![[CER'RIN.GIF]](images/cerrin.gif)
An old Gelder rides calmly. Minutes, hours, days - all flow by him as a stream flows downhill. He has seen more than his share of all of those. For decades, the delivery of urgent news has been the focus of Thom's life. Today is no different. Well, perhaps just a little. It's not just every member of the Jengeld that gets to ride on the business of the throne. For almost a month, now, Thom has been doing just that. Ever since the Duke of Vellinost himself, Graelyn Davram (Thom easily remembers when Graelyn was king, and not a bad one) paid the contract for this delivery, and even requested that Thom be the Gelder to execute it, if the old man was available, of course.
Not an especially easy contract, either. The younger, more impetuous Gelders would have become fed up with it a week ago or more. "Seek out every one of the Tandrilii you can find. One of these writs must be delivered to each. Gods' speed and his majesty's blessings go with you," old Farseer had said.
Thom decided that the best way to carry out the order would be to take the Highway for a while, then roam back roads, then return to the Highway, move north, and roam some more. And so he has done, and will continue to do until the end of Wintermonth.
The old man wraps his heavy cloak a little more tightly about himself, clucks to his mount, and moves on.
Not too far from where an old man ruminates over his assignment, a much younger human is experiencing both excitement and wariness in large doses. For a few days, now, he's been shadowing a group of people. Watching as they rescued a young lady from pursuit, and as they entered a village filled with sorrow. Watching their ranks swell and decrease as individual members of the group arrive or depart. Some of the departures have been less than pleasant.
Kaymelkan of Clan Firesword is thrilled by the vicarious emotions that he feels for these adventurers. The adrenal rush of the fight. He barely manages to keep from screaming when he sees Aventgar's lance pierce the mail and hide of the evil Dwarf Demorral. Again, he comes to within a hair's breadth of carrying his sword and his self out from behind his concealing bush and down the rise. To join with them, experience firsthand the things that they are sure to experience. Surely, nothing could be more fulfilling!
He drops the scabbard that holds his precious long sword safe inside it back to the turf. He hunkers back down behind the friendly bush. Wariness again wins the day. He is not ready to take the risk. Not yet. Soon, though. Very soon.
His regretful hesitation prevents Kay from noticing three other figures rounding the battlefield on a heading which will take them to his rear quarter.
A spotted brown horse gallops happily along. On her back, a lanky Geldarn figure crouches, pressing himself as close to her withers as he can. Speed is of the essence! Those Raxlavens have gone unpunished for far too long. The time has come for the both of them to understand that the Hraliim do not have a monopoly on cruelty, only better judgment as to its proper use.
Finally, after more than two weeks of going on hunches and guesswork, finally Ishcaar has regained the trail of these two. And, if it's possible that so much good fortune could befall a single Geldarn, Demorral Ironnon's as well. Three birds with one stone, then. Not a good day for the Slayer's Brotherhood, for a certainty. Ishcaar finds himself smiling a grim smile, then grimaces as the skin on the ruined right side of his face is pulled in an uncomfortable way from so doing.
The Geldarn checks Moonglow's speed, slowing her after a few moments and stopping. He steps down and quickly checks to ensure that he's still got the trail. He is pleased to note that the trail is considerably fresher than it was. Perhaps less than an hour old. From the looks of it, the two he's been following (Ishcaar has yet to fit in where the third seems to have got off to) joined up with another group of around a dozen at this spot. They must have been friendly to the Slayer's since there's no blood, nor even boot prints. Only horse shoes. The two met with more men, and they all immediately went west. West it is, then. Ishcaar remounts and sets his new heading, shaking his head at the gathering clouds. He must start being more careful now, though, since it seems he could run across some fourteen armed men at any time.
A small grassy area recently bloodied in battle is the scene for less certain discourse. Downright discord, some might say. The whole business has Door quite bewildered. Probably something to do with that slightly inelegant dismount from his wagon a little while ago, he thinks to himself. His eyes quickly slide over toward Cynthia. He really hopes that she was too busy watching the others fight to notice his little gaffe. Door had dismissed the fall and subsequent entanglement, of course, saying, "Hey, I always use the reins to get on or off of the wagon. Er, sometimes, I always do it that way." He had then grinned in his most reassuring manner.
As for the discussion, Door is able to follow along on bits of it. Aventgar spoke first, saying that he wanted to personally escort the Dwarf to Bhurkehold. Then Ebon, one of those Lardoni, said it would be a trap or something. Darius, well, he didn't say a whole lot, but it was pretty obvious that his opinion is about the same as Ebon's. Then Aventgar started the whole thing all over again.
While all that's been going on, the men of Bhurke have been gathering up their dead and wounded, and Cynthia, Door is interested to note, has been among them trying her best to lend a helping hand. Door watches the lady's back, shapeless in it's very large cloak, wending its way from one wounded man to the next. She assists in applying bandages or splints. Whatever is needed. "Well, how kind of her," thinks the young Mage to himself, "she's even volunteering to hold some of the mens' belongings for them, so they won't get so tired from carrying all of it." He looks back to the trio who are still having their discussion, seeking to point out Cynthia's kindness. "Aw, they're too busy," he decides, and moves over to where Demorral is laying.
The Dwarf is immobilized, laying on his back with supports on either side. The supports seem to be serving double duty to both hold Demorral in one position, and perhaps also to act as bindings. As if the irascible Slayer were able to go anywhere.
When Door approaches, Demorral is unconscious. Door is easily able to see the terrible wound in the Dwarf's chest. His outer clothing has been cut open and peeled back, exposing what appears to be an extremely fine quality mail shirt. From the look of the stuff, nothing short of a siege engine or a charging cavalryman could have punctured it. "I bet I could use a lance," Door thinks to himself. He's quite fascinated that he can stand here and look inside of Demorral through the ragged gap. "That sure is a lot of blood. Hey," again, Door's thought-mill is grinding along at a tremendous pace, "since those others are having such a hard time deciding what to do, maybe I ought to help them out."
He walks over to where his team of one horse is standing, still attached to the ramshackle wagon that is Door's primary mode of transportation. The Mage takes hold of the horse's bridle, and smiles in satisfaction when his horse tries to do nothing harmful to him. "That other horse must be evil," he concludes privately. Man, horse, and wagon all begin to move back over to the staked-out Dwarf. Door scowls in annoyance and stops halfway there. "Mmm, forgot." He walks over to the right front wagon wheel. Reaching up behind the buck board, Door feels around until he finds the mallet he was looking for. Using the mallet, Door carefully taps on the hub and on three of the spokes of the adjacent wheel. The wagon and its odd owner are now able to complete their short journey. Door climbs up on the back of the wagon and begins shifting things around. Then he nods, "That'll be enough of a space for that ol' Dwarf. Hey, how'm I gonna get him up here?" Again, Door looks over at the clump of arguing people, and shakes his head. "Still too busy." Door hops down and strides purposefully over to one of the soldiers.
"'Scuse me, mister soldier, could you help me out for a minute?" asks Door.
"Huh?" comes the reply.
Door looks perplexed for a moment, then rushes on, "With that Dwarf. I need to get em up on the wagon."
"Oh, yes, all right."
The soldier, with minor assistance from Door, soon has Demorral tucked nicely into the spot that was cleared for the Dwarf. The fellow eyes some of the lumps and bulges that squat beneath the canvas cover with skepticism, but makes no comment.
Door scurries up onto the buck board and gets hold of the reins. He waves to Darius, Ebon, and Aventgar. Not that they notice. He waves to Lady Cynthia, well, to her back, anyway. He turns to wave at Quentin and is startled to see the Bard looking at him from only a yard or so away.
"Need a hand, Door?" asks Quent.
"Well, errrr."
"Thought so." Quentin hops up into the seat next to Door. "Let's go," he smiles to the younger man.
And then there's the chase. Two men and a Nadarn fly with all possible speed in pursuit of a second Nadarn. Venge Raxlaven. The Hraliim got a hefty lead to begin with, but the chase is wearing on him. These past few days have been a virtual hell, anyway, and now everything's gone wrong.
Skisis mutters a choice expletive in Nadarni as his sky blue, broad-brimmed hat flies off his head. Tethered to his neck, the hat bounces wildly in the center of his back. His horse's hooves dig into the soft earth, spraying clods behind them. The wind created by the speed of his mount whips at his crimson cloak and dark brown hair.
He looks over at Fearchar and Tangere, "The Hraliim must not escape. I suggest Fearchar and I ride to either side of his path, to prevent him from turning. Tangere, perhaps you could take the middle ground and come up behind him. We will encircle him and, when all three of us are present, close on him to demand his surrender, if we decide he is worthy of that fate. I have my doubts."
Skisis awaits their responses then says, "I shall veer to the right, HYYYAAAAA!!" and urges his horse forward at a more urgent pace, keeping an eye on the desperate dark Nadarn.
As he dashes down the gradual slope, Venge spots some sort of formation of large stones some distance off. "If I can just make it to those," he thinks, hope swelling in his heart. "That place might provide just enough defense." He catches a renewed wind, careening along. The terrain has become a bit rougher, which, combined with the increasing grade, makes pursuit on horseback a considerably more dangerous proposition.
Fearchar and Skisis seem to have pulled ahead of Tangere by a goodly margin, even so it is with great reluctance that they rein in their horses and dismount. The Ildequar doesn't seem to be readily in evidence, so human and Nadarn resume their pursuit, this time afoot. Venge is still easily visible, apparently making for some large boulders and scree farther on down the slope.
"Knowing others is intelligence;
knowing yourself is true wisdom.
Mastering others is strength;
mastering yourself is true power.
If you realize you have enough, you are truly rich.
The Master arrives without leaving,
sees without looking,
achieves without doing.
The wind shall blow, the Master bends with it.
The stream shall flow, the Master floats upon it.
By being no thing,
He becomes all."
Tangere has been chanting the mantra, gliding effortlessly along. His training allows him to very nearly keep time with the horses ridden by the other two, were that his wish. As it happens, it is not. The monk has another thing or two in mind, and allows his mounted companions to outdistance him. Once they are a suitable distance ahead, and their attentions obviously otherwise allotted, Tangere slows and stops, gathering all of his will for what will be a very difficult task.
The mantra falls almost inaudibly now from the man's lips, beads of perspiration completely unrelated to the exhilarating sprint forming on his brow and upper lip. A watcher, if there were one, would notice nothing happening at first, and then, of a sudden, he would notice that Tangere seems more distant, farther away. No, Tangere would only seem that way. An illusion caused by the fact that the Ildequar has become smaller and smaller. Drastically so. Tangere has shrunk to less than one seventh of his normal size! The feat does not stop with only this, though. The nonexistent voyeur would also be privileged to bear witness as the man from Aginsar transforms himself bodily into a small, innocuous bird and flies off to the east, the direction that Fearchar and Skisis are heading.
The elder, as of recently the only remaining, Raxlaven brother breathes a little bit more easily, but only a very little bit. He's managed to reach the rougher terrain ahead of his mounted pursuers, and now intends to take full advantage of it. He pelts along, somehow managing to navigate the treacherous rocks, troughs, and gravel patches without falling. Now if only he can reach the large boulders that lie farther down the slope.
The fleeing Nadarn risks a glimpse over his left shoulder. Elation begins to work its way to the forefront, shoving aside despair and fear so that it shares prominence with anger and hatred in Venge's mind. Soon Venge will begin exacting retribution for the shabby treatment that's been ladled upon him.
The elation intensifies three-fold. Venge has made it! The large, defensible rocks are only moments away now.
Wait, what's this? Something shiny and black nestled between two head-sized rocks. Venge sees that it is a small statuette, perhaps four to six inches in size. It's in the shape of a running horse, and has several clear stones inlaid. While he daren't linger, Venge finds himself unable to resist pausing just long enough to snatch up the figure, then dash on. As soon as Venge's bare hand touches the smooth obsidian of the diminutive horse, an indescribable warmth courses through him, soothing tortured nerves, relieving the increasing pressure in the narrow Nadarn chest. A smile spreads across Venge's face and he continues on.
He's among the rocks now, and as best he's able to tell, Venge has a good two or three full minutes before those meddlers catch up to him. He'll soon teach them to mind their business.
As one, Darius, Ebon and Aventgar look around from their discourse. They quickly come to the realization that they've been occupied with it for quite some time. Ebon spies several of the men of Bhurke standing on tiptoe and staring off to the east, so he turns in that direction. His acute Endarni vision is soon able to pick out what it was that attracted the attention of the other men, and his eyes widen in concern. Darius and Aventgar are both taken aback as Ebon takes an arm of each and thrusts them bodily in the direction of their respective horses. "I believe I now know where our murderer got off to!" shouts Ebon, who wastes no time about vaulting into his own saddle and spurring his horse into a gallop, in order to find out if he's right about what those two horsemen who just rode out of sight over an hill several hundred yards away were chasing.
"Venge," the word is spoken with quiet menace, coming from a shadowed area to the leeward side of one of the largest boulders.
The sinister Nadarn lurches back, reeling away from the apparition confronting him. Tall, and very thin, the figure is draped in a voluminous cloak, with the hood pulled up. The face of whomever it is resides entirely in black shadows. A brief flash of light catches Venge's eye, causing him to notice several inches of gleaming steel. A sword, extending down from this spectre's right hand. The tip of the sword reaching past the boundary of the shadows to glow with fevered intensity.
With a delicate left hand the stranger pushes back the hood, revealing a face that was once beautiful. None would call it that any longer, however. A long, jagged scar running from the right corner of the Geldarni face, traversing almost as far as the ear, makes an eternal caricature of a smile. Where the hair sweeps back on the left side, a reddish-pink lump of flesh can be observed - all that remains of what used to be a shell-like Geldarni ear.
"Ishcaar," growls Venge, who's still breathing heavily from the exertion of his long run. "You're certainly looking good these days." Even this situation is not enough to keep the smirk off of Venge's face. "Did you like the little present I arranged for you in Port Demming? The locals there are so ... what's the word? Enthusiastic, yes, that's it." A chuckle bubbles up from within Venge, who proceeds to rasp his sword from its scabbard. The piece of obsidian is still clutched tightly in his left hand.
The other does not move, does not make the slightest sound.
"What's wrong, Ishcaar. Did the men of Port Demming make your voice as ugly as they made your face?"
Still, there is no reaction from the other. None except for the hatred burning in his violet eyes.
Testing, Venge lashes out with his weapon, striking for the middle of Ishcaar's chest. There is the barest flicker of movement from the Geldarn's blade, a loud clang, and Venge's sword is knocked aside. From Ishcaar's posture, he might not have moved at all.
Uncertainty fills Venge, seethes from his every pore. He steps back, brings his right hand back, feints left and launches the point of his sword right at Ishcaar's face. Again, the flicker, the clang of weapons meeting, and the attack is repelled.
Venge's eyes and Ishcaar's meet, and whatever it is that he sees in that gaze sends fear coursing through Venge. He's just recovering from his latest rebuffed effort and gaining mastery of his fear when there's another flicker. Venge tries desperately to parry what he's sure must be an attack from Ishcaar, but to no avail. He falls back, searing pain blooming like fire in his left forearm. No, not searing. Excruciating. Venge gasps, tears of agony clouding his vision, his jaw clenching and unclenching as he grinds his teeth, chews the inside of his cheek, anything to lessen that pain.
This is the opportunity Ishcaar has been waiting for, and he does not waste it. With blinding speed, the Geldarn strikes, coming in from Venge's left side and raining blows upon his distracted foe. Venge puts every fiber of his being into fending off the methodical Ishcaar, but each successive wound shoots pain more and more severe through him. Each new lightning bolt further reducing Venge's ability to defend himself. He is reduced to flailing blindly once he's cut across the forehead. The blood pouring down into his eyes obscures his vision even more than the tears, and it is a matter of only a minute or two before Venge is covered with his own blood, floundering for any trick or cheat that might preserve his life for him.
This is the scene when Skisis and Fearchar, easily following the clang, clang of Ishcaar's long sword against Venge's sword and mail. Neither notices when a small black figurine flies from Venge's blood-slickened hand.
The arrival of the two pursuers has a very real effect on the death-match between the two Endarni. In the split-second that Ishcaar's concentration is diverted, Venge manages to uncover some untapped resource. His flailing attack catches Ishcaar in the left side, opening up a nasty cut, and Venge follows that by snarling his left hand in the Geldarn's cloak, pulling him around close, then raising his sword for a coup de grace. Ishcaar is too quick, however. As Venge pulls his foe in a semicircle, the other snatches out his dagger and carries the motion started by Venge to its logical conclusion.
Venge's eyes widen and bulge. His sword falls from fingers that have suddenly gone numb. He makes a choked coughing noise and places his right hand on the hilt of Ishcaar's dagger, where that weapon is protruding from his throat. Inarticulate digits scrabble at the dagger hilt. Venge finds that he's suddenly on both knees. He makes another coughing sound and this time the sound is accompanied by large quantities of blood. An unbelievable amount, which bathes the front of Venge's clothing. Venge pitches forward on his face, driving the dagger even deeper into him. He makes a final rattling sound, then goes limp.
A fine, cold rain begins to fall.
The chill wind weaves its way through his straight blonde hair as Dulendil Elendagm strides along The Highway. There is spring in his step and music in the fellow's heart, in spite of the weather's attempts to dampen his spirits. He grins, thinking his defiance at the clouds and spitting rain.
Dulendil has been heading south for quite some time, anxious for the opportunities that must abound in a city like Vellinost. Certainly more than can be had in a backwater like Thelve. Len, as his girlfriend always called him, winces as thoughts of his homeplace bring Sylvia's image raging into his mind. Gods, but it was hard, leaving her. He's certain that she must miss him dreadfully. Or perhaps it's his own longing that causes him to think so. Dulendil decides that it doesn't much matter, either way.
Thoughts of Sylvia are supplanted when Dulendil catches sight of a body of mounted men coming toward him on The Highway. His blood runs colder than can be accounted for by the rain. Knights of the Pure Faith, from the looks of them. All those lances couched at a uniform angle, the warhorses. Bad news, to be sure. Just as Dulendil decides that evading this encounter would greatly behoove him, the cavalrymen spur their mounts to a trot, then a canter. Len knows that he's been spotted, and to run from such as these is only to invite pursuit. The young man nerves himself for whatever is to come, comforting himself with a firm grip on the hilt of his longsword.
As the Knights approach - the lad reminds himself that it would be unwise to call them Sniffers - Dulendil can see that they are well-prepared for whatever they might run across. Each of them has his mount heavily laden with bulky bundles of gear. He can also tell that the one riding in the van does not seem to be so laden. The mounted men draw even nearer, allowing Dulendil to see that the lead rider has a device of some sort on his shield. Perhaps a man of some rank.
Dulendil opens his mouth to greet these scions of Empire, but his words go unheard as the heavens choose just that moment to release a thunderous basso rumble. Warmth drains from the day as black clouds overtake and obliterate the sun.
Loneliness is a terrible enemy. This is first and foremost among the many conclusions reached by the young warrior, Kaymelkan, in the past day. His longing to join with those whom he's been watching heightens his awareness of that loneliness, so that it is, by now, near unbearable.
Kay watches the Bard and the fellow with the wagon load up the injured Dwarf and head south. Since none of the others pays them much attention, Kay presumes that the departure must be a part of some overall plan. Then the three who were arguing suddenly mount up and gallop off to the east. Thinking that something must be afoot, Kaymelkan vaults into the saddle of his trusted steed, Tantous, and heads east, himself. He takes a ciruitous route that will allow him periodic glimpses of the others.
It is in the last minute of the fight between Venge and Ishcaar that Kay gets to a good vantage point. The skill and fury of the tall, slim figure in his dark cloak have a magnetic effect on the young Renshai, and he's no longer able to stave off his urge to meet these people. All of them seem so skilled, so competent, so worthy of his respect. To Kay's way of thinking, they don't fit in at all with the things that he was taught as a young boy in the Forest. For good or ill, his decision is made before he is consciously able to retract it, for he suddenly finds himself riding down toward the growing conclave among the boulders.
The wagon bumps along, Quentin at the helm and Door spending much of the time leaning over the right front wheel with his mallet. Door is quite unable to understand why they must rush so quickly, and is certain that Quentin has no comprehension of the logistics involved with getting this particular wagon to comply. Despite all that, though, Door is thrilled to be performing such an important duty for his new group of friends. He wishes that Cynthia had been able to come along, but realizes that she was also busy doing her own part. She must have done well at it, too, because the soldiers of Bhurke passed by Quentin and Door some while ago. Heading back to Bhurkehold, most likely, so that those injured ones could recuperate at home.
A low moan from the bed of the wagon attracts the attention of both men, but there is nothing either of them can do, and they know it. Door climbs into the back to have a look, anyway. He wants to be sure that Demorral's condition isn't declining more rapidly than it should be. Satisfied that the Dwarf is as comfortable as possible, Door resumes his place hanging out over the side of the wagon.
Quentin, for his part, is spending the trip catching up on his thoughts. So much has happened in the last week that his head sometimes feels like it's going to split open from the overload. It's so easy to remember how he used to crave adventure and excitement. He recalls his old grandpa's admonitions about how careful one should be in what he wishes for, else he get it, and can't help chuckling to himself. Well, whatever else he is, Quentin Reerdon is in no way ready to give up the road. Hell, from the things that have happened in these past four days, Quent is all but convinced that some event of great significance must be in the offing. Who even knew that so many people the likes of Darius, Regor, and Aventgar are around, never mind the Endarni. Quentin had met exactly one of those prior to the events in Garrul's Fork. Perhaps whatever is happening is in some way connected with the Forest of Shadows? Or, who knows, maybe it's something to do with King Ander. Everyone knows he has some sort of mysterious link with the Nadarn of the Forest and with the Geldarn of Windhome. Every Bard in Hap has his theories about that, but Quentin privately doesn't think any of them are right, or even very close to the mark. Quent looks up, letting icey droplets collect on his chin and ear lobes, and thinks to himself, "Yessir, there's a storm on the way, right enough."
If not for the rain, Dulendil is sure that a huge cloud of dust would accompany this group of horsemen. As it is, just the irregular clumping of hooves and the lovely aroma of wet horseflesh travel with them. That and the dread they instill in those they meet, of course. Dulendil feels that dread. Uncertainty as to what might set them off, these "holy warriors of Empire".
"Ho!" barks the leader, the one with the enormous stallion. "What have we here, then? Who are you, boy, and where are you bound?"
The urge to defy this pompous ass makes Dulendil hesitate a moment before answering, "I am Dulendil Elendagm, of Thelve. I'm bound for Vellinost." A dark look from the mounted man makes Len tack "M'lord" onto the end of his answer.
"Well, then, Dulendil Elendagm," a cruel grin festers on the face of the imperial, "I am Gerard Montpierre, called Trueheart by those of pure faith, and Lord-Captain of this holy mission. It pleases me to notify you that your journey has just taken on a new, more worthy, direction. Henceforth, you shall travel with me, acting as my assistant. The yokels of the south are sure to take my words more gracefully if they issue from that pretty mouth of yours. Iestan! Fetch this boy one of the spare mounts. Ensure that he's issued more appropriate attire when we camp this evening."
Dulendil's jaw is slack from the surprise. Of all the things he's expected this Sniffer to say, that he was to be conscripted was not among them.
Er, m'lord, I'm afraid that I canno..."
"Silence!" roars the Lord-Captain, "You shall speak when spoken to, and at no other time!" The man's face is a hateful grimace, flushed and swollen. It softens just a bit. "Here Dulendil. Mount up and let us be on our way."
"Er'm. What's that ye say?"
Another figure is emerging from the murk of clouds and rain. A mounted man, but older, his gray hair plastered to his forehead. The old man has a sturdy-looking staff couched in his right stirrup, but nothing looks out of the ordinary about him. Except for the copper and green braid that holds together the man's cloak in the front, secured by a large brass medallion on each of his shoulders.
Montpierre looks over at the old man, his expression souring by the second. "A Gelder," he hisses.
Ah, yes, that I am," says old Thom. "Now, it could be me old ears, but I could swear I a'heard you saying sommat as to how you would be requiring the services of me assistant here? Ahm sorry as can be, but ahm afeared that I'll be a'needin' of him fer a bit yet."
Dulendil give Thom a scrutinizing look when the talk of assistants comes out, and the old man gives back a sly grin and a wink. Dulendil promptly squelches the huge smile that's trying to overtake his face.
"Now see here!" booms Gerard, "You can't just..."
"Can't what, sir?" Thom snaps. "I am a member of the Jengeld, on the official business of his majesty the king. If anyone here is to be conscripting anyone else, mayhap it should be me."
Just to look at Thom, one would never be inclined to give him credit for much of a backbone. The granite-hard expression on his face, the sharp voice, and the steely gaze he's aiming at the Knight, though, definitely give the lie to that opinion. At the moment, Thom reminds Dulendil of his old grandpa when he caught the man down the road beating his dog. In any case, it's enough for the imperial. He barks out orders for his men to move on, the look of frustrated anger set firmly on his face.
"Old man, I'm grateful. Thank you. That crew could have ripped you to pieces." says Dulendil, once the sniffers are out of earshot.
Thom scratches beneath his chin at the gray growth of beard that's sprouted there. "An I suppose they coulda, lad. But they and I both knew what'd be the end o' that story." The old man grins gleefully. "I really *am* on the king's business, ye see. By the by, ye wouldn't have seen any of the Tandrilii around would ye? Me charge be to find as many of his majesty's chosen as I can, afore the end o' the month."
Dulendil thinks for a minute before answering that he hasn't.
"Well, ahm heading the way opposite to ye, but yer company'd be a pleasure," says Thom.
Darius is taken aback, but jumps to his horse upon hearing that there may be a lead on the other murderer. As he leaps upon Reiger's back, he looks back to the new leader of the men from Bhurke and to where Demorral is, or was, anyway. Strangely, the Dwarf is no longer where he was. The priest wheels his mount in a circle and notices that the Bhurkeholders and Door's wagon are also not in evidence. "Dammit," he thinks to himself, "no time for worryin' over such as that now. Later." The thought of Door out and about on his own is still bouncing around inside Darius' cranium as he dashes off after Ebon.
Ebon spurs Obsidian on, nearly shouting encouragements to the horse. The ride is a relief from the earlier impasse and Ebon feels the freedom of adventure again. As he rides, he intently watches the hill-top for any further signs of activity -- not wanting to be misled should the earlier riders reverse their course.
"What is the matter, Ebon?" demands Aventgar as he whistles Thunderer to him and points at the new focus of attention. The warhorse heads straight towards him at a sharp trot, angling towards the distant disturbance. Aventgar runs towards him, grabs onto the trailing reins and wraps them around his left wrist with a quick, practiced flip and vaults onto Thunderer's back. Any observer will have noticed that the horse clearly raised his head to help him. As soon as he feels his partner settle on his back, Thunderer accelerates sharply after Ebon, powerful muscles rippling under his glossy skin. Then a thought hits him and his heart skips a beat. Standing in his stirrups, he turns his head wildly hither and thither. "The prisioner! Where's the-" He inhales sharply, swallowing a venomous curse. "Where is the damn prisioner?" Like Darius, Aventgar is unable to make all the necessary determinations at that moment. Pennon flapping hard on the tip of his shiny and so recently bloodied lance, Aventgar quickly closes up on Ebon's right and matches his speed.
Skisis, his chest heaving from the spirited chase, leans back on one of the nearer boulders. Clap. Clap. Clap. He brings his gloved hands together to draw the victorious Geldarn's attention. "You saved Fearchar and I from an ever-lengthening chase. For that and your obvious prowess at arms, I salute you." He bows low to the man.
Standing, he says, "Teh frillagh grant pallat Endarni, le dist est." (You have done a great service to the endarni people, putting the evil one down.) "I, too, serve the Endarni. I am Skisis." Skisis strides forward confidently, removing his glove, to offer his hand. "My companion here is Fearchar." Skisis makes a point of stepping on the Hraliim as he approaches, wiping his feet. "I suppose you should introduce the evil one, as he seems to have lost his voice."
Ishcaar turns to face Skisis, listening as the other introduces himself and his human companion. When the scarlet-clad Nadarn proffers his hand, Ishcaar returns the gesture, remembering the deep gash in his side only when reminded by the blood, which is even now being washed from his fingers by the chill rain. The lanky Geldarn sways to the right, then staggers to the side, nearly falling, words of greeting momentarily forgotten.
Skisis holds onto Ishcaar's hand to keep the other from falling. With Fearchar's help, the Geldarn is lowered to the rapidly dampening ground, his back placed against one of the large rocks. Ishcaar begins to speak.
"I am Ishcaar..."
"I see that you are wounded, friend," interrupts a concerned Fearchar, "Let us address your wounds before the explanations are delivered. Do any of ye here have any bandages with ye. If not we can cut what we need from this one lying on the ground in front of us. That would seem the least he could do for paying back the life he has helped destroy."
"Thank you for your kindness. I have several bandages in my bag." Ishcaar tries to get to them, but only manages to evoke a hiss of pain from himself. He does does not resist when Fearchar pulls out the clean, white material and starts tending to the nasty-looking cut.
Fearchar is still cleaning and dressing Ishcaar's side when the sound of horses picking their way down the rock-strewn slope alerts Skisis to the presence of three warriors. The Nadarn turns with hand on hilt, ready to face more enemies, but then sees the wet pennon attached to Aventgar's lance tip. He smiles at the new-comers.
"Greetings fellow adventurers, I spotted your chase from a distance away," says Ebon, noticing at once that two of the three people before him are Endarni of one sort or another. Counting himself, that would be three. He then notices the fourth Endarni lying face-down, the point of Ishcaar's dagger protruding redly from the back of his neck, "I am Ebon, and it appears that we have - or had - a common enemy. Tell me your names so that I might thank you for your efforts in ridding us of this monster."
Fearchar quickly sketches a bow and tells his name. He considers his attendance to Ishcaar to be a more pressing concern, shown amply by the lines of worry around his mouth.
Skisis bows to the Bladesinger, his smile beaming. "Surely the gods smile upon us this day, my brothers. To bring three Endarni together in these strange lands is truly a blessing.
"I am Skisis. As you know, the name means 'scorpion' in our language. I assure you, though, I am quite harmless." He winks at the mounted man. "I can claim no part in the felling of the evil one, as our Geldarni brother had the pleasure. However, I would have loved to have been the first to him. We have been witnesses to some of his evils, but know little of this Hraliim. Perhaps you could enlighten us brother?"
"This one", Ebon says as he prods the body, "was a dark stain on our kind."
"Aye ... a dark stain on all of Al'Shadri," says one of the humans with Ebon - the one that's not Tandrilii. A slightly closer look gives Skisis the notion that this one might be a priest of some sort, though a barbaric one if appearances mean anything.
Ebon quickly recounts events as described to him by the other and what he has seen personally, and introduces his companions as well. "So you can see I too have been caught up in the wake of the violence caused by this villain," Ebon says, "It is a pleasure to meet both of you, even under such dark circumstances." Ebon looks at the other two, specifically at the one being attended to by Fearchar, "What may I call you?"
"I am Ishcaar meaning skilled hunter. This 'thing' was not only an Hraliim, but he was also one of the brotherhood known as the Slayers. I have been chasing him since I found that he was responsible for this!" At that, Ishcaar points to his disfigured face, grimacing in pain at the sudden movement. "I vowed that night that I would find and kill him, and as you may know, a Geldarn's vow is seldom broken." At that, Ishcaar turns his head and spits in the direction of Venge's motionless body.
"His evil was beyond race or kin and reflects nought in his race, just as I would hope that you think no less of me due to the evils the world has seen at the hands of other humans." Aventgar shakes his head sadly. "Rather than judging him for his race, I can't help but feel that he and his soul-brothers reflect badly on all sentient beings, as no rational creature, no matter how wounded or maddened, would ever accomplish such refined horror." Aventgar tips his helmet to Ishcaar. "You, Sir, have destroyed a particularly stinking piece of pollution and I thank you, in King Ander's name and my own." Nodding at the Geldarni's cut, he smiles. "If you will allow me, I'd be honoured to relieve you of your discomfort."
Ishcaar seems reticent, but Aventgar's confidence and the reputation of the Tandrilii win him over.
"By all means, Ur'tan Aventgar, any help would be welcome," says Ishcaar.
The chosen proceeds to move to Ishcaar's side and place a gloved hand on the Geldarn's forehead. Silence falls over the assembly. None of the others has ever seen a Tandrilii engaged in the use of his special powers, and they are all fascinated by it. Grim concentration takes a firm hold of Aventgar's features. Those who witnessed Darius' healing of Aventgar and Door see a similar effect as Ishcaar's body goes completely rigid, his neck muscles cording into hyperextended knots and his fingers curl into ragged claws. At the last, Ishcaar's throat issues an involuntary rasp as his taut frame finally relaxes. To his amazement, the burning, throbbing pain that was his world only moments ago is completely gone - wiped away as if it had never existed in the first place. He looks down and to his left, sees there only the thin white line of a long-healed wound.
A strange sonorous melody begins to sound out in the cold rain. It is the song made from an odd instrument that none present can place. It seems very alien but somehow soothing, meditative. Everyone quicky looks in the direction that the odd dirge seems to issue from to see a young man, sitting in repose in a small grassy area not far away. He holds a long wooden instrument (about a meter in length) to his lips, the small open end resting in the now wetted grass before him. His cheeks fill with air and then deflate and the notes continue to echo from his Burajinsi. He uses a circular breathing technique to create a continuous melody. As he holds the burajinsi in one hand, his right is busy drawing a small thick wand across ridges that have been carved into it's length, adding a light percussive quality to his performance.
He wears a modest robe and cloak to keep out the damp and cold along with cloth leg wrappings serving as britches. His sandals appear worn, obviously seeing a good deal of use in the past months. With his hood drawn back, his head is completely shaved excepting a pony tail sprouting from the back of his head. It is neatly tied and reaches down around his neck, resting on his shoulder. Tatoo's adorn what little you can see of his neck as it disappears beneath his heavy robe. You suppose that the tatoos must cover a good deal of his body from the evidence of them on his wrists and ankles as well. Any observant and worldly enough would immediately recognize this one as a traveller from Aginsar, a brother of the Path, an Ildequar.
Fearchar appears relieved. He'd been wondering where Tangere got off to, but had no opportunity to check, what with Ishcaar's trouble and all. He smiles at the sight of the monk sitting in the wet grass, even happier now that his new Geldarni friend is well and his nearly new Ildequar one is as well. "Ah, and that would be Tangere. It would seem that we are all still here," says Fearchar.
"Hmmm, well, not all," replies Darius, "we left two er three back there." Darius thumbs in the direction that he and his companions came from. "We'll see to 'em 'fore long."
The sound of a galloping horse's hooves draws the attention of six pairs of eyes. Only Tangere gives no indication of hearing it. As they turn to the south to look, all see a lone steed dashing down the open slope out beyond the rocky area.
Raising his voice to battlefield levels, Aventgar roars "Darius, Ebon, watch for surprises from our rear and flanks!" as he gives Thunderer a light tap of his heels. The warhorse seems to wait for him to finish speaking before thrusting forward, slowly at first as he picks his way through the treacherous rocks, then at a light canter once clear of them. The Tandrilii keeps his lance at a perfect 45 degree angle, ready to bring it down and charge at the lightest provocation. His shield is facing the newcomer, showing the proud symbol of his order. "Halt, sir! In the name of the King, explain your presence and intentions."
Kaymelkan stops his horse with easy grace and looks at Aventgar with wide eyes. His voice seems fearful and the young man bows humbly from his saddle, "M'Lord, I am nothing compared to the likes of y-y-you M-m'Lord. I am a simple boy, wh-hoo saw you from over yonder," the lad points to the top of the slope, over on the south side, "I could not help but hear more people and I ... I got sore lonely, so I was thinking I should come to you and ask if I could join your band." Aventgar notes that this person is very carefully maintaining an unthreatening posture, while at the same time he manages to keep half an eye on each of the strangers arrayed before him. "Perhaps ye could teach me how to use these things," points at the swords at his waist. As his eyes stray over the boy's gear, they very nearly goggle. While the weapons and baldric are not fastened in any pattern familiar to folk in the southern part of the kingdom, it's more than obvious that the person who arranged them was no novice. Aventgar reckons that either or both of the well-used looking weapons could be drawn in no time and gains some respect for this new-comer. "They were my father's, given me upon my departure from home." Kaymelkan pauses for a moment, "My name, M'Lord, is Kay." And Kay dismounts and goes to one knee.
Once Aventgar has given the youngster leave to rise, "Greetings." Skisis says, a friendly expression adorning his face. "We seem to have drawn yet another fellow into our midst. I am Skisis." Skisis offers his hand to the man. He then gestures to the others. "These are my newly-met companions. Please join us and tell us what brings you here."
"...The frog down in
the gulley-OOO!"
"NO, no, Door," says and exasperated Quentin, "it's 'The bog down in the valley-o'. Now, let's try it again."
Can't you two ever shut the hell up?!" issues from the rear of the rickety wagon. "Talk, talk, sing, sing. I'm bloody fed up o' list'nin' to ye bastards!"
Quent and Door grin at one another. If anything, Demorral's outburst evokes an even louder, more raucous version of the song:
"Ho ro, the rattlin' bog
the bog down in the valley-o
Ho ro, the rattlin' bog
the bog down in the valley-o"And in that bog there was a tree
a rare tree
a rattlin' tree
the tree in the bog
and the bog down in the valley-o"Ho ro, the rattlin' bog
the bog down in the valley-o
Ho ro, the rattlin' bog
the bog down in the valley-o"And on that tree there was a limb
a rare limb
a rattlin' limb
the limb on the tree
and the tree in the bog
and the bog down in the valley-o"Ho ro, the rattlin' bog
the bog down in the valley-o
Ho ro, the rattlin' bog
the bog down in the valley-o"And on that limb there was a branch
a rare branch
a rattlin' branch
the branch on the limb
and the limb on the tree
and the tree in the bog
and the bog down in the valley-o"Ho ro, the rattlin' bog
the bog down...
And so on, drowning out the coughs, wheezes, curses, and threats of the injured Dwarf with their ever more enthusiastic strains.
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