face entirely too hard to belong to one of such tender age. Then Dar's voice registers, bringing the dire situation fully into focus.
"Aye, now let's find out who that would be. I've nere' likin' ta havin someone in my charge kilt like that, and I intend to find them what did it." Quentin easily identifies the distinctive brogue of Darius. "Regor, move off to the left lad, Ebon, circle the right, let's find these scoundrels." The burly priest begins a sonorous chant as he himself moves straight toward a heavy clump of bushes; the spot the weapons must have been thrown from, "Anla'vant Morrigan, anla'vant. Give us yer strength to do yer biddin'". Strangely, as Darius continues this dirge, the rest of the people in the group begin to feel more confident.
Ebon glances over at the strange human who seems to lead this motley band, saying, "Well, looks like you've got your chance to draw steel after all. It seems that we're already unpopular with someone." Then he circles around right to try a flanking maneuver upon whomever has decided to wreak havok in this ordinarily very peaceful area. Off to his left, Ebon is able to detect shapes and movement, but indistinctly. It could be the enemy, or it could be Darius. Or perhaps that other one. Ebon recalls the name Darius used; Regor. That Dwarvish fellow and the one Darius called Aventgar joined the search as well.
In the next instant, it seems that everything happens all at once. There are shouts from the south, the clamour of weapons striking against weapons, more shouts, the scream of one badly wounded. Ebon hears it and dashes madly in that direction, almost colliding with Darius in the process. Finally, Ebon, Dar, Regor, and Aventgar all come to the scene of the clash at almost the same time.
To see the Dwarf, someone calls him Borren, lying bleeding, tangled up in one of the small but stout myrtle trees that are common in this area. Darius, Regor and Aventgar immediately rush to the fallen one, each readying whatever sort of remedy he has available. In this case, though, the magic of fledgeling gods is not enough. Not enough to save the Ildequar from the dreadful wounds that, from appearances, could have been administered by the very axe that killed Drakken.
Meanwhile, Ebon, the minstrel, and the lady, both of whom only just showed up at Borren's dying place, search the area for indications of where the murderers have gone. They find it. Horse sign on a heading somewhat south of south-western, and immeditely pass the word on the everyone else.
"Damn! They've already reached their mounts and been gone. We'll need our horses to catch them!", Ebon shouts pausing briefly to see if anyone disagrees.
Meanwhile, Quentin has his bow out, and is knocking an arrow to the string. "We must take care and inspect all around here to find out what we can about this murder. I will do that, and then I'll dig a grave for Borren and Drakken. Anyone else care to give me a hand?", he queries.
Dar looks over at Quentin, "Have ye gone daft lad!? Thar be a trail, let's be followin' it! The dead are dead, saying peace over them will wait. They'll nae be goin' anywhere. After them lads, after them!" Turning to Cynthia, Darius adds, "Lass, will ye retrieve our horses while we go on, and bring them to us. We kin move faster that way." Looking to Ebon, "Well stranger, ye seem quick enough to avenge one you donna' know, yer welcome ta me then, and by Morrigan's blood, I want these... Aventgar, Regor, Quentin, off we go lads.", with which Darius heads off into the bush, following the signs.
Cynthia, glad at being asked to perform a useful task, lifts her skirts and runs as fast as she can back to where the horses were left drop-tethered. In only a matter of moments, she is frantically scrambling for reins and dashing between deadly hooves. In only a few more, she's secured the leads for all but one of the mounts. Reiger, Darius' feisty war-horse, simply will not stay still for her. In fact, each time the young woman tries to snag his lead, Reiger either snaps his formidable teeth at her, or makes as if to slice at her with those wicked hooves. Finally, with a few words that might cause the average sailor to stop in his tracks, Cynthia gives up on Reiger and takes the other mounts to their owners.
While the lady Fendrell is toiling to fetch the horses, the three mismatched warriors are making way swiftly through the brush, convinced that they must be hot on the trail. Darius seems to have no trouble following what, to him, is a veritable highway of broken twigs and otherwise macerated foliage. Unfortunately, it's much more difficult to run full tilt through such undergrowth than it is to breeze through on a horse, and before long our heroes are a bedraggled and sweaty bunch. After running for about three quarters of a mile, they break free of the thick, confining brush and emerge onto a grassy, veldt-like plain. The trail left by the mounts of the fleeing enemy has led somewhat northward, but in a wide curve around so that Darius, Aventgar, and Regor are left peering south-westward at two small specks racing toward Vellinost just as Cynthia catches up with most of their mounts.
Aventgar's teeth begin to chatter as Darius growls a feral, disgusted oath, which turns into a clench-jawed silence as he notes the absence of Reiger. Sullenly, the small band turns as one, heading into the brush, and retrace their steps. Everyone is getting chilly, now that adrenaline and exertion are wearing off, and each person finds reason to bundle up a bit along the way. Regor has the distinct feeling that he hasn't seen the last of the two murderers.
When the group is almost back to the area where Reiger should still be patiently awaiting the return of his master, everyone is put on guard by the sound of an unfamiliar voice from that direction. A somewhat nasal and wavering voice. "Nice horsey. Nice horsey. Oh! OUCH! That's my neck!" Again at a run, still minus Quentin, who's digging suitable graves for Borren and Drakken, the party bursts into the clearing to see Reiger standing right where Darius left him, with a young man sprawled nearby on his back, staring with horrified surprise at a bleeding wound on his right hand.
Ebon sheaths Bloodsong with a disgusted look upon his face. He walks over to Obsidian and pats the black horse on the neck, reassuring the animal. "Easy boy, no running for you. Easy." After the mighty black horse neighs in response Ebon turns to the Lady Fendrell and bows. "M'lady, thank you for your efforts, but it seems that whatever powers that be have decided that we undo this wrong at a later date."
Elsewhere, it has become quite obvious to Quentin Reerdon why it was that he never decided to take up grave digging as a career. If anything, he has developed an immense respect for those folks in the last hour or so. He shakes his head ruefully, wincing as he examines the blisters forming on his hands. That's the last straw, he thinks to himself. No way is the interring of these two, however good or bad they may be, going to compromise his ability to play the lute. He stops, steps up out of the shallow ditch he's managed to fashion, and scoops up the cloth he laid on the ground a little while earlier. Another look of disdain crosses the young man's face with the recurrance of his disappointment at the lack of wealth offered by the two dead folk. Of course, he hadn't really counted on the Ildequar having much of anything, but he had thought that the other fellow, that Endarni, might have accumulated some goodies in his ill-dealings. And what better way to help his spirit atone for those heinous deeds that the Hraliim had undoubtedly committed than to ensure that his worldly goods went to a good cause? And naturally there could be no nobler cause than the creation of one of the legendary Singers; those lutes that the myths purport to have a variety of magickal attributes. The Bard carefully folds the handkerchief around his meager loot as he walks back to where the others have congregated and stuffs the resulting packet into his pouch. He experiences a twinge of guilt when his hand brushes the wrinkled note that Viper had carried with him up until recently. He quickens his pace upon hearing some sort of ruckus from up ahead.
Door, horrified, yells at the horse, "OOUCH!!! My hand!!! It's bleeding! This foul beast is feasting upon my hand. This carnivorous horse is possessed! Er, bad horse!"
Upon seeing the bemused heroes, Door shouts to them, his gaze falling upon Darius and Aventgar, and also taking in Regor and Ebon. "Oh. Good warriors! Please do come here, quick. Do me a favor and rid the world of this wicked demon-horse. Before it takes flight to eat women and children less hardy than I. Drive that sword of yours through the beating heart of this foul beast..."
A glazed look, perhaps a more glazed look, takes over his face as Door stares off and gets side-tracked, "Perhaps this beast has no beating heart....That must be it....Yes! Why am I so dimwitted? This horse is an undead monster feasting on my blood for nourishment." Even more horrified, the misled Mage sprints over and, seeing the large disc clasped on the front of Regor's cloak, drops to his knees before the man and raises his hands to the priest, "Help me!!! Bless my soul and hope that I do not rise like this vampire horse when I die."
Laughing openly, Regor looks over at his counterpart in the group, saying, "Damnit! Darius... better have to calm your horse...or this pal is going to break his neck!"
All this has happened in only seconds, but so small an amount of time is more than enough for Darius to have hurried to his mount "By the Bitch's blood...what 'ave we 'ere?" Darius looks at the lad on the ground, then to Reiger, sparing the grinning Regor a scathing look in passing. "What 'ave ye managed to catch 'ere, boy? Someone tryin' ta move ye?" With his sword still drawn, Darius walks back to the grovelling boy and points the sword at his chest. "Now, ye wouldn't be tryin' ta move Reiger, here, would ye? He donna' take kindly ta strangers, as I see you've found out. Who are ye, and what are ye doin'? Come on, be quick. We're short of time."
Door, in disbelief, slowly tries to move to the horse, but Darius' facial expression amply illustrates his resolve, and Door opts not to test it. While unable to physically check for signs that the horse lives and breathes, Door is easily able to see the throbbing artery in the animal's neck. "Well," he says to the party, "It appears as though I have made a mistake." He faces Darius and rubs his hand, "That horse of yours. He's got a fine set of teeth. But I do have a question. Where'd you get a carnivorous horse?"
Exasperated, Darius puts just a tiny bit of weight on the weapon in his hand, producing a nick on the exposed skin over Door's breast-bone. "I'll be hae'in an answer to me question, boy. We've folk to bury and those murderin' bastards to catch, and I'm damned if the likes o' you's gon'ta be long keepin' me from't."
Door's eyes widen significantly as he finally recognizes the unmistakable expression on Darius' face. "Door...I'm called Door, good sir. Uhh, ahh, ehh, I'm a Mage, and I also have many other skills that have benefitted people around me wherever I've gone," stammers the terrified lad. Darius' heart is softened by the cold sweat on Door's face, and the quiver in his lip. The priest sheaths his weapon and turns back to Ebon and the others.
Just at this point, Quentin arrives at the clearing, his eye immediately drawn to Cynthia, lending a smile to the minstrel's face. She doesn't seem to notice the smile, though, so he speaks to the group, "I've been thinking about all that's happened. I don't know why they did attack us, but I don't like it. They could do this again," Quent is not looking pleased by that thought, "I think we should follow our attackers, before they follow us again"
"Agreed," says Darius, "but there's things must be done afore we kin go a'trapsin after anybody. Two souls hang in balance. They must be seen to first."
Ebon immediately moves to comply with the suggestion by Darius, and notices that the Lady Cynthia has also done so. It occurs to him that, for a human woman, she is not uncomely. But there is no time for such thoughts right now. Much must be done, and the time of reckoning for all of it is, for all intents and purposes, already past.
Prodded to action, all of these companions who've been so rudely thrown together hurry to the burial place chosen by Quentin, and, with little wasted conversation, proceed to commit the two dead men to their eternal resting places. Darius acceeds the honors to Regor, who blesses the sod in which the two are buried and sends them both speeding on their way into the bossom of Camerast.
While Regor is performing the final rituals for Drakken and Borren, Darius performs a small one of his own. He quietly mouths the necessary plea to the Morrigan and then concentrates mightily in an effort to determine the intentions of all of these people he's suddenly found himself in company with. Much to his surprise, none of them seem to have the least inclination toward the commission of evil acts. Not even this odd Door character. Satisfied, Darius proceeds to mount up. "Right, then, let's be after it, while the track is still there."
"Aye, leave us go," agrees Quentin, "as you say, the tracks are still fresh. Let's get those bastards!" He tosses another look in the direction of Cynthia, and spurs his mount to a gallop, followed closely by the rest of this most unusual band of heroes.
Quentin roars off in the direction that the villains were heading when last seen, followed closely by Aventgar, Darius and Ebon. Four fast mounts dashing for the open terrain beyond the trees.
Cynthia, mounted and ready to ride, hesitates. She's watching Door, as the odd young Mage rummages through the contents of his small wagon. Door smiles as he triumphantly holds aloft an enormous wad of bandage material.
"My brother always said that wounds heal faster if you cover all of the body with bandages," Door explains to Cynthia, as he proceeds to wrap the white cloth around his arm from fingertips to shoulder, and then begins to work on his neck. He applies a substantial amount of bandaging to that exposed area, making movement of his head somewhat difficult, then, with a satisfied smile, returns the remainder of his supplies to the storage compartment of his wagon.
While Door employs his unique version of the healing arts, Regor approaches Cynthia. "Lady, believe my best course of action will be to take care of these two unfortunate souls, and then to catch up as I am able. When you've gone to join the others, please let them know for me that I shall endeavor to do the same within a day or two." He chuckles. "From what I see, the trail should not be a hard one to follow. The Luck to you, to you all," says the priest, then heads over to the area where Quentin had begun to make graves for the two corpses.
Once Regor has departed, Cynthia notes that Door has finished putting away his belongings. The man looks around for a moment, a perplexed look on his face, then shrugs and moves to stand right next to Cynthia's horse. "I am Door the Anti-Normal, Mage extraordinaire. My infinite services are at your disposale. The only thing I wish in return is companionship. Whoops," says the Mage, as he is nearly knocked from his feet by a sideways movement of the animal.
Cynthia smiles and extends a hand to Door. "Now I see why you do not ride." There is no malice, only open amusement in her face. "Would you like a ride?"
"Er, I'd love to, ma'am, but I have to bring the wagon, you know, in case I need some of the, er, supplies in it or something," responds the other.
With a critical eye, Cynthia appraises the Mage's vehicle, deciding that it is not the sturdiest thing she's seen. "Well, we'll both just bring up the rear for now, then." The lady's horse falls in beside of the incongruous wagon, and, in a conversational tone of voice, asks, "You weave magick? Could you do a trick for me? Something pretty with lights or something appear in thine hands?"
"Well, sure," says Door, "Hey, watch this."
With that battle cry, Door proceeds to hang the reins over a stud on the front board of the wagon, and waves his hands in an elaborate fashion, his expression one of rapt concentration, even to the point of having beads of sweat pop out on his forehead. Finally, Door extends about a half inch of his tongue from the right corner of his mouth at a precise angle, and behold; there's a glowing ball of blue light shining forth from the palm of his hand.
Door grins gleefully up at Cynthia, the spere gleaming with a suffused liquidity. Cynthia smiles, enjoying the feat that Door has just performed for her. Suddenly, Door's expression changes to one of alarm. The blue sphere begins to hum and vibrate, and then flies apart in a spectacular electrical display, removing Door's eyebrows in the process.
Cynthia tries very hard, and almost successfully, not to laugh at poor Door, as the latter peers ruefully up at her through the smoke of this latest mishap. The Mage indicates his readiness to be moving along by clucking his old pack animal into motion. So the two rather incongruous adventurers set off to catch up with the others; one an elegant lady sitting astride her prancing steed, the other a dishevelled young man on the seat of his rickety wagon, bandages completely covering his right arm and his neck.
Four armed and armored warriors pause on the rolling terrain about two-hundred meters beyond the edge of the wood. One of the mounts is dancing nervously ahead while the other three are turned about, looking back the way they came. "Let us not tarry, my friends! Every moment we waste will cost us three on the chase!" exhorts Aventgar. "Good, Thunderer, there's not a better horse in the world," he murmurs to his beloved mount, attempting to calm the animal just a little.
"We cannot just leave the others," answers Quentin, "how will they catch up to us?"
Darius considers a moment. "Ye're both in the right of it, but ahm thenkin' thet they'll be able te foller these four horses o' ours easy eno', and ahm sure they'll bring the pack animals and so on along wi' em when they do. Ahm wi' Aventgar; let's be about getting the dogs as has done all this murderin'!" The battle priest heaves his mount around, and lays the spurs to him, rocketing off southward, followed by Aventgar, Ebon and Quentin.
They ride for some time in silence, Darius periodically checking to ensure that they haven't lost the trail. That doesn't prove to be too difficult, in spite of the fact that neither of the four has any sort of measurable skill at tracking. While the pace is break-neck to begin with, the four experienced adventurers soon realize that wearing the horses out will accomplish nothing. They aren't going to catch the murderers if they have to walk because of dead horses, that is certain.
A couple of hours later (it's now somewhere around 15:00), as they decide to take a small meal and let the horses (and their own arses) rest for a bit, Cynthia and Door manage to catch back up. It's very obvious that they, and their animals, are over-tired, and all decide that extending the rest period would likely be a good idea, though Aventgar doesn't look thrilled at the prospect.
Ebon decides to take the opportunity, since this is the first lull that's been available since his meeting of this intriguing band of folks, to fish for some information. He'd like to be able to make a little sense of all the chaos that seems to be the rule. "So Darius what were you off to do before this heinous incident arose? I does not strike me that you are a band of law enforcers," Ebon says to Darius.
This question attracts the attention of everyone, and Darius finds himself the focus of all eyes as he begins to speak. In fact, Darius was thinking much along those same lines when Ebon's question brought him out of his reverie.
"Aye, that's what I was just thinkin'. How'd we end up doing this? Well, since you ask, I'll tell ye. It was a cold and rainy night it was," says Darius, grinning, "I was walkin through a thicket hopin' to find some shelter from the weather, when I thought I'd spied a shack 'o some sort, started moving toward it, when I caught wind of another. Happened to be Quentin, we stared at each other down the length of our arrows for a bit before decidin' we were nae gonna' hurt each other, then when Quent lowered his bow, I turned to the spot where I'd heard yet another."
Darius pauses, reaches into his saddle bag and pulls out a block of hard cheese. Takes his dagger and cuts a slice off and hands it over to Ebon, then cuts himself one. "Poor lad, his name was Viper. 'Bout the time that he came out of the brush, there arose a scream that, if I'd not already been chilled to the bone, it'd 'ave done it fer sure. We turned to the shack, from whence the scream came and before I could move, Viper'd already burst through the door, Quentin and I ran to the door and there was a sight I'd hoped ta never see, a skeletal warrior, standing over another lad, Viper jumped in before we could warn him, and the thing killed him with one stroke. Quentin and I managed to send it back to the hell it came from. Nothing to be done for Viper, but the other laying on the floor was Aventgar. I asked Morrigain to help me and healed him. Later that night Regor came knockin' on the door looking to get in from the weather too. Quentin found a note on Viper that was a bit mysterious, but it mentioned the Brotherhood of Slayers, that sent a chill down our spines, to be sure... We decided head to Vellinost and look for Viper's family, seemed like a good enough quest. Especially after what happened that morn when we went to bury the lad, his body just burnt up. Stangest thing I've 'ere laid me eyes one I tell ye."
"Anyway, we met up with the Lady Fendrell on the road. She was being chased by a group in some sort of livery. I'd say I didna' like the way they looked, chasin' the lass that way. So, we ran 'em off."
"We came into the settlement right back there, and there'd been a death, and somehow, we ended up with the culprit in our custody to take 'em to Vellinost. Then he ends up dead, tied to a horse." Darius shakes his head, "What in blazes are we getting into lads!?" he says as he looks over at Aventgar and Regor.
"Aye, indeed," responds Aventgar. "I don't know the answer to that, Darius, but perhaps I can tell you one or two of the things I do know. In fact, it seems we're long overdue for some sort of discussion about it. For one thing, those men in the verde e argent livery were soldiers of Pheron, Duke of Bhurke. It just happens that we are, and have been this whole time, in Bhurke. In fact, Bhurke itself is not many days' ride from here." Noting the concerned expressions on the faces of his companions, Aventgar continues, "Well ye should be thoughtful about this. Pheron is the head of one of the five most powerful families in the Kingdom, and one which has been under some suspicion of ill dealings. At least it was so when last I was in Vellinost."
Aventgar pauses, allowing his words time to sink in. "So, then, let us remount and be on our way. Let us not tarry, my friends, for every moment we waste will cost us three on the chase."
Noticing Quentin ruefully regarding his stained hands, Cynthia cannot help but chide him a bit, saying, "I think you've missed your life's calling, master Quentin. Perhaps manual labor is the field you should be pursuing." The lady's mirthful expression is still open and friendly enough to keep the words from having more than just a little bit, so Quentin laughs with her, the two bringing a smile to all the other faces present. Even if Aventgar's is a bit thin.
The group moves on, setting the fastest pace that all can manage. Darius sits worrying about the well-being of Regor, but knows that the priest was alone previous to their meeting, and can do for himself. "He's the dedicated one, that Regor," mutters the battle priest to himself.
The rest of the afternoon trudges by. The mounts must be rested periodically, and the only solace for the avengers is that their targets must operate under the same conditions or risk laming their mounts, or worse. By the time the sun has set, all are ready to set up a camp and stop for the day, but Aventgar's strong presence persuades them to go just a little farther, and then just a little farther still. It's quite black, the stars shrouded by ever- present clouds when finally the five other travellers demand that Aventgar desist.
Camp is made, and a satisfying if not exactly tasty meal rendered from the supplies available. Door is most pleased at his ability to contribute from the seemingly endless contents of his wagon. Contents which also have a remarkable variety. And Quentin's lute adds itself, making for a comfortable, relaxing night. All seem to rest easy with the knowledge that one of their number is keeping vigil against encroachment at all times.
"Here, lad, let me see te this", says Darius to Door. The priest removes the massive amounts of bandage material, shaking his head and muttering under his breath something about how the wounds of an army would require less cloth to bandage than this. Once he can actually see the injuries Door suffered, Darius begins to chant while keeping a firm, almost painful grip on Door's arm and forehead. Door is beginning to look worried for the sanity of this man who has ahold of him when he suddenly gasps and cries out, his body spasming and rigid. When Door can sit up again, he notices that the bite wound on his right hand has disappeared, leaving only a faint scar. Upon feeling his neck, Door also determines that the superficial scrape there is also gone. The Mage scrambles back away from Darius, regarding him as he might regard some legendary beast that suddenly appeared next to him on his wagon's seat.
"Hee-eeachaw. Er, thanks to you, much obliged, Mister Darius," croaks Door.
Aventgar awakens everyone a little before dawn, and prods the group into motion. He insists that a travelling breakfast is necessary this morning, that the gap *must* be closed with the two that are being pursued, or else the trail could be eradicated by more rain. Indeed, the continual cloudiness lends to the urgency of the Tandrilii's words, and everyone grumblingly complies. Darius and the other warriors in the group can't keep themselves from admiring the drive and conditioning of their contemporary.
The way is fairly easy. mostly flat land, occasional rolling hills, and the infrequent copse of trees. Thoughts stray back to Regor often, and to the atrocities committed in the nameless little hamlet now a full day's ride behind them, managing to coax just little more speed from all present.
It is not long before the group, Darius and Aventgar riding to the fore, crosses a shallow rise to behold its goal. There, down the gentle slope perhaps 150 yards away, are the two scoudrels that have led such a grueling chase. And with them are another dozen men in the green and silver livery of Bhurke! The soldiers seem to be awaiting the arrival of the party, because as soon as Darius and Avengar come into their sight, three of the men spur their mounts forward. They are trotting, and have no bared weapons.
Aventgar calls a halt, allowing the all of the group to catch up, and, pointing to the three soldiers, says, "Look, they've stopped. They are waiting for us, for they wish to talk. It's my guess that those two have accused us of their crimes, and would see us held up while they make a getaway."
"Aye," agrees Darius, "that's me own thinkin' as well."
"So," asserts Cynthia, her face perhaps a bit pale at this point, "we must send someone out to speak with them. Three people, I suppose?"
"I'm one," says Ebon.
"And me," adds Darius.
"Well, I suppose that makes three, then, since I must also attend this impromptu little meeting," grins Aventgar.
Door, in the midst of his intention of chiming himself in, so that he could make good use of his impressive skill at negotiation, manages somehow to fall from his wagon, at the same time getting his right leg caught in the reins, so that he is dangling off the side and looking more than moderately chagrinned.
The two war horses and the riding horse bear their charges out away from the group toward the three soldiers who're awaiting them. As they approach the site of the meeting, which is right at the mid-point of the field, Aventgar, Darius and Ebon can see that the soldiers do not appear agitated or excited. They have the appearance of men doing a job, and doing it with competence.
All hands are raised to show no ill intent as the six men come together, the universal greeting of potential enemies.
The features of the three soldiers take on a speculative cast once they are able to examine Aventgar closely enough to determine, by his markings and colors, that he's Tandrilii. "It's told to us that you people have been terrorizing the countryside here abouts." This from the ranking soldier, a second leftenant by his insignia. "That, in fact, you've committed murder and mayhem on a helpless bunch of villagers a day or so from here. You realize, of course," says the man, looking Aventgar dead in the eye, "that you will be stripped of status and executed for these crimes?" The mocking tone of the man's voice all but screams that the charges are a mere formality, and that sentence has, for all intents and purposes, already been passed. This feeling is confirmed when the leftenant motions for the rest of his men to approach.
"That's an outrage!" roars Aventgar, a sound punctuated by the metallic hiss of Darius' and Ebon's swords sliding free of their scabbards.
The air of competence around the soldiers vanishes as they realize that the Tandrilii and his friends aren't going to come along peacefully, and they fall back before the fury of an enraged Aventgar and company. Those folk waste no time. Seeing no missile weapons in evidence, Aventgar, Darius and Ebon rage down upon the fourteen men, with Quentin, Cynthia, and Door running as quickly as possible to assist them. Aventgar quickly pulls out in front, his mount seeming to have limitless stores of speed and endurance. He swings his deadly lance down into position, and aims Thunderer directly for the shadowy Nadarni sitting amongst the soldiers. The soldiers scatter before the Tandrilii's charging mount, leaving the Nadarni staring wide-eyed. The next occurrance is one that Aventgar has a difficult time crediting. One moment there was a horse with a rider, and in the next instant, the horse stood by itself, eyes rolling in fear. Aventgar attempts to adjust his attack toward the Dwarf sitting next to his target, but there is no time, and he goes careening past. He quickly begins to circle around for another pass.
Darius screams in black fury, urging Reiger on at greater and greater speed. Suddenly, he's among the enemy, hacking and chopping at them, nearly blind in his desire to destroy them. He feels his sword connect solidly with one of the soldiers and gives a mighty tug to free it for another swing, and is then bathed in the hot blood of his foe as the bastard sword comes free from the breast-bone of the soldier. Darius feels a sting on his left shoulder, then is clear of the fight. As Darius swings around, he notices that the soldiers are doing their level best to stay clear of his gory visage.
Ebon chokes Obsidian back just a tad, still allowing the horse to pelt along, and chants in Nadarni. Just before getting to the knot of soldiers, who've all dismounted for a fight, Ebon veers off to the right and flings a handful of sand at the liveried humans. Four of them promptly collapse, snoring.
Thus with nearly half of their number out of the fight, one of them the leftenant, and with proven deadly enemies on all sides, the remaining soldiers throw down their weapons, fall to their knees, and place their hands atop their heads.
"Ar, git up and fight, you useless fuckin' bastards!," roars the Dwarf. "Git up, or I'll kill every fuckin' one o' you meself!" When his attempts seem to have no noticeable effect, Demorral stomps over to the nearest of the soldiers and raises his axe as if to strike the man down. Just at that point, Demorral is distracted by a loud sound and turns just in time for Aventgar's lance to strike him dead in the chest. The lance punches right throught the chain mail that the Dwarf is wearing, penetrating deep into the chest cavity of the unfortunate enemy. Demorral is thrown bodily from his feet, and Aventgar has no option but to release his lance or be dragged from Thunderer's back. The Tandrilii storms past, the hooves of his mount churning the earth into a bloody soup.
The aftermath of the fight sees two dead soldiers (one of the sleeping ones got trampled by Thunderer) and a severely wounded Dwarf. While Demorral was not slain by Aventgar's charge, certainly a testament to the hardiness of his kind, he was very badly hurt, debilitatingly so, in fact. Also, the next leader of the Bhurkeholders seems to be much more sensible, and proves himself willing to listen to Darius and company concerning the murders in the nearby hamlet. He nods at the end of the story, "Yes, that is what I felt was the case from the beginning. That one there," the man points to the Dwarf being attended close by, "is Demorral Ironnon. He's been a wanted criminal for some time, I believe." He obtains reassurance from Aventgar's nod. "I apologize for the inappropriate behavior of my former commanding officer, and would assure you that a full report will be turned in as soon as I return to Bhurkehold. Oh, and my name's Garrett, in case you should need to know it. Ah, Leftenant Garret, I guess that is," he grins. The weathered face sobers somewhat, "I just wish I knew where that other one got off to. He's bound to be trouble."
Garrett agrees to have his remaining men construct a litter for Demorral, and to turn the Dwarf over to Aventgar. Aventgar, in turn, agrees to turn Demorral over to the authorities in Bhurkehold, since that's the closest city, "And I really should check and see if there's any news," he adds.
The 7th Day of Wintermonth
A few days travel north of Bhurkehold
Tangere Ulcas reflects that he and his new travelling companion must make something of an odd pair. The Nadarn are a very uncommon sight in the Shadir Empire, always have been. They're seen even less lately, due to the prejudices of those villainous Knights of the Pure Faith. Tangere's serene visage sours briefly at the thought of the pious "protectors" of the Empire. If those folks discriminate against any group more than the Endarni, it would have to be the Ildequar. The monks of Aginsar never fail to incur the wrath of any Whitecloak, regardless of how hard they might try to do just the opposite. Where the Ildequar are concerned, there is no appeasing the pompous Knights. Tangere has heard that, here in the Kingdom, there are no such prejudices, and he hopes that is so. If it is, this errand that he's running on the behalf of the Shadrach sect might take significantly longer than he'd originally thought.
Tangere and Skisis walk along, enjoying the day. It has been so cold lately that today's sunshine makes for a welcome change. Three days past, the two despaired of ever being either warm or dry again.
The young Nadarn, Skisis by name, adjusts his grip on the reins of his mount. He's been mostly walking this past week, ever since meeting and deciding to join with Tangere. He reflects that there is definitely something in the way that the Ildequar respects his surroundings that prompts others to do likewise. Skisis doesn't mind the walking, of course. And he's certain that his mount has not minded the respite.
At the same instant, each companion experiences the same thought; how fortunate to be travelling with someone who knows the value of silence. Each notes the calm smile of the other and nods, not realizing that the reason for the other's smile is the same as his own.
The sun bears out its earlier promise of warmth, with Skisis shedding his scarlet cloak round about mid-morning. This at just about the time that Tangere indicates that he's smelled cooking smoke, and believes there to be a settlement nearby. The two make a westerly adjustment to their course and are soon pleased to discover the plowed and tended fields and meadows that are the hallmark of human habitation. Not far to the south can be seen a small wooded area. The smoke itself has the smell of cooking fires that have been damped for the day.
Noone works in the fields today, apparently. Or at least the two travellers aren't able to see anyone from their current vantage. What they can see, however, indicates that something is afoot. A party of five mounted people can be seen entering the village some distance to the east. Warriors or some such, from the look of them.
With a shared glance, Tangere and Skisis decide to wait where they are and see what developes, though both stand fully ready to make for the cluster of dwellings should the need become apparent.
They watch as the villagers all gather around these newcomers. Discussion seems to ensue for a few moments, after which yet another horseman careens into the village and verily falls from his mount in the midst of the existing clump of people. There is some shouting, but the intervening distance renders the words themselves indistinct. Again, there is quiet discussion, after which a large armored man, one of the five who so recently entered the village, siezes the slim shouting man and binds him hand and foot, then lifts and deposits the unfortunate fellow across the back of one of the mounts.
Skisis hears Tangere take in a quick, surprised breath of air at this point and almost asks the other if there's something amiss, then decides that Tangere must have simply seen something that startled him, and returns his attention to the scene unfolding in the village just in time to see a slim Dwarf emerge from the crowd to speak with the armored man and his companions. After just a few more moments of conversation, with the five travellers, the Dwarf, and an old villager the seeming participants, the congregation disbands. The villagers begin gravitating toward a fair-sized house that faces the common while the travellers, now including the Dwarf and also the poor misfortunate who is bound on one of the horses, take a south- westerly tack, heading toward the stand of trees that Skisis and Tangere noted earlier.
The trees soon obscure the people and their mounts from view, prompting the Ildequar and the Nadarn to look for another spot from which they may continue to see what is happening. Skisis definitely catches the word "Borren" as it falls in a hushed whisper from Tangere's lips. There's something purposeful in the way the word sounds, but Skisis doesn't have time to plumb that well just now.
Ildequar and Nadarn move quickly and without much noise toward the copse, reaching it in only a few moments. Skisis' horse should be fine, drop tethered as he is just below that last small rise. Skisis' delicately shaped ears prick up, catching an odd sound just inside the treeline. A hand on his arm halts Tangere, and both stand listening for a moment. Sure enough, a sound. Snoring? Their curiosity aroused, the two begin to scan around, trying to locate the source of the sonorous noise. Within moments, Skisis points Tangere's attention to the barren canopy above. It's indeed a strange sight. Suspended from a rope, a fair-sized man wearing woodland garb snoozes the morning away. His face is very red, apparently from the rushing of blood to that extremity caused by hanging upside down.
"Ahem," says Skisis. The snoring immediately ceases, the man's eyes popping open to twice or thrice their normal size. Then the fellow catches sight of the two figures looking up at him from below and grins shame-facedly.
"Eh," the man coughs, causing the vein in the middle of his forehead to throb momentarily, "the two of you wouldn't mind to help a victim of his own ingenuity, would ye?" rasps the man.
The Nadarn walks over to the snares release, passing underneath the suspended stranger in the process. There are several items, he notes, scattered about on the leafy ground beneath the man, no doubt explaining why he had not cut himself free already. Skisis proceeds on to where the taut rope is tied off on a thick lower branch of a nearby tree. Tangere joins him and the two are easily able to lower their newfound friend to the ground without damaging him.
The human, large and well-muscled, sits for a minute on the ground, gratefully gaining full circulation back to his body, and quickly alleviating the throbbing dizziness that had prompted him to sleep in the first place. He then stands to his full height, which is significantly greater than either of his rescuers, bows, and speaks, "I am Fearchar Macan-T-Sagairt. I owe the two of you a large debt, perhaps even a life-debt. If...," but Fearchar is unable to finish his sentence just then, because his words are cut off by shouts from farther into the wood.
Fearchar begins to scramble about retrieving his sword, arrows, canteen, and so on. Tangere and Skisis, meanwhile, have rushed off in the direction of the clamor, moving swiftly and silently. Skisis makes a mental note to be sure and rejoin with Fearchar before departing this place.
As he runs, Tangere clings grimly to the calming mantras that are taught to all Ildequar. Verses and exercises that the least of the order learns early on, not that any Ildequar would ever refer to one of his brethren as being lesser than himself, of course. The monk slows and stops upon detecting a thinning in the thicket-like copse of trees and again finds himself watching. Perhaps 15 seconds has passed since he heard the shouts. Tangere feels the presence of Skisis as the slim Nadarn settles next to him.
Before the two adventurers, the tableau consists of only one figure, the Dwarf, some fifteen or twenty yards distant. They can easily hear others nearby, apparently searching for something. That is what the Dwarf, whom Skisis has determined must be named Borren, is also doing. As the two look on, Borren rounds a pair of huge trees that have grown together at the base. Tangere makes as if to leave his watching place and approach the other Ildequar. At that instant, another Dwarf, much larger than Borren, jumps out of the cleft between the two trees, straight down onto the other. His own large body, weighted by a heavy hauberk of chain, bears the slim Dwarf to the ground. Tangere and Skisis are able to hear the explosion of Borren's breath as it is forced from his lungs.
Both companions begin to move in tandem. Borren is in obvious need of help. Unfortunately, there is no time. Skisis and Tangere can only look on as the ugly Dwarf's right hand rises and falls, rises and falls, cleaving a bloody trail through Borren's unprotected flesh. Frothy blood spews from terrible wounds in the neck and chest of Borren, covering his attacker in a wet, crimson mask. There's a look of maniacal glee on the craggy face of the murderer. He looks up at Borren's two would-be rescuers and lifts the dead man's corpse up. Then Tangere and Skisis are forced to dive back into cover by arrows coming from a mounted Nadarn, or, more properly, a Hraliim, who thunders up just then. The newcomer uses his horse to obscure his Dwarven companion from the view of Tangere and Skisis. The Dwarf, Demorral by name, tosses the limp carcass of Borren over into a myrtle tree and clambers up onto the back of his own mount, the reins for which are tied off on one of the Hraliim's saddle fittings. In a flash, both of the murderers are mounted and making fast tracks away from the village.
Fearchar chooses that moment to catch up with his rescuers, "What," he pants for air, "what happened? Agh!" as the fellow notices the lifeless Borren lying entangled nearby.
Without words, all three make a simultaneous decision. They hasten away from the scene of Borren's demise just before the other group of people arrive.
Later that day, three men linger despondently at a cold encampment nearby. Skisis and Fearchar are still appalled beyond belief by what happened to the Dwarven Ildequar, while Tangere is almost in shock. The monk still cannot believe the indisputable facts concerning the death of Borren.
"Come," says Skisis, "we can't sit around here any longer. While we do, the curs that killed your friend are getting farther and farther away. I say we go after them. Track them down. Give them what they have coming!" The leisure time has apparently had a less than pleasant effect on Skisis' mood, at least judging by the flushed scowl on his fair Nadarn face.
Fearchar chimes in agreeing with Skisis. "Tangere, I know you must be devastated, but we *have* to go. Now. That Dwarf and I, we have some business to attend to."
"Nay, friend. The Dwarf's mine. I mean to rip the dog limb from limb."
Fearchar and Skisis share a grin at the energy in Tangere's words, and all three gain their feet, get mounted and make way back to where Borren was killed. They did not expect Borren's body to still lie entangled in the tree, and were not disappointed in this. There is still a large spot of soggy scarlet mud before the twin trees. A blemish that might not ever be erased. Fearchar kneels over near the sturdy little myrtle tree and is quickly able to see the marks from several pairs of heavy boots.
"This way." he says, pointing.
The three lead their mounts on through the wooded area, which is small enough that only a few minutes' walking brings them to their goal. A clearing where a Dwarven and an Endarn body lay in final peace. A human labors to dig deep resting places for them, so involved that he does not even notice the arrival of these others.
"Friend, I would ask you to allow me that honor, for the Dwarf," says Tangere. "He was my brother."
Regor looks up from his labor, more than a little startled by the question. He wipes the back of a dirty hand across his sweaty brow and squints at Tangere, realizing that this human is garbed in the same fashion as the Dwarf Borren. "Well," he says, climbing out of the grave, "It would be my pleasure to assist you, with your permission, of course. I am Regor of Camerast, and I am terribly sorry for the death of your fr ... your brother." Regor's eyes have the cloud of his own pain in them, as they always do when he must face the death of another.
Tangere's answer comes when he strips off his outer garment and, clad only in pale cotton breeches, offers Regor a spade, taking another that he finds nearby for himself.
The next while is filled with nothing. Just the rhythmic shushing of digging tools crunching into the wet ground, grunting as men strain, murmuring of individual prayers for the dead. Before long, the task is done. Borren is occupying his eternal bed, as is Drakken, though much less care went into the arrangements for the latter.
When the task is done, Regor speaks again. "Meeting the three of you has been my pleasure. I could only wish the circumstance were different. I sense that the three of you will be going after whomever did this and the murders in the village, which means...."
"Wait," says Skisis. "Murders in the village? What of this?"
"You hadn't heard of it, then?" Regor sighs. "So much death. All the members of an entire family were slaughtered last night; a man, his wife, and their little children. The killers took great pleasure in the doing of it, too." Regor's face has a thoughtful cast. "When you meet with my friends, those with whom I was travelling, will you tell them for me that I just can't endure all the killing any longer? It's .... too much." The man's voice is husky with the strength of his emotions. "Tell them." And Regor takes the reins of his mount and walks away to the west. "I'm going home."
There is no answer but silence to such a statement. Skisis, Tangere, and Fearchar look after Regor, respecting the man and sorrowing for him at the same time. But only for as long as it takes for Regor to get out of sight. Then they shake it off, remount, and take once more to the trail.
Fearchar and Skisis are expecting to be slowed considerably by Tangere's unwillingness to ride, but they are surprised to discover that the monk can go on foot almost as fast as a horse can. Oh, Tangere can't run as fast as a horse, naturally not, but on the long haul, he does a damn good job of keeping up. So the companions make good time on the trail of the murderers and their pursuers.
The trio continue for the remainder of the day, journeying on deep into the dusk. Neither of them feels much like eating when it's finally time to stop or risk injuring the animals. In spite of that, though, each manages to cram a quantity of bland food down his gullet. The temptation to wash the unappetizing rations down with something other than water is strong, but the men are not fools and resist it. Finally, they all collapse in exhaustion.
Before the sun has even considered rising, Tangere is shaking the other two awake, ready to begin another day. There's not even any grumbling about the early wake-up. The image of Borren's glazed, dead eyes is still too clear in the minds of these men for them to grumble about any measure that might result in the apprehension of the villainous Dwarf and his Hraliim companion.
About mid-morning, Tangere's small band tops a shallow rise and witnesses the beginning of a battle below them. A wagon and a mounted woman are moving down toward the area where the fight is ensuing, as well. They are able to see a mounted, armored man charging into a knot of soldiers with his long lance apparently aimed at a Nadarn figure sitting amongst them. They see the Nadarn vanish, the lance passes right through the spot where a chest had been only microseconds before. They are able to smile in grim admiration of the efficient and deadly tactics employed by these friends of Regor, especially when Aventgar skewers Demorral on the end of his lance. Even though that will likely mean that Tangere won't get a crack at the evil Dwarf, it's still very satisfying to watch.
Suddenly, Skisis' sharp Nadarn eyes catch a movement to the east and he points. Tangere and Fearchar have no difficulty picking out a form fleeing on foot from the battle field. Noting that none of Regor's friends have noticed the running figure, and deciding that it's most likely the Hraliim that managed to foil Aventgar's charge, all three make haste to get underway before the criminal can get out of sight.
Even though the Nadarn must be frightened half out of his wits, and is on foot to boot, he still manages to lead Tangere's crew on quite a merry chase. He is running as fast as his elevated adrenal condition will allow, literally fearing for his life. That's not enough to keep him ahead of his methodical pursuers, however, and before long it has become obvious that his being overtaken is just a matter of time.
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