The Dark Frontier

A Moonsea Adventure

Chapter 7

Choices

            The Chosen had returned to sit with Anya, thanking Krel for his aid, and he understood that he was dismissed. The Bhaalyn returned to their watch outside her chamber, leaving Krel with nothing of consequence to do. The keep had a chapel, he knew, so he went there to pray and to contemplate. That was where the mercenaries found him.
            Rosjevo had stayed a tentative step behind Aksana the entire way up to the chapel. As a peshka and a common mercenary, he had no reasonable mandate or excuse for exploring the upper levels of the keep; they were now relying entirely on the girl's original commission to spy on Anya - a commission which was probably outdated. However, they met no one more threatening than the servant children, who scampered out of their way without a challenge.
            Entering the chapel, Aksana paused to murmur a quick prayer. Spotting the Atjets she quietly made her way forward until she judged that he could see her. Waiting patiently for Krel to acknowledge her, she studied the Chapel. The room was enormous, more church than chapel, with a balcony running around it above. The walls and floor had not been covered with wood as they had in the other rooms, and though the many windows were shuttered, the room still held a penetrating chill. Despite the aged stone, the floors had been polished smooth, and the wide dais and curved pews held no speck of dust or grime, despite that the Holy Masters and no doubt a number of the sellspears had likely come to pray and pay the Gods their respects. Oddly enough, it was open to the castle's bath; perhaps for warmth, though the great hearth was unlit. The only light in the room came from the standing braziers that lit the great mural of Bane and his Hand behind the great altar.
            Krel completed his silent prayer and motioned Aksana back toward the entrance, where they could speak without disturbing the sacred ground. It was dark in the gathering hall, only a lone torch lit by the chapel door. The slight Talontar's scarred face showed no indication if he was pleased to see Aksana again or unhappy with the interruption. He glanced at the large hirespear behind Aksana as she spoke.
            "Forgive me for disturbing you, Atjets," she said softly. "This is Rosjevo." Aksana gestured to the man standing behind her. Krel looked at Rosjevo more intensely. "He seeks one whom he believes to be vith the bandits that assaulted this keep. I thought that perhaps Anya may have seen such a man as he describes." She hesitated, tugging nervously at her hair. Her eyes darted quickly to Krel's scars then away again, her own itching in answer. "Do you know vhere ve might find Anya?"
            "Lady Alexana has brought Anya into her private quarters to rest. Vhen she vill come back out is unknown." Krel glanced back at Rosjevo, his voice questioning. "The captain did not send you? The bandits, vhat interest are they to you?"
            The hirespear shook his head in the darkness. He gestured to Aksana. "Atjets, it is as she told you. I seek a dangerous creature they may, or may not, keep company vith; only the Lady's hirelings can tell me for sure. I thought the von you cared for might be the best to speak to, since according to rumor she vas captured and held for a vhile. So the girl here, she brought me to you, trusting you and knowing you could arrange it.
            "Since there is no point in pretending, or in misleading you," Rosjevo said, "I vill say that I strongly desire for the captain and the Holy Masters to stay ignorant of this matter - at least, until the truth is known. If this creature, he vas not among the bandits, then I vould just as soon return to Melvaunt vithout disturbing anybody. The young Sharran, she is looking for enemies of the Faith among our company, as you vell know. I vould rather not be mistaken for von."
            Krel's eyes narrowed as he listened to the hirespear. "You do not sound like a sellspear." The healer glanced at Aksana briefly before he continued. It was a questioning look, which passed quickly. "A dangerous creature? Vith the bandits? Anya spoke little of them. I do not know if she can." Krel looked tired, haggard even, as he considered Rosjevo. "I vill not mention your hunt... for now. I must protect the company, though."
            Krel paused again as he considered further. "Lady Alexana, I have interupted her vonce already tonight. She vould demand to know much of the reasons for another disturbance. It might be best to vait until morning, unless you vant to reveal much more than you have to me."
            "It vould not be best to vait," Rosjevo said, a note of urgency creeping into his voice. "And I vill reveal this much, at least. Tomorrow morning the captain may command us," he indicated Aksana and himself, "to enter the Great Forest vith the other men. In that case there may not be another chance to speak vith... Anya. I understand your reluctance, and I vould agree vith you, too, under better circumstances; but these are bad vons. If the dhaeraow is here, and the soldiers go in vithout knowing vhat to expect, they vill all be killed or captured." He said it simply, off-handedly, but there was gravity and heat in his expression. "I am sure that the Lady, she vould much rather avoid such an outcome, even if it means a further interruption. I do not mind saying that the Nanthers are not entirely pleased vith the vay her uncle has handled these bandits. If he loses many soldiers in the voods, they could easily replace him vith a castellan. Garsha, he may have been sent for this very reason. Every story I have heard vould seem to indicate his suitableness.
            "It may take no more than a moment, Atjets," the hirespear assured him. "If you show me to Anya, I vill reveal more of myself. But I have taken too many chances already today, and a man vastes time vhen he repeats himself - especially in a chapel, vhere a faithful man may come at any time, day or night." He bowed slightly: The Talontar's presence here, and at such a late hour, was a sign of significant piety; Rosjevo evidently respected him for it. Aksana shrugged her shoulders to show that she was as much in the dark as Krel. She waited silently on the Atjet's decision. She unconsciously twirled her finger in her hair as she digested what Rosjevo had said. There is much to learn here, she mused.
            Krel listened intently as the hirespear Rosjevo spoke. He had no interest in the political lordship of the keep; such things were beyond a simple healer, orphaned from a long dead peasant family. It mattered not to him which lord ruled this outpost. But the scarred healer made a deliberate ward against evil at the mention of the dhaeraow. Then he took a slow breath and folded his hands before him, touching them lightly to his chin as he considered what he had just heard. His life as a herbalist and healer back in the city seemed so far away. The Church had sent him out into the wilderness, but it was the Gods who kept bringing these challenges to him. He only prayed he had the will and wisdom to do as Talona demanded. He had doubts, though. He knew nothing of this man, his motives, or the truth of these things. He also knew nothing of Alexana or her temperament. Would she tolerate another interruption, or would she be enraged?
            Softly, he replied, his eyes focused intently on the hirespear. "Faith. You ask me to place much faith in your vord." Krel imagined how many of his brethren might dismiss the ghost stories of a hirespear in favor of their beds. "Lady Alexana is under guard. I can take you to vhere her room is, but you must vait vhile I deliver your message. She vill decide to see you or not. I doubt Anya vill leave the Lady to speak vith you. Vhat vould you have me say?"
            Rosjevo nodded solemnly, looking down at his hat. He was holding it in both hands, and his fingers toyed along the brim as he carefully considered his words. "Tell her ..." he drifted off for a moment. "Tell her that I may be able to help her bring justice to the heathens who overthrew her uncle. That I have heard about the Tower, and about the door that could not be opened. Tell her I am an ally of the voman called Nightbreeze. She vill know vhat all these things mean. And ask her pardon on my behalf, Atjets - if you vould be kind enough - for the lateness of the hour. I could not have come sooner, nor can I afford to vait.
            "I know that is a lot to remember," he said, giving Krel a brief, apologetic look, "and I vill give it to you over again, if you vant. But the most important thing to offer is my help - and the name: Nightbreeze. The rest is secondary."
            Krel watched intently as Rosjevo spoke. "Voman named Nightbreeze, a Tower, and a door that can not be opened. You do not vant me to mention the thing?"
            "Yes," Rosjevo said. "If you think it vill make a difference. Nightbreeze. The Tower. And the door they could not open. Tell her I know of these things." He stole a glance at Aksana, no doubt wondering what to make of all this. "And anything else you deem important, of course."
            "Very well. I vill lead you there and ve vill see."
            The hirespear bowed so deeply that lank hair drooped from his hood. "Bane keep you, Atjets. I am in your debt."

            Atjets Hugo chivvied Rhia (with Kerri in tow) away to have her hands bandaged, while Heimdall remained to speak with his new friend. "Come and share a bottle with me," the Northerner offered. "I have wine from Waterdeep, and I'd like to know why you're interested in Rhia." There was a familiar undertone in the last, though Heimdall didn't appear overtly jealous. He seemed forthright, earnestly interested. He wiped at the blood on his arms with a faint frown as Spielos spoke.
            Spielos nodded, saying, "You make a generous offer. I'd be happy to share a drink with you. Please, lead the way." Almost as an afterthought he added, "Perhaps you can answer some of my questions as well."
            Heimdall clapped him on the back, and led him up a dark, winding staircase to a room with what looked like the tools of a forge on a table and against the wall; the wooden floor held soot and burnt patches, confirming its use. The room was huge; Spielos judged it to be fully as long and wide as the feasthall, and chilly. A rumpled bedroll was spread before the hearth, and Heimdall squatted to stir up the coals and lay another log on as he spoke. "We could sit at the table, but it's warmer here." He gestured towards the pack with items strewn about it that slumped by the bedroll. "That's the bottle there, by my things. Help yourself to one of the cups."
            Spielos went over to where Heimdall had indicated and grabbed the bottle and two cups. He made his way back over to the area near the fire and offered the bottle to his host. "I've no tools to open the bottle. Would you please pour?" he asked. Heimdall raised an eyebrow, but set aside the poker agreeably enough and pulled out the cork with a sharp twist of his hands, then poured for them both.
            As the fire rose, the dim hall revealed the table Heimdall had spoken of at the end of the room. Heimdall settled himself comfortably by the hearth, taking a cup for himself. "So, you had a tale to tell?"
            "I have a question," Spielos began, "about why they are taking Rhia away. I thought perhaps you would know."
            "I don't live in Rhia's pocket," Heimdall said with a shrug, blushing unaccountably. "Or the priest's, and I'm glad of that, at least. But I've asked you a question, and I've asked twice, too. You are going to tell me why you're interested in a stranger out where the crows turn, aren't you?"
            "Why wouldn't I be? She seems to be the center of attention at the moment, and she is an outlander, like ourselves. Seeing how she was treated, my interest has doubled." Spielos shook his head, his gaze going distant for a moment as he said, "I came here to grant the wish of a dead friend. I've done so. I don't know why I've stayed this long; perhaps it is time I moved on. I clearly don't belong here." He shook himself out of it. "You really don't know why she is being taken?"
            "No," Heimdall answered glumly. "But if she's in the city, at least-" He broke off, staring into his cup with unhappy eyes. "I'll be staying here with Alexana - Lady Alexana, I mean. I just wish there was some way to keep both safe..." He trailed off as he looked up at Spielos, staring for a long moment. His face brightened.
            "You say you've nothing left to do? Would you maybe agree to be Rhia's sword? Kerri will be leaving when they get to Melvaunt, and there are slavers there who'd be glad to grab anyone from outside the Moonsea to sell, so Rhia will need someone at her back. Who better than another outlander, like you said?"
            "Hold on there, slow down!" Spielos said, his eyes growing wide. All in a rush, he said, "I'm not the one who gets puppy dog eyes whenever I think about the lady-" the Northerner turned bright red, "-no offense meant, of course, and I'm next to useless in a fight. Besides, if you want the real truth, I intend to stay as far away from the priests as possible. They make the hair on my neck stand out, and they appear to be a prickly bunch. I'm likely to get hung or flayed if I spend too much time around them, unless I keep my mouth shut, and that is something I've a hard time doing." Gaining his breath, he asked, "Perhaps there is a way for you to accompany her?"
            "Go with her? Maybe..." Heimdal rubbed the back of his neck, considering. "But if you want to get out of the woods in one piece, you'll be going back to the city together with the priests anyhow. I'd just be happier with some weight behind her, I guess." He sighed. "You said you'd a tale of how you came to be way out here, didn't you? I'd like to hear it, if you're up to it." He refilled his cup, passing the bottle to Spielos.
            Spielos took the bottle and filled his cup, thanking Heimdall as he did so. "I'm afraid my tale is a simple one, but I'll tell you just the same."
            <"When I left the temple on the Dragon Coast, I took up with a trader, singing for his men and lending my sword when it was needed. The work was interesting; I got to move around quite a bit, and got to see many of the southern lands; the Dragon Coast, the Heartlands, Cormyr, Sembia- most of it, really. While employed there, I fell into the company of a man named Hrolf, a mage from the Moonsea. He was a dour, gruff man, but he was honest and could hold his ale and tell me tales I'd not heard before, so I enjoyed his company.
            "I worked with him for seven seasons, and we became good friends. He often talked of his homeland, and he made it seem like a wild and wonderful place. He spoke with longing of a woman he left behind, who he said he loved.
            "One night, while we were eating dinner, a group of bandits attacked our wagons. I remember it well, Hrolf had told me I had some of the magic within myself and that he would teach me how to use it." Heimdall peered at him closely, as though expecting to find some sign of arcane powers on him, but didn't interrupt.
            "The bandits must have been mad or insane with hunger; they were no match for us, and we cut them down quickly. Hrolf was the only person injured badly - he caught an arrow in the back, and his breath was foamy and red. As he lay dying, choking on his own blood, he asked me to return to the village where he was born, and tell the woman he left what had become of him, and that his last thoughts were of her.
            "I swore to him that I'd do as he wished. It seemed like a very gallant thing to do, at the time." Spielos paused. "To Hrolf." He drained his cup and refilled it. Heimdall echoed him, drinking as well.
            "I left the following morning, and after a time I found where he was born. I found the woman too, a skinny, dried up shrew who listened to what I had to say, then threw a turnip at me and chased me off with her broom while her toothless husband laughed into his ale.
            "I began to return home, to seek up work with another trader or perhaps take up work on a ship." Spielos' eyes grew wistful. "With the sea, you never have to worry about sending a storyteller off to tell her your story, nor will she throw turnips at you when you do so," Spielos said, nodding sagely and making Heimdall chuckle.
            "So, here I am," he said, shaking his head, "with nowhere to go, in a hostile land.> I'm thinking of buying a horse from the keep and returning south before the weather gets nasty and I find myself stuck here. What of you?" he asked. "How did you find yourself here?"
            "I came here as a sellspear. " Heimdall said, studying the bottom of his cup. He tipped the bottle over it carefully. "Once I got here, I agreed to help Alexana - the Lady, I mean - for a friend." He leaned back on an arm, raising his cup to Spielos. "To friends. But you said something about magic - is that why you care what happens to Rhia? You're looking for a master? She-" He paused, tilting his head, then looked towards the armory, where a moment later a familiar face showed up.

            Thaurlann's breathing returned to its hurried pace, as his heart leapt into a gallop. The creatures are probably passing through the woods like eels, while I stumble through like a drunken giant, he thought woefully. Besides which, it felt like he was going completely the wrong direction; or, at least away from his armor. He silently begged the Gods for anything, anything to slow them down, just long enough for the sun to come up, or for him to escape the woods.
            He came up with a plan - a simple plan, limited by his imagination - but the only thing he could think of. He fumbled around in the saddlebag for his last waterskin, then took a swig. He dropped the skin to the ground, then tore a piece of his bloodied tunic and felt around for a nearby piece of foliage on which to hang it. Then he coaxed Lightning in what he thought was the right direction - leading straight back towards the creatures. Threading slowly through the underbrush, feeling his way over the uneven ground, he backtracked for several paces, then led Lightning aside, slipping away from the trail he'd left. The forest floor was thick with fallen leaves as well as branches and brush, and though every snap and rustle sounded loud as a thunderclap to him, the spongy ground muffled the worst of the noise his progress made - and the noise the Things made drowned out the rest. They came arguing, clanking and clinking and snapping the brush without a care, and they passed so close that he could hear them talking. The voices froze Thaurlann's blood, left him paralyzed with fear, until they finally faded away.
            "...drag it, it is Jaga's stupid man."
            "Jaga has to be ready to cut the man down! Druuga vanting to fight the man, stupid?"
            "Druuga vould not run avay from his horse, like Jaga."
            "Jaga varns you-"
            "Jaga should be looking for the man. Jaga talks-talks, but Druuga is still hungry. Jaga think he is so-smart, Jaga catch him in the fog."
            "He made a trail even Druuga can see..." Their voices grew muffled as they moved on, past the point where Thaurlann had left his decoy.
            Thaurlann forced himself (and Lightning) to keep moving, inch by inch. A part of him took haughty pleasure as he thought of their childlike bickering. But the other part of him remembered that it belied their true cruel nature.
            Soon, he was hoping to find a cliff or slope. Then he could make his way back to where his armor rested, and perhaps pull together some semblance of bravery again. Assuming he had any idea where he was truly going in this pitch darkness. The only warmth came from his own blood running down his arm and leg, and he paused long enough to tear strips from his cloak to bandage it - a difficult task without knife or light, but a broken branch proved sharp enough. Wolves howled, startlingly close, and Lightning snorted in alarm, so they set off again quickly.
            The Forest rustled and creaked and croaked all around, and occasionally there was a not-so-distant inhuman cry that gave him chills. He was acutely aware of every scrape and snapping twig that announced their presence to the woods. The land rose and fell constantly, broken by streamlets and deadfalls and brambles and bracken, and an eternity later, when Lightning had begun to drag on the reins, Thaurlann was forced to admit to himself that he was lost.

            Her belly full, Anya pushed back her plate as Alexana returned. Once Krel had left, she looked at the priestess. "How is the maga faring?" she asked simply.
            "By the mercy of Bane, she has fared better than could be expected," Alexana said. Her face was drawn and weary, and she set her staff aside to sit on the bed. Despite her pallor, she sat as straight as in a chair. "Much better than I thought possible. She has done a foolish thing, and stood defiant against the Church vhen she could bow her head and be spared." She shook her head in disbelief and sighed. "I had thought she had better sense. There is no shame in knowing vons place. The Lord and I spoke on her behalf for vhat she is owed, and even now my vords hold veight vith the Holy Masters. She is svorn to our service, and the service of the Church. She vas not flogged. I think she has the High Master to thank for this... or perhaps Mistress Rusova. You can never know, vith them." She took a deep breath and stood, going to her trunks. "There is no qvestion that she vill come to the city vith me. No doubt she vill be given to Master Pavel to train. But enough of this. I vill see to your bath."
            Lifting a container, she sniffed at the contents, then called a child to the door, giving the pot to her. Alexana set aside her scourge, then thought better of it and set it in her belt, sorting through her things for other items to bring. When she was satisfied she had what was needed, she beckoned for Anya to join her. "Come, ve vill prepare you for the sight of the Gods." She opened the door, and outside stood Krel, with Aksana and a sellspear Anya didn't know. The Bhaalyn were watching them closely.
            Alexana frowned. "Atjets, you vait still? Vhat do you need?" She unconsciously stepped ahead of Anya, shielding the ranger. Aksana smiled timidly at Anya before turning her attention to the Chosen. This was her first chance to study her up close. I vonder vhat it is that sets her apart from the others? Something in her bearing made her seem regal, in control.
            Krel bowed to Lady Alexana, deeper than normal due to the repeated interruption. "I greatly apologize for disturbing you again. I had gone to the chapel, but another matter has been brought to my attention." Krel did not know where to begin, so he just plowed on. "A hirespear, Rosjevo, told me of a dangerous creature traveling vith the bandits. I know not these things, but he says he is a friend of von known to you, a voman named Nightbreeze, and he spoke of a Tower vhere a door could not be opened. He has come to help hunt this thing, but begs to speak vith Anya, so that he may learn if vhat he seeks vas seen at the bandit camp."
            Rosjevo stared after the priest in dismay; then his eyes darted to the Bhaalyn beside the door; then, thinking better of it, he settled for looking blankly down at Aksana, who stood beside him. He said nothing, but whatever he was thinking betrayed itself in the subtlest twitch of his jaw, and in the deliberate blandness of the expression he gave her.
            The Chosen returned his flat gaze. "You may tell this 'Rosjevo' that I vill speak to him in the Lord's chamber, vith the Lord's consent." She glanced at Aksana, studying her scar. "Inform the Lord of this thing. Thank you, Atjets." She nodded, giving them leave to go, and closed the door on them.

            Rhia followed the Atjets quietly. She was barely on her feet, and her focus was to stay on them until he provided her with a safe place to collapse. Kerri was guarding her back, and somehow that helped her to feel more secure. Not that Rhia could have worried about watching her back had Kerri not been there, but the fact that the flamboyant sell sword was following them helped a lot. Bless this land’s bloody-minded paranoia about chaperones, she thought, as she was sure that had been what had led Hugo to insist that Kerri accompany them.
            Then again, as Kerri, laughing and gesturing in her usual animated style, scanned the thinning crowds, the look behind her eyes suggested that little short of death would have kept her from following the beleaguered sorceress, no matter what Hugo had wanted. At least, that’s what Rhia hoped she saw in that split second when their eyes had met.
            Finally, the Atjets led them to a semi-secluded spot, where Rhia nearly collapsed when told to sit. Leaning heavily against the wood-paneled wall, she allowed the Talontar to go to work on her bloody palms.
            It was cold in the room, and dark but for the candle Atjets Hugo had set beside her to light his work. She had caught a glimpse of the dim chapel before Hugo had led her to an alcove, where he fetched his tools from the cabinet. Kerri had fallen silent at a look from Hugo, though she couldn't understand when he told her that she must not disrespect the Gods with noise. No doubt she'd understood the finger he pressed to his lips. In truth, the chapel at the far end of the room cast back even the quiet sounds of the few who prayed or sat in contemplation; it gave the dark room a hushed feel. Rhia could have sworn she heard Anya's name, but the chapel was hidden from sight behind a wardrobe, and she couldn't see who might have said it. It gave her something to think about when the Atjets stitched her skin back together with quick, neat strokes.
            He had bandaged her hands to the point of immobility and was instructing her on how to care for the wounds so that they would heal properly when a servant child came to give Rhia a message.
            "The Lord vould see you, Lady Maga," the boy said, doing his best to appear neither timid nor insultingly bold as he bowed and awaited her reply.
            Rhia exhaled heavily, letting her cheeks puff out a bit with the breath - a ‘trick’ she had learned as a child, which she had used to make her father laugh - and sat up, away from the wall. She waited to be sure Hugo was done speaking, then inclined her head deeply.
            “My thanks, Atjets. Again I find myself in debt to Talona’s servants.”
            "It is Grandmother Apple to whom you owe - is that not right? Vhat do you mean? Of course not, but I know that..." The child didn't appear surprised as the Atjets began rambling to himself as he tucked away his bandages and salves.
            Rhia turned to the child and smiled. “I am sorry for making you wait, little one, but the Atjets was giving me instructions, and we must always listen when the Atjets and Manakjas speak, mustn’t we?” She nodded slightly, as if the wisdom was the child’s own, and she was agreeing with it. He nodded with her solemnly. “And so, what is your name, my boy? If we are both in the service of the Lord, we should know each others’ names, should we not?”
            She worked her way to her feet, feeling tired, but better, now that Atjets Hugo had allowed her to sit for a while and stopped the bleeding. Predictably, she was thirsty. “But come, you can tell me who you are as we walk, for it is not well to keep the Lord waiting, is it?” He shook his head, eyes wide. She turned to Hugo then, “That is, if you are finished, Atjets?” But Hugo seemed deep in a conversation with the cabinet, and the boy gestured for her to follow as he led her and Kerri quietly from the room.
            Lighting the way with his torch, the boy kept to Rhia's pace down the steep and winding tower stairs. "I am the root-puller, Lady Maga," he told her, then amended, "Vell, I vas, I mean. I vill probably be the Lord's runner in a few vinters." He puffed with pride at the revelation.
            Rhia smiled indulgently. “Well, that’s quite the responsibility - and honor. It is good that you are doing so well even now, before you have the title.”
            The boy swelled with pride until it seemed he might pop. "Thank you, Lady Maga." He paused to give her an awkward bow and a small, timid grin (his front tooth was missing), then hurried on.
            The almost-runner led them past the armory, past the entrance hall, down towards the cellars... and the dungeon. Kerri rested a hand on her rapier, but despite misgivings no one appeared to challenge them, and in the dank darkness the Lord was waiting by the cells, studying the statue-like Mikhail. The child climbed nimbly up an unpleasant-looking frame of wood and chains and tucked the torch into the wall sconce, then bowed to the Lord and hurried back through the passage, unfazed by the darkness.
            The Lord didn't give Kerri so much as a glance. He gestured at the rack that stood flat as a table beside him, and at the weapons lying on it. "Your veapons. I vould not leave you unarmed through the night."
            It was difficult, with the mild throbbing in her hands, the great thirst pulling at her throat, and trying to acclimatize herself to the new order, but Rhia focused on the tone behind her new Lord’s words. Her eyes became, if not sharp, then at least sharper. Her wit was sharper still, when she realized that she had no way to claim her weapons, given the condition of her hands. Even less way to wield them, should I have need.
            His face was grave. "If the Holy Masters, they vish to leave immediately, there vill not be enough sellspears to chase the bandits and hold the Keep." He frowned at Bald Bolarn's snoring hulk in the shadows. "Your friend, she is safe and unharmed. The great, dark Forest, it is a danger even to so many varriors. The bandits may vell be dead." He looked her in the eye. "I can order the men into the Forest, but I cannot buy their loyalty to stay and search. If you vish still to hunt down the dogs, the Holy Masters, they must agree to vait, and to put the light of the Church on the venture. I am sorry, Maga, but I do not know them; I do not know the vords to move them." He pursed his lips. "But it is likely that among their flock, there is von who vould know vhat vords to use."
            Her head jerked up. “Milord, who? Who do I speak to? What do I do to help you? To make sure these… these bandits don’t harm another of your - of our people?”
            He frowned at her, his tone a bit cooler than before. "My people, Maga, are vell-protected now, vith the blessing of varriors that Lord Nanther, he has... gifted me vith - and enough priests to serve in a temple larger even than Ezeroh. At least, the sellspears are protection so long as they are paid. So long as they remain, no craven outlaws vill dare to return unless they come by the hundreds." He paused, but she couldn't read the look he gave her.
            "Ve are safe enough for now, and vill likely be safe enough for a time even vhen the priests, they return to the city - at least, safe from men. But sellspears, they are costly, and I do not have so fat a purse, nor so deep a larder. Vhat little I had, the dogs took, and I must admit that it burns in this old heart to think that they spend vhat is mine." He smiled bitterly, and patted his stomach; his doublet pouched loosely around his bony hand. "Perhaps they vould say that I allowed dark magics to ruin me, and yet here again I am turning to von who holds power such as most men do not know." He gestured at the Mikhail. "Mag Jarrow, he gave to me servants such as yours, and he spoke vith the Forest Things on my behalf, and for long all this held my lands safe. It is true ve had also the great shield, our great secret, but few dared to try it vhen it is known that demons guard my halls."
            He caught Rhia's gaze, his own eyes fierce, at odds with his wasted body. "I vould ask of you many things, Maga, now that you are sworn to me. I vould have these demon men again, hands upon hands of them, for they do not empty my cellar or demand my coin. I vould have you take back from the bandits all that they have stolen, and all that they have if there is more."
            He raised his hand, and wrapped it into a white-knuckled fist. "I vant you to hunt the dogs down and punish them in a vay so terrible, none vould dare again come vithin sight of the lands of Ezeroh."
            Then the moment passed, and he smiled wryly, throwing up his hands. "But these things, they are possible only if the priests and their guard stay, and the Church, it gives the blessing to your hunt. You ask whom you should speak to? It is a mystery! Ask Shar! I am only a lowly Lord of a small keep." He looked up piously. "The Gods, they vill show you the answer."
            They were interrupted by the quick patter of the boy's return. He came panting up before the Lord, who cuffed him lightly. "I said you vere not to return," the Lord growled with a frown.
            The boy bobbed obediently, but answered, "Yes my Lord, but Manakja Alexana sent me to tell you that the night breeze has a message from a tower vith a door that vill not open!"
            The Lord stared at him for a moment, perplexed; then he gestured for the boy to take the torch again, and looked to Rhia. "I think that since it is your tower the boy speaks of, you may vish to join me," he said. He didn't offer her his arm.
            A faint, familiar alarm bell began ringing in Rhia’s head. It was the one that, all-too often, signaled to her that she had said something incorrectly and offended someone accidentally. As Harkon began to leave, she spoke softly.
            “Milord, I have offended you somehow. I am sorry. I… I just meant to imply that my oath to serve the Tjesnitjérs house and the people of this land obligates me to treat these people as if they are my people - by blood, I mean. I did not mean to claim status beyond that which is mine. I did not intend to…” she trailed off and sighed. “I’m sorry.”
            "It is vell," he said soothingly, shooting a quick glance at the torchbearer. "Ve all must tread carefully on the ice of the mighty, neh? Come." He still didn't offer her an arm, but smiled before following the light up the stairwell.

            The land rose and fell constantly, broken by streamlets and deadfalls and brambles and bracken, and an eternity later, when Lightning had begun to drag on the reins, Thaurlann was forced to admit to himself that he was lost. The young sellspear sighed, turning back to face his horse. At least, he could feel the horse's nose beneath his hand. He rubbed the horse, idly picking out burrs and prickly branches as he felt them.
            His thoughts began to wander back, retracing the steps that led him to this miserable condition. "Never mind how we got here, let's figure out how we're getting back," he muttered to himself - or possibly the horse. "The only thing to do now," he was whispering, trying to evade detection, "is wait until light." He moved alongside Lightning, rubbing the horse's chest with one hand and leaning up against the beast's neck with his head.
            Thaurlann's head shot up instinctively. He felt with his hand where his face had been, and felt a lump much too big to be a simple burr. The lump was warm to the touch, about as big as his fist, and covered in fur. Although his gloves didn't allow him full sensitivity with his hands, he could also feel a greasy residue on his cheek that must have been left by the lump. He felt around, and sure enough there were more of the lumps all over the horse. With a panicked realization, he started feel all over himself at any exposed area to see if he had picked up any of the furry leeches, but to his relief he found none on himself.
            He didn't know anything about this particular infestation, but he had dealt with leeches, ticks and the like before. Bane knows if anything works the same here, though, He thought. Tentatively, he pulled at the one on Lightning's neck to see if it would give.
            At first it seemed it would, as he tugged the greater part of it away from Lightning's hide. The greasy pelt of was a stripe above the soft, warm fuzz of the sides; they shifted at his touch, and he felt other flaps close over his hands. Taking a better grip, he felt hard, stick-like limbs stretch from the thing to the horse, holding it in place. He put his weight into prying it away, but only managed to make Lightning snort as it pulled at his hide; when released, the thing settled back onto the horse's warm skin. Lightning shifted his weight, head drooping, and he leaned into Thaurlann heavily. Now Thaurlann heard the occasional soft whirring in the air as something flew closeby.
            "No," Thaurlann whispered harshly at the horse as he cradled his head. "You did not help me this far only to let these furry mosquitos take you."
            He gently released the head, then strapped his shield to his back and started feeling around on the ground for a large rock or branch he could use. He stood back up and felt the thing on Lightning's neck with one hand, then brought the other hand down hard. Slamming a stick down between the lump's legs and the horse, Thaurlann pried the nasty thing loose despite Lightning's startled attempt to escape; it fell to the ground with a thud. Brushing his fingers on the ground, he found where it was attempting to right itself and brought his boot down in a disgustingly wet but satisfying crunch.
            Thaurlann smiled in the darkness. He took off one glove and felt along Lightning's neck to make sure the thing hadn't left too bad of a wound. "Don't worry, we'll get out of this yet," he whispered.
            Getting rid of the little bastards was difficult and time-consuming, but some simply flew off at his touch, and finally he was sure he'd gotten them all off. Lightning was weary, he could tell; who knew how much blood the poor horse had lost? At least the wounds didn't seem to be bleeding much, but the night was thick with wolf-calls and other dangers, and he was still without armor or weapons. He wasn't even sure of where he was. The air had become colder, and soon the mist trapped in the trees would fall; fortunately, he didn't think the Things were bright enough to find his trail.
            His original plan of resting until morning seemed more fraught with peril than he'd first thought. More of those bloodsuckers might be swarming nearby, and the persistent howling in the distance could just as easily be right next to him before daylight. He stood quietly, mulling his options. Thinking, of course, was not one of his favorite pastimes and he soon bored with the exercise. He needed to take action.
            He knelt to the ground and felt around at the mud, the tree bark, rivulets of water, the small plants pushing up from the forest floor. He sought anything that might reveal the secrets of his location. Unfortunately, nobody was talking. Every twig felt identical, and he believed that even were he looking at the scene in full daylight he'd still be lost.
            A strange noise in the woods sent a shiver down his spine unexpectedly. He had never been the jumpy type before this night, but he realized it was not the wolves, or the bloodsuckers or anything else that concerned him; it was the fear that the Things might catch up to him. He tried desperately to calm himself, breathing deeply. As he breathed in he inhaled the musky odor of the woods, mixed with his own sweat and blood, and that of Lightning. He felt his way back to the horse and stood up. He firmly wrapped his left hand into the harness.
            "I know you're in pain, friend, and I apologize. But I know your nose remembers the way back to safety, and I'm not sure if mine is up to the task. Still, perhaps together we can remember?" Thaurlann took a step forward, leading the horse loosely, in case Lightning decided to take a different direction.
            The horse moved slowly, unwilling to do more than take the easiest path. The night's events left Thaurlann drained, and standing upright took an extreme effort at this point. Still, he had endured worse - standing watch on a broken leg, for instance.
            As that excruciating night played back in his mind, he focused in on how quickly the priest had healed him. Only a few days later and he barely noticed any discomfort - or at least he hadn't before the Things rent two more wounds into his flesh. Why hadn't the priest come with him? If he had, perhaps the creatures would be dead. Krel surely would have come up with a better plan to trap them. Thaurlann tried not to blame the priest, reminding himself that he went into the Forest against Krel's advice. Still, resentment crept into his thoughts over and over again.
            As the first wisps of light began to creep through the misty forest, Thaurlann stopped to rest Lightning, and to look for any signs of familiar terrain that might lead him back to safety. Letting the horse drink from a tiny streamlet, Thaurlann looked out over the small meadow where they had stopped. The land dipped down to the boggy forest he'd fought his way out of, once again blanketed in morning mist... and rising from the blanket, several plumes of smoke tilting with the wind.
            It could only be the village and the sellspear camp.
            And several miles of the Forest between them.

Ezeroh Keep, Mirtul 18

            Refused admittance to the Lord's discussion, Aksana was on the way back to the camp when a cowled Sharran touched her shoulder, drawing her aside on the stairwell.
            The stranger's face was wound up in a scarf, and spoke so quietly that Aksana could not tell if it was a man or woman. Whoever it was, the stranger raised a hand, and the light from the hall glinted for a moment on a ring that Aksana knew well - the seal of her superior.
            "Learn what is said with the Lord's council," the Sharran murmured. "Then go to use the sellspears' latrine." Aksana was left alone to think of a way to obey.
            Aksana had been mildly surprised by the Sharran. You should not be. Her servants are everywhere, she chided herself. She retraced her steps back to where she had left Rosjevo and the others.
            First she thought to wait and question Rosjevo (and perhaps Atjets Krel) when they emerged, but she suspected that her superiors would be less than pleased with such second-hand information, with the errors and gaps that inevitably brought. In any case, she couldn't very well lurk about unremarked; while some sellspears had been allowed into the chapel, the rest remained in the camp or feasthall. Neither was on the second floor with the Lord's chamber.
            Strolling casually up the stairs to the second floor of the keep, Aksana could see one of the Bhaalyn standing at the first door, the one that opened to the armory. She wandered in, examining different items, working her way as near the door as she dared.
            Disassembled suits of armor were neatly arranged in racks and alcoves, the three tables cluttered with gauntlets, breastplates, helms and weapons. Fifteen iron-bound chests stood against the wall that hid the portcullis and drawbridge winch, and a small ballista stood towards the back, blocking much of the way in. She suspected the Lord didn't use it much. The Bhaalyn watched her with narrowed eyes, but said nothing.
            Aksana strained her ears to hear what was going on in the next room, but the heavy door blocked all sound, thwarting her. Examining the winch, she thought she heard voices, faint voices, from the arrow slits, but not loudly enough to make out any words. She felt the Bhaalyn's gaze on her as she left, peeking into the room further in. It seemed surprisingly large, and two men were speaking and drinking by the lit hearth. A quick glance revealed only two windows, neither on the same side of the keep as the Lord's chamber.
            She lingered a moment while she tried to listen to the two men in the next chamber, straining for a clue as to who they were and what they were talking about. She was disappointed by the lack of any apparent avenue to hear what was going on in the Lord's chamber. Her superiors were not going to be happy about her failure.
            The men appeared to be discussing who was to go with a woman to the city. One she recognized as the gypsy; the other couldn't have looked more the foreigner if he'd carried a banner proclaiming it. He had an earnest look about him, leaning forward as he spoke, and the fire turned his pale hair golden. By the worried look on his face, Spielos wasn't agreeing with him.
            Aksana listened to the two men absently as she pondered her options. She could admit defeat and join Spielos and the other foreigner, or she could continue to try to find a way to listen in on the Lord's chamber. Much time had already been wasted as she tried to listen near the door. She feared that if she didn't find an answer soon it would be pointless to continue. She closed her eyes and brought a mental picture of the outside of the keep into her mind. She had not seen any guards and she was sure that she could find handholds to climb the wall. But it was two stories up, and if she got caught, she didn't like to think of what would happen.
            She feared the displeasure of her superiors, but she feared getting caught more. She felt sure that she could get at least some of the information from Rosjevo. They would just have to settle with that. With her mind finally made up, she walked around the corner and smiled pleasantly at Spielos as if surprised to find him here.
            "I apologize if something important I am interrupting." Aksana made a slight bow to the two men. "I only thought to vait upon Rosjevo vhile he spoke vith Krel and Anya."
            Spielos' cheeks seemed a bit flushed, and he smiled a wicked little smile as he said, "Vell then, sit, grab a cup and drink vith us and your spying vill be much easier." He had a sip of his wine, then continued, "I was just telling Heimdall of my journey here. Can you speak Chondothan? If not, I will speak in your tongue." Heimdall fished up another cup, sniffed at it, then offered it to Aksana with a welcoming smile.
            Color crept into Aksana's face, but she accepted the cup offered to her. "Using my native tongue vould be much appreciated." She perched herself on the end of one of the benches far enough from the two men that they were out of arm's reach.
            "Ah, but you did not answer my question," Spielos said softly. Though there was no malice in them, his eyes glinted like blood stained ice in the light of the fire. "Do you speak Chondathan?" he asked again, not unkindly. "Some vords, they do not translate vell," he finished, smiling a lopsided grin.
            Aksana took a careful sip of her drink while she considered how to answer Spielos' question. She watched him over the edge of her cup. He may be quicker than I first thought. Out loud she said, "A few vords are known to me, but I am not fluent." She smiled her best smile, the burn scar pulling it a bit to one side. "Not so many outlanders have I met to learn more than a little."
            "Then I will teach you more while I am here, if you want to learn" Spielos said, brushing a lock of his white hair away from his eyes and tucking it behind his ear. "It will make it easier for you," Spielos finished, nodding and smiling wickedly. Heimdall grinned.
            Aksana blushed at Spielos' smile, a tingle ran down her back. She looked at the table to avoid looking into his eyes. "I vould much appreciate that; thank you." She took a large gulp of her drink to help bolster her courage.
            That ought to keep me away from those priests long enough for me to get a horse and get out of town, Spielos thought. It had become clear to him in his travels and watching the priests deal with the mage that it wouldn't take much for him to be next on their list. He noted to himself that the wine was working its subtle magic on him during his introspection. Aksana seemed almost flustered. I'm drunk. Surely that can't be right, he thought. No more wine for me, he resolved to himself. After this, that is.
            "Very good," he said, and drank the last of his wine. "Heimdall, do you happen to know if there are any musical instruments in the keep? I'd like to play for you, since you've been such a good host so far. All I brought was my drum, and it would be good to practice on another instrument."
            Heimdall blinked at him owlishly. "Uh... instruments?" His brow wrinkled as he thought. "There's a harp up by the chapel. I think she'd like a song better than me, though," he said with another wicked grin at Aksana. "Maybe you two could use the time alone for lessons."
            Aksana wondered if climbing the keep's walls would have been the safer occupation of her time after all. "On no," she stammered, "that would not be proper at all." She flushed an even deeper crimson, making Heimdall's grin widen.
            "A harp in the chapel?" Spielos said, shaking his head. "I'm afraid that wouldn't do at all. Besides, I'm not qualified to give lessons on the harp, no matter how tempting it might be to pluck a few strings," he finished, a faint blush entering his cheeks. After a second he asked, "What were we talking about?"
            Aksana breathed a sigh of relief. Spielos seemed to have missed Heimdall's comment all together. "You vere teaching me Chondathan," she said quickly before Heimdall could say anything to further embarrass her, and just in time by the look of him. She put on her best innocent smile.
            "Yes, that is what we were talking about," Spielos said. "Not about, as Heimdall thinks, trying to get into your smallclothes," he added with a wicked smile. "The Chondathan word for smallclothes is <'smallclothes,'> by the way."
            "Spielos, I thought you were a man of the world," Heimdall said reproachfully. "It's not polite to say you aren't interested in a woman's smallclothes. Ignore him," he added to Aksana, leaning towards her conspiratorially. "He probably has enough women's smallclothes stuffed in his pack to wear for any occasion, that's all."
            Aksana lowered her head as if she were suddenly very interested in the table top. Her long red hair fell forward to hide her face. Through this protective curtain she studied the two men warily. Her fingers began to itch with the need to touch one of her daggers but she firmly resisted the urge. To keep her hands busy she began twirling her cup in her fingers. <"Sma cloth,"> she said, butchering the words nicely. She looked up and brushed the hair from her face. "Is this right?"
            "It is a good start," Spielos said, watching her with eyes trained to read unspoken clues by years of performing. Spielos knew the moods of his audience, if he knew nothing else. Spielos wondered for a second how much that said about him, given his record of reading the folk of this land.
            "I'm sorry if I've offended you, I was just trying to keep the mood light after all of the day's serious events. Too many of the serious moments and one can lose their sense of humor. I've heard that the opinions about... intimate relationsips are a bit different here, but I forgot myself for a moment. I truly am sorry," he finished. Heimdall flushed, mumbling his own apology as he rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding their eyes.
            Aksana smiled. "It is true that you act very differently than I am used to. But I know little of your lands. Of outlanders I have met, you are von of the first." She shrugged at her own lack of knowledge. "I vould much like to understand you better - ah, your people, that is," she stammered quickly.
            Spielos dropped his empty cup as she spoke, but quickly recovered himself, casting a quick warning glance at Heimdall in case the other man thought of laughing at him while he berated himself. Very nice, Spielos, the girl got you that time. You are more clumsy than a greenhorn's first rigging. It must be the wine, he rationalized. Heimdall's faded grin had become a full-out smirk.
            Startled by the sound of the cup falling, Aksana looked up at Spielos. For a moment she forgot herself and stared directly at him. Her attention was drawn to his shockingly white hair. She wondered if the color of his hair set him apart like hers did, or if many outlanders had hair that color. With a start she realized what she was doing and quickly became interested in the contents of her cup, hair falling forward to cover her scar. Fool, she berated herself, you forget your training. Carefully schooling herself, she concentrated on what Spielos was saying.
            "I'd be a poor teacher, since I don't know who my people are," Spielos said, his face betraying him for a split second; just the shortest of moments when his eyebrows started to form a frown before they recovered themselves to an expression of slight amusement. He went on, speaking without bitterness, "I was raised by pirates, and they tend to be a mixed bunch at best. I think I might have been a slave before that, but I'm not sure." His eyes flashed with a hint of defiance as he finished, though his easy, crooked smile never faltered.
            Aksana was not sure what to say to his revelations, and neither was Heimdall, by the look of him. His smirk had faded, and he sat motionless, watching Spielos with narrowed eyes. A quick peek showed Spielos still smiling, but Aksana could see something in his eyes. She opened her mouth to say something intelligent, but all that came out was, "Oh."
            "Yes. Oh," he parroted, but not unkindly. Spielos had come to terms with his life long ago. As lives went, his was not bad. He knew his tale was better than thousands had before him; he still had breath in his lungs and he went where he pleased. "Since we are swapping tales, tell me how you became a spy, then."
            Caught taking a sip of her drink, Aksana nearly choked on the liquid. Instantly foolish thoughts and passions fled from her. Her body tensed with the fight or flight response. She glanced quickly at Heimdall and then at the Bhaalyn still standing by the door to the Lord's chamber. The Bhaalyn stood as impassive as before, but Heimdall was now frowning at them both. Get a hold of yourself, idiot, she scolded herself. See what happens when you let your guard down?
            Taking a deep breath Aksana turned back to Spielos. Laughing lightly, she said softly, "Vhat have I done that makes you think me a spy?"
            Grinning broadly, Speilos drawled, "Nothing, really, until now. Forgive me for prodding you, I'm just a bit concerned with the day's events, being an outlander and all. It really doesn't matter to me if you are a spy or not." He looked grim for a moment. "The fact is, I need friends in the area. I've made a few mistakes so far by acting hastily. The information I'd got about this area was... less than complete. My old friend left a lot of things out, and there is much I still do not know - many tales that can be told. I don't think I will be leaving soon - there is just too much going on here. It is far too exciting.
            "Promise me something, though - if you need to know something, just ask me. I've very little to hide," he finished, spreading his hands out on the table before him.
            One of Aksana's eyebrows rose in surprise. She considered his offer carefully. She had not worked with someone since... A quick flash of sorrow and loss passed over her face; gone almost as quickly as it appeared. It still hurt to think of her sister. Pirates! Aksana appraised Spielos in a new light. Perhaps he could help her in more ways than one. A slow smile spread across her face. Laughter bubbled up from somewhere deep inside of her, and Spielos looked surprised for a moment. This wasn't the pensive response he had expected, but it was a fleeting response.
            She leaned back and raised one hand to gesture vaguely in Spielos' direction. "I am sorry, I do not laugh at you. You simply surprise me." Wiping a tear from her eye she composed herself. "So, you vould throw your lot in vith me, about whom you know so little?" She shook her head. "It matters not. I am sure ve vill both benefit from our language lessons." A wicked twinkle shone in Aksana's eyes. <"Do you not agree, friend?"> she asked in heavily accented but passable Chondathan.
            He didn't seem at all surprised by her Chondathan. <"You are a terrible liar; you need to work on that,"> he retorted. <"If I didn't find you interesting, I'd be offended,"> he finished with a broad smile.
            "We can talk more of this tomorrow, the deal is far from done," he stated. That was too easy, he mused to himself, which means there will be trouble, I'm sure.
            "We are, however, being rude to our host," he chided gently.
            Turning to Heimdall, while arching one eyebrow at Aksana, Spielos gravely spoke his apology. "Forgive me, Heimdall, I was being rude."
            "No, no, it's all very interesting." Heimdall gestured for them to continue. "I have nothing half so exciting to tell."
            Aksana considered carefully what she knew while the two men talked. "I apologize, for again must I return to the reason for my being here. I have reason to believe that there may be some danger to us. Or at least to those of us who are likely to be sent into the Forest tomorrow." She smirked slightly. "I am a scout for the military force sent here, after all." Unshocked by this admission, Spielos could not help himself as he mouthed the word "spy" to himself.
            Heimdall blinked, sitting up straighter. "Danger? What, from the bandits?"
            Aksana glanced quickly at the door leading to the Lord's chamber and lowered her voice. <"The von called Rosjevo mentioned a danger that vould kill us all on the morrow. I do not trust him, but I vould feel safer if vhat vas said in there,"> she nodded towards the door, <"vere known to me. Then ve could prepare ourselves.">
            <"If only we could turn back time,"> Spielos mused dryly. <"Of course, we could just ask someone when they are done speaking and hope they tell the truth.">
            Aksana raised her eyebrows in response to Spielos' comment; the right one higher than the other due to her scar. <"Ve may very vell have to, at that. Perhaps two sets of eyes and ears vill be better than von to sort out the truth.">
            As Spielos gave a small sigh, his hand reached to his chest as though to scratch an itch and felt under his shirt quickly. His keepsakes were still there. As they talked, he began to absently rummage through his gear, checking it for any damage or areas of concern. He'd have to find a place to stow his gear if he was going to stay here, carrying it around all of the time just wasn't an option. He was also going to have to find out what his standing with the mercenaries was; he wanted nothing to do with being a hired hand at the moment.
            Perhaps the best thing is to stick with Aksana, after all, he thought. He eyed her carefully. There is something more to this woman. She moves like a dancer. Hell, she might even be pretty underneath all that, he mused. I wonder how many of the rumors I hear about sex up here are true. The last thought surprised him. It had been a long time, though.
            "We'd best put ourselves in a position to ask those questions. I'd like to get to sleep sometime tonight," he said dryly.
            Aksana nodded. "Ve should, yes." She stood up and looked around the room. "Two doors to the Lord's chambers there are," she said, "but only von stair." She smiled at Spielos. "Perhaps you vould like to admire the lovely veapons and armor in the other room? I am sure they vould be most interesting."
            "If you don't mind, I'm turning in," Heimdall said, yawning. "It's been one of those days."
            Spielos turned to Heimdall and with great sincerity thanked him for his hopitality. "I'm sure we'll talk again soon, this has been a good way to relax." Looking back to Aksana and chewing on his lip, he muttered, "I'm sure I can find it. What should I do if they walk out that way? I'm unknown here, any any action I take will be suspicious."
            One of Tjesnitjérs' villeins chose that moment to duck into the room. The basket in her arms was filled with fragrant rushes and loaves from the kitchen, and rustled as it pressed against her rough wool skirts. She must have noticed all of them, but spoke only to Heimdall, since she had seen him once before.
            "Saer," she said, "the Lady has bidden me to ask if you vill need anything from her house or kitchen, before you retire. I have brought new bread for the morning, you see. It has only a little rye." Her voice was thickened by the accent of the village, but softly modulated, and respectful.
            Heimdall smiled. "Just one will be fine, I think." He took a loaf, inspecting it hopefully for some sign of baked-in meat or stew. Spielos turned towards the speaker, a puzzled look on his face. He shook his head slightly as he asked himself how he missed the girl's entrance. No, not a girl, he thought, but only just. He awaited Aksana's answer, and listened closely for more sounds of movement. Heimdall thanked the girl and was about to send her off when the door to the Lord's chamber opened.

            The Lord's chamber was far colder than Alexana's, but the Lord didn't seem to notice it, or care. Like Alexana's, the room held little more than a great writing desk and a bed, and Lord Tjesnitjérs, Manakja Alexana, Krel, Rhia, Anya and Rosjevo weren't crowded by the least. Aksana had been turned away, though no one said a word about Atjets Krel's presence.
            He stood quietly to one side. He had not delivered the message well, but the hirespear now had a meeting with the lord of the keep to prove his information was of merit. As Krel considered his own discussion with Rosjevo he thought that the hirespear might not consider a meeting with the lord a good thing, especially considering the Lord's tone. He resisted the urge to rub his tired eyes. Perhaps it would work out well.
            Although Anya had followed the Manakja without a word, for some reason she wasn't really interested in what the hirespear had to say or why he knew about what had happened at Jarrow's tower. And that in itself was strange, for she was, usually, a typically suspicious Moonseawoman. She was, however, relieved to see Rhia there. The mage seemed unhurt, aside from bandages on her hands, and the ranger moved to stand beside her.
            "Ve must speak later," she allowed herself to whisper before turning her attention back to the scene at hand.
            Lord Tjesnitjérs studied Rosjevo's face. "I hear that you know of a certain tower. Speak."
            "Bane keep you, my Lord," said Rosjevo, his gaze averted to the floor and his helmet held politely behind his back. "I do know of a tower. Von that lies vithin two rides of this room, and vhich belongs to you. A mag lived there - I ask your pardon, for I do not remember his name, though this also vas told to me. I heard of it, and some other things, in Melvaunt, only a handful of days ago."
            Rhia’s eyes widened a bit, and her fingers twitched painfully under the bandages. She wished she could Weave, for this man’s words hinted that she would want to know more - and verify as much as possible. Which she could not do with her hand so bound. Briefly, she toyed with the idea of removing the bandages, but decided that it wasn’t worth the risk of never being able to Weave again should her hands not heal properly. Instead, she turned all her natural senses upon the man, trying to discover as much as she could.
            Lord Tjesnitjérs did not appear pleased. "Who has told you of such a thing?" he growled. "And vhy? Vhy do you come now, and tell this thing to me? Vhat is it that you are wanting?"
            "I desire nothing from you, my lord," said the mercenary, with faint surprise. "I vas brought before you at the command of the Manakja. I vished only to speak vith this von," he raised his head briefly to indicate Anya, "and perhaps also vith your servant, the maga. If it is really true, the story that she drove avay the upstarts." He sounded doubtful, but did not pursue the question. "I am looking for somevon they may have seen here; I did not seek to bother your Lordship vith it."
            Rhia wasn't sure if she stepped in front of Anya or the other way around, but she found herself between her friend and the speaker when the man moved to point at Anya. One of the maga's eyebrows rose slightly when the sell-sword indicated his desire to speak to her as well, but she said nothing.
            Lord Tjesnitjérs frowned, looking to Alexana. The Manakja stepped forward. "My lord, vhen I heard vhat the Atjets told me this man had to say, I thought it best to qvestion him here rather than in my own chambers. I felt also that it vas best to inform you, for he speaks of the dogs that vere driven from Ezeroh." The Lord nodded, and she leveled her gaze on Rosjevo. "He claims to hunt them. He vants to ask qvestions of Ravenmane. He spoke of a thing seen in the Forest, and von who vas vith us before ve returned to the keep. I vould know from vhere you are knowing these things, varrior."
            Rosjevo bowed respectfully, then paused for a space, as though trying to remember what further answers the boyar required. "The story I have heard, it came from two foreigners - a man and voman, sellspears from Dagoranan, the Battle-dale as ve call it. They told me because I paid them to, and because they trusted me, though vithout much cause. They vere drunk and veary from travel, and seemed lonely for company; and they felt unjustly treated by our countrymen, as all soft southerners do. The voman's name vas Avery, and the man's name, Durn."
            Both the maga's eyebrows rose upon hearing the names of the man's `informants,' and she didn't bother to try keeping the look of disbelief from her face. Just barely, she managed not to speak the thoughts that flashed hotly through her mind.
            That's nearly character assassination. Durn would never- Avery wouldn't… Upon reflection, it occurred to Rhia that, given how shaken she had been, Avery might well have had too much to drink and been coerced into sharing her story. Durn, on the other hand, hadn't struck her as being the type to get careless with his words - or his drink. If he had told this man of what he knew, perhaps there had been a good reason. Conscious of her new position, Rhia held her tongue, her hands throbbing almost audibly in the brief moment of silence.
            Unbeknownst to either woman, Anya and Rhia were having similar thoughts. Anya, however, did not hold her tongue.
            "So you vent to a tavern in Melvaunt one night, met two drunks, paid them for a story and then came here on their vord?" she asked sceptically.
            Rosjevo did not answer, and both the Lord and Alexana gave her sharp looks. "The Ravenmane, she makes a good point. The drunken stories of outlanders seem to me not much to travel into the vilderness for. Vhat did they say to bring you here? Vhat is this thing you hunt, and vhy? And most of all, vhy do you need to speak vith Ravenmane, and do this in the depth of night?" asked Alexana, leaning on her staff. She gestured at Anya and Rhia. "You also may ask of this man qvestions. Perhaps Shar vill grant to us enlightenment vith more voices to seek it."
            Rosjevo looked warily up at the two adventurers, but only just long enough to judge their reactions. Were they Sharrans, too? In that case it was no good staring at them. He set his attention firmly back to the flagstones. "The thing I speak of, your Lordship, it is not a man, nor anything half so honorable. It is a dhaeraow, an elf that has commended its spirit to the Pits. It is very, very dangerous, and must be destroyed. In its old life it vas named Emistil, or so I vas made to understand; but it vould probably call itself something else, now, to better avoid detection.
            "Some days ago I vas paid and asked to find it. Indeed, I vas paid by von among the Manakja's original company to do so: by the elf-maid, the von who called herself Nightbreeze. She is not vith you now, or so the Dalesfolk say, but it changes little for me. There are not many elves in this country, and most of those that are, I am aware of; but von vas seen vithin the valls of this keep that no man could identify, and so I came to Ezeroh vith the Nanther army." Rosjevo lifted a scarred hand to indicate Anya. "I came tonight to ask this von if she saw an elf vith the men who captured her, and to have its description from her." The Manakja and the Lord frowned, the former at the doors, the latter at Rosjevo.
            "This matter cannot rest until the morning. If Emistil is here, and in league vith the bandits, then any Nanther hireling who enters the forest after him vill be in terrible danger. The dhaeraow, it is extremely powerful, and unpredictable. They must be prepared to confront something far, far vorse than simple highvaymen, and they must be prepared by tomorrow morning." He looked again at the ranger and the mage. "If I could have found a safe vay to reach you earlier, I vould have taken it. But if the elf in the forest is not Emistil, then it is preferable to me to avoid the attention of the camp. Please, my Lord, do not ask me vhy this should be so."
            It took all of Anya's willpower to remain impassive as Rosjevo spoke. She kept staring intently at him as images of the strange and sinister elf flashed through her mind. He had been the one to capture her so easily. Every time she imagined her revenge upon the bandits, he was not there, unconsciously ignored by her psyche, for she knew not how to defeat him. Indeed, she was terrified by the prospect of meeting him again.
            "How can he be killed?" Her voice was cold and level, but easily conveyed the answer to Rosjevo's question as well as her understanding of the situation.
            Again, without knowing it, Rhia and Anya had similar reactions to the sellspear’s news. For a moment Rhia was nearly overcome by the mere memory of the despair Emistil had invoked within her. In the time it took her to recover, Anya had spoken. Something was wrong thought, and Rhia’s eyes narrowed.
            “Anya, he said Nightbreeze hired him to hunt down Emistil. I’m curious about that, as Nightbreeze left our company before we encountered the soulless bastard. Before we go believing any advice he may give us about how to kill the elf, we should, perhaps, make sure he’s trustworthy.” The diviner’s eyes glinted like pale blue diamonds while she stared hard at the scruffy-looking taleteller. Her hatred for Emistil ran deep, and she had already promised the ghostly elfling that she would claim his soul, but she wasn’t about to set off on the untrusted word of some stranger who couldn’t get his story straight. Both Tjesnitjérs and Alexana gave her approving looks.
            "You need not trust me, maga," said the sellspear flatly, his expression settling back into a grim Mooneye stare. "You must only think. Vhen the Dalesfolk joined your party, they vere told many things - including, I presume, everything you had learned about the bandits. Maybe you left some things out. Probably other things they neglected to tell me. But von thing they did say vas that an elf had been observed in the keep, along vith a voman, and some others. They did not say who saw it, or how; and yet Avery in particular remembered the matter clearly. You might say she has a natural interest in the subject. I need not remind you vhy."
            Rosjevo nodded to the ranger. "But in any case," he grunted, "I perceive now that the elf is indeed Emistil, and that I have not sought your company in vain. But you vill not be able to destroy him on your own, it is certain. You are not powerful enough. And if I am to help you, then you and your friend the southlander must first tell me everything you have seen and heard concerning this dhaeraow. Only then do ve stand a chance against him, and against his allies."
            "You know nothing of me!" Anya shouted, her anger flaring suddenly at Rosjevo's dismissal of her capabilities. Clenching her broken fingers into fists, she took a step toward the sellspear, but managed to stop herself. "I have proven my strength to the gods themselves! I have their favor vith me! If you think I need you or anyvone else, you are wrong! I vill kill the bandits!"
            Almost panting, Anya stopped herself before she became hysterical. Never before had she been prone to such outbursts. Yet they came so easily now. It was because of the bandits. It was all their fault. Turning her back to the others, she took a deep breath to steady herself.
            "It is as she says." Manakja Alexana stepped between them, joining Rhia as a shield. She gave Rosjevo a cool look. "This von, she has been tempered time and again by the Gods, and she stands stronger than iron and steel. Curb your tongue, for it is you who has need of her, not the other vay around."
            Standing between Rosjevo and Anya, Rhia was slightly behind Alexana watching Anya's shaking shoulders. What was that? Rhia hadn't known Anya long, but the outburst seemed out of character for the woman, from what Rhia had seen so far. Gods- Valkur, comfort her. Rhia could only guess at what Anya had been through in the last pair of days, but this reaction did not bode well.
            Krel stood quietly off to the side, silently observing the discussion. He knew nothing of these matters and could not add anything to the discussion. The healer did not know why he was here, but the events seemed of great importance, so he watched and waited for Talona to reveal Her purpose to him. Perhaps his great test would be to aid in the destruction of this evil dhaeraow.
            To his left, Rosjevo had lowered himself immediately in abject submission. "Forgive me, Manakja," he said penitently. "I did not realize. If Ravenmane, she vould rather to do these things alone, than the Gods must surely make it so. My grievance, it is not personal." He bowed to Anya. "Your pardon." Manakja Alexana nodded approvingly.
            As Anya's shoulders straightened a bit, Rhia heard Rosjevo apologize, but she wasn't facing him. She didn't see his bow. All the wizardess heard was yet another peshka fawning at the feet of yet another priest.
            It had been a long day. Hells, it had been a long tenday, and Rhia was at the end of her rope. She was so gods-damned tired. She was tired of the cold. She was tired of the danger. She was tired of constantly being stared at by superstitious peshka who felt nothing she did was good enough, and that anything bad could be safely blamed on her and her friends. She was sick to damn death of these stone-headed mud-suckers and their incessant cowering before their priests; priests who would as soon kill her as look at her. And why? Because she she was lucky enough to be born somewhere other than this frozen muck pit of a land. Because she had a damn talent, and dared to work that talent - never mind that she did it for their frogging benefit, no. Even trying to help these people earned her a trial, earned her friends death, or worse. By all the gods, she was tired of this shit, and she had had enough!
            Rhia took a smart turn on one heel. Her eyes snapped ahead to find Rosjevo's, only to drop lower - much lower - than she had expected, and she froze. The man was obviously bowing towards Anya's back, his eyes focused on Anya - past the priestess. His position wasn't what stopped the wizardess, however.
            The fire on her lips died quickly, swallowed by a wave of cold fear. Friend or not, Alexana was a priestess, and berating Rosjevo for apologizing to her rather than Anya could have been suicidal - especially since it appeared Rosjevo had, in fact, apologized to Anya. Hells damn it Rhia! Had the past few hours taught her nothing? Her hands pulsed, waves of pain in time with her heartbeat. You'll have more than sore hands if you ever let your guard slip like that again. Damn it, Rhia-girl, you'll frogging die if you don't watch it!
            In that pregnant moment, Rhia licked her lips, exhaled slowly, and tried to think. What should she say? What could she say? Something for Anya. Something she needs to hear. But what?
            "What would you offer to help?"
            Rosjevo paused for a moment, considering. "Willingness," he said. "And another set of eyes. I do not have magic, nor the Gods' favor, but I am strong, and not wholly helpless in a fight. I can hold off Emistil's allies for you, if need be. He is not known for his charm. If he vas vith several others, there vould be somevon else, somevon larger, that he vould answer to: somevon nearly as dangerous, and better at leading men. Is that not so? Do I speak falsely?" The sellspear looked from Rhia to Anya, his expression appraising.
            Rhia returned the man's appraising gaze, using the time to try and bring her emotions under firmer control. Something about what he said bothered her. For all that she didn't think he was lying, something just felt off about his story. Bah! I can't think right now! Damn that wench Aliz! Rhia needed all the tools she possessed right now - not least of which was her ability to think, to reason through a problem, and Aliz's bloody-minded pride had reduced Rhia to this, now.
            Whose bloody-minded pride? she interrupted herself. Dammit woman, get your emotions under control, and do it quickly. Anya needs you. None of the turmoil Rhia felt showed on her face - she thought - but it was obvious she was buying time for someone when she spoke.
            "If, as you say, you have so little to offer, why was it so important that we receive this offer now? Tonight?"
            "Things vill move more qvickly now," Rosjevo said, his reply directed as much to the Tjesnitjérs as to her. "The matter of the Lord's safety has been settled now, and also the matter of your loyalty." There might have been the merest ghost of a smile on his lips, and yet he did not sound amused; he was speaking most urgently now. "The men, they could be sent into the Forest as soon as sunrise tomorrow, and they do not know vhat to expect. Some, like the girl who brought me to you, vill not be equipped to fight them. I am not a vitch. I cannot tell the future. But unless the sellspears are varned properly, or advised by some of us - you, Maga, or Ravenmane, or anyvon else who is leading the tjornuk - there is a good chance, almost a certainty, that they vill valk to their deaths. You, or ve, if I am allowed to help you, must lay some kind of plan together to avoid disaster.
            "Of course it is in your hands, My Lord," he added hastily, bowing again to the company, "and you and her Ladyship know best. But there is something else to this. The Dalesfolk, they had a strange tale to tell: von concerning the Forest, and the strange people they met inside its borders. Servants of the Vild Hunter these folk seemed to be, but more than this, as some mischief or other kept them safe from harm, and they had no fear of blades or varriors. If the story is true - and I do not say it is - ve may be vise to take them into account. This dhaeraow vas ever villing to consort vith murderers like himself, and even if he has no truck vith them, they may appear again to trouble us. Something, at any rate, has attacked the Nanther men almost since they ventured near these borders, as the Atjets here vill tell you." He turned and gestured gently to Krel, who had not had much to say, and might confirm it.
            Rhia looked expectantly at the priest, waiting for his story. Apparently, the intensity of the attention froze the man’s tongue, for there was a long moment of silence. Rhia waited for anyone to speak - the priest, Lord Tjesnitjérs, Alexana, anyone. The silence built, and with it, Rhia’s tension.
            Silently, she looked towards Anya, to see if her friend had managed to collect herself yet. It struck Rhia that the two of them probably had much to speak about. But later. After this, this… interview? After this is over. She sighed, and returned her attention once again to the priest.
            Krel snapped out of his inner thoughts. He nodded slightly to the lord and lady. "Two forest creatures did attack our scouting party the same night that ve found Anya. Ve drove them off, but I vas told these same creatures attacked two of our men returning to the keep from the village tonight." The tired healer shrugged. "Vord vas sent to the camp and the officers vill decide how to respond to these creatures. I do not know vhat vill be planned."
            "You see," Rosjevo rumbled softly, "that nothing is very clear in all of this. I have no better answer than the Dalesfolk had - and yet, if the officers are planning for something, they should also know more about the dhaeraow and its friends, lest one, the other or both vaylays us all together unexpectedly. I vait upon your Lordship's decision, of course," he said, bowing briefly, "and vould not take this matter to the camp leadership, until your Lordship had heard of it first." A rat scuttled from under the desk to examine his boot.
            Lord Tjesnitjérs shook his head wearily. "Bloody rats. I have given to the Maga the matter of the bandits. If you vould have this man's help, Maga, Ravenmane, then make your plans together vith the Captain, and ride vith him in the morning." Rhia bowed her head to her newly sworn lord, indicating her acquiescence to his will.
            Alexana nodded, her face sober. "I vould go vith you if I could, but but vhen the Holy Masters are ready to leave, all servants of the Church vill go vith them - excepting maybe the good Atjets Hugo." She glanced at Krel. "It is unfortunate ve must go, for against demons the Church has fought again and again, and von."
            Tjesnitjérs straightened. "Find a safe, qviet place to plan. And," he admonished, "guard your tongues from loose talk of 'demons' and 'magic.' A varrior may be brave against steel, but the infernal can turn the vill to vater vithout a priest to bless them vith protection."
            Nodding again, Rhia took the hint. “Rosjevo, I will have you with us, if for no better reason than to keep an eye on you. Let us leave Lord Tjesnitjérs and Manakja Alexana to get their rest.” She motioned to the rest to precede her out of the room before following, with another bow.
            As they filed out, another rat running over Krel's foot, the Lord kept Anya back. "The Maga, she has been revarded for her service... but she is not the only von who has fought for my life." He regarded her gravely. "It seems you have veathered much for your pains on my behalf. I tell you that a Tjesnitjérs does not take such things lightly.
            "To you I grant the rank and title of Varden, to guard and hunt these lands now and for generations to come. You vill have a house, a horse, veapons and armor as you need them, and you vill eat at my table as my villein. You vill draw your pay in hard coin." He regarded her for a moment in silence. "Vhat say you to this, Ravenmane? Vill you serve?"
            Anya looked up at Lord Tjesnitjérs, her eyes wide in surprise. Concerned with her inner demons, thoughts of her physical and social well- being had been far from her these last few days. What he offered her was more than she had ever possessed in her life and more than a lowborn commoner such as herself could ever have expected in life.
            "My Lord, such generosity…" she managed to say, clearly at a loss for words. She looked down at her still damaged hands. She had wanted to ask for a delay before hunting the bandits come the morrow, to give her time to heal enough to hold a blade, but in the face of Tjesnitjérs' generosity, that was now out of the question. "It vill be an honor for me to serve the Tjesnitjérs. I vill gladly pledge my life to the protection and prosperity of your family's lands."
            Lord Tjesnitjérs smiled, and the resemblance to Alexana's kind face was clear. "If the Maga, she decides to hunt, you may go vith her. Anything you can use in the armory, it is yours." He pursed his lips, frowning. "And discover vhat the demon-man and the voman in those outrageous clothes, they vant as revard. Now you may go, Varden Raven-mane, before there is gossip about us."

            Outside the door, Rhia’s eyes narrowed when the rat squeaked past, then widened. It was too late to ask Lord Tjesnitjérs if the rats were a normal occurrence here. Best to assume the worst, she reminded herself, visions of Jarrow’s stuffed familiar forefront in her mind.
            “Let’s wait for Anya, then find some place to make what plans we may.”
            Rosjevo nodded silently, watching the Lord and his fearsome niece disappear from view with evident relief. He did not look back at Rhia, but stood a few paces off, seeming suddenly uncomfortable in her company and eager to have matters finished with.
            When Anya finally made her way from the chamber, Rhia gave the woman a searching look, but could not do anything to help. Not yet. Silently, she motioned for the little group to head for the rooftop.
            "Somevon else vill vant to lead the vay," Rosjevo said, standing aside at her gesture. "I have never been here before."
            Anya did not wait for someone else to volunteer and she attacked the stairway with a decided step. She was still under the shock of Lord Tjesnitjérs' offer and wasn't certain of how she felt or how she should act.
            Rhia motioned for Rosjevo to follow Anya up the stairs, following him in turn. Not that I’m likely to accomplish much with my hands like this, she thought, but at least this way she would know if the man did anything untoward. As the group climbed, Rhia tried to organize her thoughts.
            If the church leadership is leaving in the morning, they will expect me to go with them. Worse, they will take their soldiers as well, which leaves Harkon here with nothing but the Mikhail and some children to defend the keep against the bandits. Somehow, I’v got to keep those priests from leaving. But how? I have nothing… unless Emistil would be enough… Emistil and the odd creatures Rosjevo mentioned. Rhia stopped.
            “You two go ahead. I’ve just got to get someone.”
            Rhia ran back down the stairs as quickly as she was capable (nearly bowling Aksana over in the stairwell), and the exertion made her hands throb anew, but she found what she was looking for. “Atjets,” She called to the back of the priest who had healed Anya and spoken of Rosjevo’s monsters, “Atjets, we need you for a few moments on the roof. Will you please come with me?”
            Krel pushed aside the thoughts of sleep for a little longer as he turned to Rhia's request. He said simply, "As you wish." Unwilling to leave Anya alone with Rosjevo for long, Rhia simply nodded to the priest and rushed back up the stairs to the roof. The healer followed more slowly, his injured leg aching slightly as he climbed the stairs. His thoughts turned to the long ride home without his tests completed. A part of him thought it would be good to be home so soon. Another part wondered if he would ever feel Talona's touch as deeply as he had these past days if he returned to the safety of the temple. Mostly he just wondered why he was following an outlander witch to the roof.

            Anya and Rosjevo made it all the way to the roof alone and there waited for the others. Although the silence between them was not long, its weight made it almost intolerable.
            "I know you lie," Anya finally stated flatly.
            He watched her intently, saying nothing. The noises of the camp settling in for the night sounded very far away, and even the wind, moving briskly across that high, lonely rooftop, felt muted by Anya's gravity, her unbreakable demeanor. There was no question of waiting the statement out. Rosjevo inhaled the brisk night air. "Thank you for not mentioning it earlier," he said finally. "Your friend the-"
            But at that moment the witch reappeared, with the Talontar in tow. He immediately subsided.

            Watching the outlander witch and Atjets Krel disappear back up the stairwell, Aksana heaved a sigh, blew her hair out of her eyes and started up the stairs again.
            Listening to the clatter of footsteps ahead of her, she didn't worry too much about masking her own steps. Coming to the trapdoor leading to the roof, Aksana paused just out of sight and listened to the murmur of voices drifting down.
            Spielos arrived at the top of the steps a few steps behind Aksana. He did not move any further; instead he settled in near the stairs, keeping watch for anyone who may have followed him. Silently, he cursed himself for leaving his pack and belongings behind as he tried to hear the voices drifting down from the roof. If anybody took anything he was going to have to become... indecorous. Without really thinking about it, he refocused his attention to listen for noises coming up the stairs; perhaps if somebody messed with his stuff the drum would give them away.
            Very softly, he whispered, "Why don't you just go up?"

            Breathing heavily, and with her hands feeling fresh stabs of agony at each heartbeat, Rhia stopped once she was standing in the open night air, trying to recover, and hoping Atjets Krel would follow her through the door. Once she had her voice back, and had determined that everyone who was planning to participate had arrived, Rhia closed the door and motioned everyone to the far end of the roof, keeping her eyes open for rats. Sure enough, one lurked by the inner ring of the reservoir, cheekily watching the intruders with beady eyes.
            “All of you, please, make sure there are no rats near us. If you see one, chase it off, or throw it over the side. The Lord’s keep is not a ship at sea, and should be free of such pests.” Krel glanced around for rats, but quickly returned a firm gaze upon the witch. His skin itched more fiercely. He had rarely dealt with outlanders, and never one who was reported to be witch. She had made an oath to serve, but he still felt uneasy. He made a quick ward against evil; whether against the rats or Rhia, either way it could not hurt. At least he thought not... but a rat scurried under his robes and bit his ankle a moment later. Rosjevo spotted a few others that scrambled away when approached, but in the end all the rats were caught and disposed of.
            “Now, the real reason I was concerned about rats,” Rhia began, after the area was secured rat-free, “is that I am afraid they may be spies for our enemies - rats are easily made servants of mages, for good or ill.” She met Anya’s eyes, sighed, and re-focused.
            “If we are to crush these bandits, and the elf with them, we will need to convince the Holy Masters to delay their leaving the keep, or at least convince them to let me and an Atjets or two stay behind. And a few soldiers.” She looked around at the impromptu battle group and sighed.
            “The only idea I have is to go to Master Valery and tell him of Emistil, and of these forest creatures, and try to convince him that it would better serve the church to help us hunt them down. If we don’t, when the Masters leave, their soldiers will go with them. Worse, they will require me to accompany them as well, which leaves the keep doubly vulnerable to the bandits and any infernal allies they may have.” She shrugged. “Does anyone have any better ideas?”
            Krel glanced at the hirespear, Rosjevo. "I had thought that some of the men vere planned to stay to hold the keep. If the Lord vas killed. I do not know if some vill still remain under the Lord's command. The captain vould know vhat is planned."
            Rosjevo nodded in the darkness. "That is true, Atjets."
            Krel paused for a moment. "The holy vons had brought us here to test the chosen candidates. I do not know vhat has changed their minds. Lady Alexana might know vhy they are leaving. I vas not avare of this until she spoke of it."
            "The Lord has been restored," Rosjevo reasoned, "and the evil driven into hiding. Perhaps this problem, it is no longer thought vorthy enough for Bane's attention by the Holy Masters. In that case, I vould agree that somevon should approach them - Gods and Holy Masters both - and make the case for staying.
            "And yet," he added coolly, "I cannot help but think that it might be better for you to go, Atjets, than for the Maga, since she is a stranger here, and has her own motives for remaining behind at Ezeroh. That is, if you even vish to be involved." Rosjevo had not forgotten the healer's stated absence of compulsion to come out on Tjesnitjérs' side earlier in the chapel; nor his seeming lack of care before the guard. He eyed Rhia and the newly-appointed Warden. "In any case, you vomen vill not be able to plan better until you know who is on your side."
            Rhia nodded. "Atjets, you are our best hope. Perhaps the hunting of Emistil, his magic and these demonic creatures could serve as a replacement for this test you mentioned? Did not Manakja Alexana suggest that the Church would consider these to be enemies?"
            Anya had remained quiet and listened up to then. She felt her revenge slipping away her as others became involved in the hunt. Of course, she could understand it was sounder to go after the bandits in a group, but she did not like it. She didn't want to deal with it now, though.
            "The creatures Avery, Cyravel, Durn and I battled in the forest, they were unnatural abominations." She glanced at Rosjevo as she spoke. "Veapons vere useless against them, but they feared fire, vhich is the only vay ve survived. But ve did not kill them, and they roam the Forest around Ezeroh still. The Church might see them as an issue fit for them, moreso than the bandits. They might be inclined to leave behind Atjets Krel, the scarred voman, Aksana, and the blond foreigner, who have faced similar creatures."
            Krel glanced from Rosjevo and frowned at Rhia. He had aided the outlander witch once already. Was Talona testing his resolve to avoid corruption by this one? But the faithful, the villagers, and others would be at risk as long as this demon walked the Forest. He slowly shook his head. "Candidates do not choose the manner of the testing. It comes as the Gods' vill." He paused, pondering recent events. He looked down, glancing around quickly to see if any more of the vermin lingered. He had the feeling there were more, but saw none. He looked at Rhia. "Petition for you to be released from your duty to the Church is not something I can do. You are a servant of this Lord. If he desires your service in this matter, he or the Lady must petition to delay your service to the Church. I do not know why the masters have chosen to leave, so I do not know if they can be persuaded. Lady Alexana might know more. Since you are her servants, then perhaps you should speak vith her before any petition is placed before the most holy vons."
            Rosjevo grunted. "The Tjesnitjérs, they vill already have made their personal petitions," he said. "They could not be pleased to see their new Maga leaving, any more than she herself is. Not vith their enemies surviving, and close. The Lady, she gave voice to her discouragement in the chamber. Is this the hour vhen she vould happily leave her uncle's side - for Melvaunt?" He shook his head. "That cannot be so. Atjets, if you do not feel your own Lady calling you to aid us, then by all means, you must be allowed to go and take your rest for the night, and trouble your thoughts no longer vith these matters. But the Lord, his vill is extended greatly as it is, and his neice is resigned to leaving. You are the only person left whose vord might carry special veight. If you can not speak on their behalf, I should not put hope in anything else."
            Krel's tired shoulders straightened slightly as he gazed intently at Rosjevo in the darkness. He scarred face became especially stern, as if he might rebuke the sellspear for his comments. Instead his gaze shifted briefly to Rhia and Anya, before gazing out into the night sky as he seemed to puzzle over situation.
            For a moment, the healer seemed to be speaking to himself. "The Great Mother lends strength to Her Chosen so that they may serve and protect the people. That they may strike down the dark powers vhich roam the land."
            Krel turned back to the others. "Come morning, I vill ask to speak vith the masters. Perhaps they vill allow some to stay and aid in the search for these enemies. I vill ask to be von of those." He looked at Rhia intently. "Since it is your vish, I vill ask that you serve the people by tracking these dangerous enemies. My vord, I do not know that it vill sway the most holy vons. If they do not agree, then ve shall leave and the Lord Tjesnitjérs vill have to rely on others."
            As nobody seemed to want to add anything, Anya reasoned the planning was done.
            "Then that is vhat vill be done," she said firmly. "Atjets, do you vish for me to accompany you in the morning to explain my encounter vith the demons?"
            Krel nodded slightly. "It might be practical to have you there in case more information is reqvired."
            "Vhen it comes time for your meeting, ve should make some attempt to seperate the Sharran Manakja," Rosjevo said abruptly. When they looked at him, he shrugged. "She vill not go along vith it, especially if it means leaving the vitch behind. A simple distraction should vork. I have an idea on how to do it, but it vill require the use of an outsider - a gypsy camp-follower who told me a lie today. Also I could use the help of your man, Heimdall, in the morning. Unless he vas killed in the attack..."
            At Rosjevo's mention of a gypsy, Aksana turned to look at Spielos where he had stationed himself below her. She wondered what lie the sellspear referred to.
            Krel frowned deeply. "Tread carefully. The vord of the masters is the vord of the Gods themselves. I vill try to approach Holy Mistress Ludmila of my own order if I can. The Holy Mistress suggested that they might need to find me a stronger test. Perhaps this vill provide them vith von." A healer from the city, had no comment on how to find the bandits in the forest.
            Rosjevo nodded. "The attack plan vill depend entirely on how many troops are available to you," he said, "and on vhatever information you have to share concerning the bandits and their friend the dhaeraow. Also the veather vill play some part. It is absolutely important that the Maga be allowed to stay, even if the Nanther men do not. She is the surest edge ve have."
            Again he turned to Anya. "Our greatest strength vill be in numbers, since the forest-things cannot attack more than a few folk at a time. If they are afraid of light, then the villagers need only carry torches. There is no point in going quietly or in the dark. Scouts on foot are easy targets, and there are probably vorse things than lunatics in these voods. Yes, ve have heard of the black egrets of Minarezeroh in Melvaunt. The reputation of this country is very evil."
            Anya shook her head at Rosjevo's plan. It struck her as bad in many ways, not least of which would be denying her revenge.
            "A large group, like Captain Garsha used today, makes too much noise, and the prey, it is easy for it to hide or set an ambush," she stated matter-of-factly. "No, as Lord Tjesnitjérs' varden, it is my duty to find the bandit camp and the creatures' lair. A large group, it vill hamper my tracking. Ve need a small, strong group. Vonce ve find them, ve can make a plan of assault."
            She took a deep breath, as if what she wanted to say next was difficult to say. "And ve should vait two days at least before going into the voods. My hands… they… they need to heal more, and you cannot move vithout me. I am the only von capable of tracking our enemies."
            Rhia felt a sympathetic throb in her own palms, and she understood Anya’s desire to wait, but she could not agree. She was sure the Holy Masters would not allow such a delay. She opened her mouth to object, but saw Anya wasn’t finished.
            Anya looked up at the darkened sky. "It is late. There is no use discussing this further vithout knoving how the Holy Ones vill answer Krel's reqvest. Let us get some sleep and meet in the chapel on the morrow, at midday." She turned to Krel. "Atjets, ve can meet after you have broken your fast, then see the Holy Ones."

            Rhia waited until the rest had left the rooftop, then stepped in close to the new Warden.
            “Anya, I know it is late, and we’re both tired, but I think we need some time to speak.”
            Anya nodded and stayed behind. She had wanted to speak privately with Rhia for a while, and she had recognized that they might not get such an opportunity again. When the others had disappeared down the stairs, Anya checked to make sure none had stayed behind to eavesdrop, then closed the door and stood on it, sighing loudly. She tried unsuccessfully to rub away the tiredness from her eyes. "Vhy did you come to the Moonsea, Rhia?" Anya asked, "Is it all that you had hoped it vould be?"
            Rhia was a bit taken aback, and she sighed as she thought the question (and its answer) through.
            “I don’t know.” That was a placeholder, and both women knew it. Rhia extended the wait a bit more as she found a place to sit.
            “I came seeking Jarrow, and through him, Yunta. I had hoped one or both of them would teach me more of the Art. I knew the land here would be different from my home. I knew it would be dangerous, but I’d been hunting pirates for more than a year, and I thought I could handle anything a bunch of land-lubbers might throw at me.” Rhia sighed again. It seemed she’d been doing that a lot lately.
            “I was wrong, Anya. I was so very, very wrong. I’ve nearly gotten myself killed more times in the past tenday than I think I have in my entire life. And now I’m sworn to serve a House in a land where even those who are supposed to be my allies seem to prefer it if I were burned at the stake.” She looked up from her feet and met Anya’s eyes; the tears forming in her own were obvious.
            “I know I’m supposed to be here. I know at least one god is watching over me - has a plan for me, but I don’t see how I’m going to get it done.”

            Their confabulation finished with, Rosjevo followed the others back down into the Keep. He had few words of fond parting reserved for the women, but he did ask the blessing of the Atjets, and thanked him for extending his aid so far into the evening's longer hours.
            No one seemed to know what had become of Aksana, and it was some time before he found her, now once more languishing in the armory with Heimdall. This came as a considerable surprise, as Rosjevo would surely have pleaded for his inclusion in the meeting, had he known Alexana's lieutenant was so near and able. Despite the lingering odor of liquor in the chamber, there was an air of strength, and utility, about the sleeping half-elf that Rosjevo liked and approved of, and it was with great reluctance he did not rouse the man from his sleep.
            "It is over for today," he said quietly to Aksana, by way of explanation, "but there vill be much more to do in the morning, and I could use your help again, if you are villing." He could not help eying Heimdall again, his fingers twitching. "I see you have been not been idle. Did he introduce himself? Are you now acquainted?"
            Aksana glanced over at Heimdall. "He is companion of the outlander vitch. His name is Heimdall." She indicated her now empty cup. "Ve had drinks together to pass the time." She stood and faced Rosjevo. "How did your meeting vith the Lord go? Did they heed your varning?"
            "Yes and no," Rosjevo said, still looking at the sleeping warrior. He looked extremely tired. "The traitor vas here, but that voman you looked after vants to kill him herself, and neither she nor the vitch vould speak of him. They vere just interested enough to listen, I suppose. It remains to be seen vhether anything can, or shall, be done to improve our own fortunes. But come! Let us leave Heimdall to his rest, and take our own. I have kept you up later than I should, and ve vill have such need of strength as ve possess."
            On the way down the stairway, he continued to quietly fill her in on the details. "The Manakja, she is convinced she shall be sent avay, along vith the rest of the clergy, since the situation here - at least as they understand it - is no longer perilous enough to bother vith. Our friend the young Atjets has agreed to put in a vord vith them but, unless there is something sterner in his nature than I have perceived, it vill doubtless take an act of Bane Himself to guarantee a favorable outcome. I vould pray for His intercession, you know, vere my credit less extended. I have risked too much today - far more than I should have. That business vith the Bhaalyn... Gods."
            Night had fallen. They were the last across the drawbridge, but Rosjevo picked an easy path across the sodden turf, and they were soon moving among the campfires of the mercenaries. His voice was now hardly more than a whisper. "I should be glad they did not toss me into the dungeon. But nothing is really changed. In the morning I must devise some method of helping the Talontar. I have an idea and could use your assistance, but it is risky, and you may have plans of your own." He looked sideways at her, and his expression left little doubt that he was hoping to whet her appetite.
            Aksana raised her eyebrows in interest. "Vhat plan have you to svay things in your favor?"
            Rosjevo exhaled deeply, his face drawn and obscured by the faint and shifting firelight. "It is not easy to say this, you must understand. I am not an irreligious man, nor an enemy of the Church," he whispered, shooting her a look that was either an appeal or a challenge. "I have no vish to lie to the clergy, none vhatsoever - not vhen a piece of the truth vill ably serve. And in any case a lie vould be easily detected.
            "A little vhile after this hireling army arrived," he said uneasily, "you vill remember how the Maga, she vas brought down by the gypsy to the camp, and soon aroused the ire of a few outspoken members of the Faith. Notable mong these vas a young Sharran Manakja who showed special interest in questioning both Ravenmane and the Maga; you vill remember them all from the Great Hall this afternoon. I vas among the men present vhen this Manakja and the little Atjets very nearly came to combat, arguing over possession of Ravenmane. You vere there too; you tried to calm her, I remember. Anyvon who vitnessed that exchange could clearly see that the Atjets vould never make himself a ready friend to the Sharran, nor she to him."
            Finally they approached the place where Raisa was kept. Rosjevo scrubbed his beard with four pale fingers, his dark eyes roaming across the list. "That presents us vith a problem. If the Atjets makes petition vith the Holy Masters, he vill have a difficult enough case to make vithout also having to deal vith an unfriendly Manakja's criticisms. It no longer matters who started the argument, or how, or vhy. She must not be allowed to undermine our efforts here, or to accuse the foreigners of interference in Church matters. She must be removed from the decision-making process, if only temporarily. That is vhere ve come in."
            Aksana kept her face carefully empty as Rosjevo spoke. She nodded her head as if deep in thought. "It is a very risky thing of vhich you speak. Vhat is it you vant us to do?"
            "Nothing too risky," he assured her, smiling around a mouthful of pottage. Some of it had gathered in his patchy brown beard. "Ve are talking about a Sharran Manakja here, not some silly Vanka who vill never spot a trap. Speaking of vhich, I vant you to think back to that contest yesterday. The story contest. Remember vhen the gypsy took his turn, and said some nonsense about a fairy-queen and a river of blood? That vas a strange decision, to tell that story just then. I could never guess vhat prompted it.
            "Now," Rosjevo shifted, leaning in to whisper conspiratorially. "The half-elf upstairs, he is the Lady Alexana's lieutenant. He commanded the party that reclaimed Ezeroh Keep and Lord Tjesnitjers. He is a foreigner, too, from the very distant vest, far beyond the Dalelands. Did you know that? The elves have a secret kingdom there, or so they say, ruled by a Queen who travels vherever she vills. This Heimdall, he is the offspring of an elf and a man, just like the gypsy's story recounted. The gypsy, meanvhile, has come to this country vith nothing but a drum on his back and a mad story about elves kidnapping men to breed vith them. Vhy? Vhy has he come here, so far from home? I have never heard of any of the vild places he shouts about. Have you?
            "There is nothing between the two men, of course - nothing to connect them, unless they met some place in Melvaunt. But the coincidence, it is strange enough to notice. Vhy did Heimdall bring two elves vith him vhen he came to Ezeroh? Both have disappeared into the Forest. The creature I hunt vas vonce an elf, too, and retains the shape of von. Vhy all these elves and talk about elves? Here of all places, on the very edge of novhere?
            "Vhat I think you ought to do," he concluded, "is to call a few of these curiosities to the attention of the Sharrans. You met Heimdall and spoke to him; you vitnessed the gypsy's story; you have been close enough to Ravenmane to arouse her interest. No lies necessary. There is no elvish plot here, obviously, but even the possibility of von vould likely interest that vatchful Manakja enough to follow a false trail for an hour or two. If ve time it just right, the Atjets can make his petition unchallenged and unmolested. So no more criticism. No more suspicion. The Holy Masters are convinced. The Church and the vitch stay and defeat the bandits for us. And you and I, vell... ve survive long enough to collect our pay and go home. An arrangement to suit everybody, yes?"
            All of his casual talk of demons made chills run down Aksana's spine. This hiresword acts more like an outlander, she thought to herself. She turned to Raisa and began picking stray bits of grass out of her mane to cover her nervous fidgeting. "It is a cruel thing you do to the gypsy," she said not looking up, "but if you think it vill save our lives, I vill do it." A stab of guilt pinched at her chest. She could only hope that after what he heard last night Spielos would know who it was that had really thrown him to the wolves. "Vhen do you vish me to attempt this... deception?"
            "It depends," Rosjevo answered, tossing the rest of his late dinner into the grass. He wiped his face again. "The Holy Masters, they may not return to the Keep at all, in vhich case ve must contrive you some excuse for visiting the village vith the Atjets. Perhaps he can take you as his guard. I should go along, just to make sure things go as planned, but there are other things to see to, to arrange beforehand. I vill... varn the gypsy and the half-elf, if I can. And find out vhat plans the Nanther officers are making, in case they are making the wrong vons. The meeting tomorrow must be a productive von, since no more time can be afforded.
            "Now I am going to sleep, unless there is anything else you vish to know. Remember: you need not risk too much vith the Manakja, and for Bane's sake, child, tell her no outright lies. Say you have heard a rumor in the camp. I vill spread von, to make it legitimate. Keep the story vague - that should be no problem, eh? Since it is vague enough already. But also keep it by the length of your arm. Do not claim the gypsy or the half-elf as men you know, unless directly asked; and if you are asked, vell... say you met them both by chance. That also is the truth, yes?
            "Do not feel bad about playing this trick on them, Aksana. It vill be over vithin an hour, and vill not amount to anything. They do not know each other. The gypsy has not been invited to stay in the Keep vith the other outlanders. He is not involved vith any Tjesnitjers plot, any more than you are, or I."

The Forest, Mirtul 19

            Thaurlann smiled weakly at the sight of cookfires, at the same time both elated and depressed. "See, I told you," he told the horse, who continued to drink despite the human's incessant noise. "You said we wouldn't make it through, and yet we did."
            As the daylight rose, he could see more clearly the patches in Lightning's skin where the creatures had attached themselves during the night. His vision moved down to his own body, which was rife with bramble-scratches and burs. He silently wished that the trickle of water were large enough to accommodate a full bathing. Be grateful for what you have, he reminded himself.
            He knelt down carefully on both knees next to the horse, extending his arms upward. "Thank you, mighty Bane, for bringing us through the forest safely," he said. He turned his head down and, more greedily than he would have liked, began scooping up the water into his mouth. After they had both drunk their fill, Thaurlann turned his attention back to the plumes of smoke. He gave Lightning a comforting pat before heading back into the forest.
            The walk that had seemed simple, if not easy, when he was well-rested became strength-sappingly difficult now that he and his mount were tired and hungry. The silence of the forest pressed in on him despite the creak of wood and rustling new leaves, a blanket held down by the weight of the fever-grey sky. Lightning walked only grudgingly, balking outright at fallen logs and runnels carved into the earth, and Thaurlann was forced to find a way around. The ground was cold, sticky mud that chilled his feet and slid treacherously under his boots, and brambles seemed to throw their thorny branches out to block his path; he was glad of his gloves for more than their warmth. Worst of all, the trees blocked his view of the sky, forcing him to either stop and climb a tree every now and then to check his progress, or push on in what he thought was the right direction... and his limbs seemed leaden when he considered climbing.
            The long, slow walk was punctuated with the occasional calls of wolves, but Bane seemed to be holding his hand over them, for none seemed especially close. Thaurlann was beginning to think he would escape the Forest without running into trouble when he came on huge, heavy hoofprints in the soft earth. It was unquestionably the mark of a strider, a fine warhorse only a noble would own.
            He knelt closer to examined the prints. The horse had clearly been shod, and furrows in the ground and weeds suggested it was as tired as Thaurlann and Lightning. The tracks didn't seem to belong to one of the soldiers; as far as he could remember, he hadn't seen anyone riding a large mount like this. Even if it did belong to a soldier - or one of the villagers - it seemed doubtful to him that any sane person would be riding out here alone. That left one likely possibility: one of the bandits that had recently been driven out from the Keep. The tracks seemed to be heading in a similar direction.
            "We should wait until we get back to the camp, then warn the soldiers," he said. "By then, it might be too late, though. The trail will grow cold quickly." He sighed deeply. "We are in no condition to go after them, especially in your condition." He looked at Lightning. "Alone, I at least have a chance to catch up; and it definitely isn't a Thing."
            He led Lightning back a few yards from the trail, then tied him to a tree. He pulled out the last of the supplies - some horse feed - and left the bag open on the ground nearby. "I promise I will return," he whispered softly to the horse. Not having eaten since the day before, Lightning was ravenous. Ignoring Thaurlann, he went right to the bag and started to eat.
            Burdened now only by his own injuries, Thaurlann quickly pursued the mystery guest.

Ezeroh Keep, Mirtul 19

            In the morning the rain of the night before had given way to a bright grey sky and a brisk wind that blew away all traces of the fog. Sergeant Stammel was up at dawn, cursing and kicking the sellspears awake, setting them to tasks... and pulling aside those who would take the long march back into the Forest. There was much grumbling and cursing - much more than there would have been if all the fighters were soldiers. Stammel knew it, and stalked back and forth, glaring at the ones who complained too loudly.
            Rosjevo was doing his best to brush the damp from his blanket, and from the extra clothing he had donned before retiring. The black mare Gráppa stood tethered in line beside Aksana's own animal, who was looking somewhat better now in the bleak light of morning; he had moved them together for convenience.
            The sellsword was in better spirits today, despite Stammel's bellowing, now that it appeared some men would be made to stay and fight. Perhaps there would be no need at all for villagers or priests, though he still feared losing the Lord's pet witch to the Holy Masters, and wondered how much effort Krel could risk expending on their behalf.
            And then there was Aksana. Rosjevo had looked curiously at her when she returned to their campsite from the privy; there was something unreadable in her expression that gave him pause. But in the end he supposed he was only unsure of her ability to cope with such a perilous place as the old Forest, which looked if anything less appealing for the wind in its turning branches. He was sure the human could become a liability, if Emistil or his cronies ever faced them; after all, Ravenmane was, at least by reputation, extremely fit for such exercises - and look at what had happened to her.
            Aksana stretched out the kinks plaguing her from sleeping on the ground with nothing but a thick blanket. She thought longingly of her warm bed back in Melvaunt. Continuing to do her morning stretches she glanced up at Rosjevo. "Yes, there is no telling vhat vill come today." Brushing a few stray pieces of grass out of her hair she followed Rosjevo towards the keep. As they passed through the camp she looked around for Spielos.

            Not very far away, Stammel woke Spielos with a gentle boot. "Let's have some music to calm these idiots down," he said gruffly, but Spielos didn't miss the way his eyes searched the camp. He could see the way some of the sellspears skulked about, gathering in knots here and there; apparently they weren't completely happy to be heading back into the Forest without so much as a day of rest.
            "Make it happy music," Stammel advised, moving off to shout at idle sellspears.
            Spielos was surprised at his awakening, as he was often up with the first ray's of the sun. The weather in this accursed place makes it difficult to get going, Spielos mused. "As does the lack of good food," he muttered to himself as an afterthought. He spent a few moments stretching and limbering his muscles with a few flips and tumbles, going over the events of the previous night again and again in his mind. He was missing something, he was sure of it.
            Knowing there was nothing to be done for it, he gathered up his pack and gear and set about walking among the sell swords, singing merry songs. As always, though his mind may have been elsewhere, his heart was in the music, and his rich voice carried clearly through the camp. He sang simple songs of brave soldiers overcoming the odds to win in battle. He spun tales of glory and treasure. He sang of honor and duty, and in all of the songs the soldiers lived, won and came back richer and famous for their battles.
            After a time, Spielos moved by himself towards the feasthall behind the last of the sellspears. He needed to unwind and clear his head, and he knew just how to do it. As he walked, he pulled out his small drum. Heedless of what was going on around him and who was listening, he began to beat a soft rhythm with his fingers and sing in almost a whisper:
"Oh, Westgate's a fine town, with ships in the bay,
And I wish in my heart it was there I was today.
I wish in my heart I was far away from here,
Sitting in a tavern and having a beer.

For it's home, dearie, home, it's home I want to be,
And it's home, dearie, home, across the rolling sea,
Oh, the oak and the ash and the old elm tree,
They're all a-growin' green in my own country,
For it's home, dearie, home, it's home I want to be!

Oh, I long for the comforts found so far away,
but I followed my sore feet and now here I must stay.
Sure, no lady or lord or captain rule me,
for I follow the call of song and story!

But it's home, dearie, home, it's home I want to be,
And it's home, dearie, home, across the rolling sea,
Oh, the oak and the ash and the old elm tree,
They're all a-growin' green in my own country,
And it's home, dearie, home, it's home I want to be!"

            It wasn't long before some of the sellspears caught what he was singing. Spielos looked around as he finished his song. It was obvious to him he'd made a mistake. Some trailed after him, calling for another song, and others knotted together in larger groups, their grumbling louder and less concealed.
            Time to put an end to this before it gets worse, he thought.
            "Hark and listen well!" he bellowed to the soldiers, casting his eye towards the larger groups of malcontents. "All morning long, I've sung tales of brave warriors, and all morning long you've listened. I know you have heard me! Many of you even sang along."
            "And yet at the first mention of home, the first thought of easy living, many of you start to complain like little boys!" Spielos went on, his cadence and tone affording no chance of interruption, "What kind of soldiers are you? Have you no mind to your duty?"
            The dark muttering that had previously been diffuse was suddenly focused on him. Several sellspears were already circling him with stormy faces, and the others were right behind them. "Ahhh," Spielos lamented, slumping his posture, looking very dejected, "what happened to the men who walked through the forest unafraid just days ago? What happened to the iron in their spine?" The warriors prowling about him hesitated, anger turning to indignance as they glanced about, some protesting loudly, trying to see if anyone was giving them the fish-eye.
            "Where are those men now?" Spielos asked again, standing up straight and projecting his voice far out over the sellspears, letting it ring from the keep's walls. "I know where to find them, and I'll sing a song to tell you!"
            At once he began to sing,
"How stands the glass around?
For shame you take no care, my boys,
How stands the glass around?
Let wine and mirth abound;
The trumpet sound,
The colors they do fly my boys;
To fight, kill or wound;
As you would be found,
Contented with hard fare, my boys
On the cold ground.

O why, soldiers why?
O why should we be melancholy boys,
O why soldiers why?
Whose business is to die;
What? Sighing? Fye!
Drink on, drown fear, be jolly boys;
It's he, you or I, wet, hot, cold or dry;
We're always bound to follow boys,
And scorn to fly.

It's but vain;
I mean not to upbraid you boys,
It's but vain;
For a soldier to complain;
Should the next campaign,
Send us to Myrkul, my boys;
We're free from pain, my boys
But should we all remain,
A bottle and hot meal
Cures all again."

            "Fear not, my friends! We are the biggest, meanest bunch of fighting men in these parts, and those that would oppose us should be afraid!" Spielos bellowed to the crowd as he finished his song. Doubt in his abilities never even crossed his mind.
            The sellspears roared approval, more than one brandishing a spear or jagged dagger. Their animosity (and, at least for a time, their budding mutiny) forgotten, they called for more songs and stories, passing drinking-skins about and clapping Spielos on the back so hard that his bones felt ready to pop out. Inconstant and unpredictable they were, but for the time being Spielos had tamed them.
            Spielos smiled from ear to ear, pleased that his performance had the effect he was trying for. He accepted one of the skins that was thrust at him and drank some of the sour wine; in his elated state, it tasted like nectar.
            After the crowd had calmed down to an acceptable level, Spielos continued to sing and tell stories. He sang songs of ale and fighting and brave men, a jaunty drinking song and a rolling shanty. He regaled the sellspears with mocking stories of the creatures in the woods. Often they would ask Spielos to tell them more fairy tales, stamping their feet in approval when the fairies were outsmarted or frightened off. He told of a very funny and biting story regarding an incompetent band of bandits, whose foolish adventures could not possibly scare anyone. The pantomime he did of their attempts to rob someone on the road drew laughter so strong from the crowd that many of them were wiping tears from their eyes and holding their sides when he was done.
            There he paused to get something to eat, despite the protests from the soldiers, though he promised them more tales when he had finished eating.

            The horse was as huge as its tracks had suggested, heavy-muscled and fifteen hands high at least. It pressed its barding and saddlebags into the tall grass that completely failed to hide it or the scars on its black hide - but in place of a saddle, a wolf's pelt lay over its back. What was more, an unstrung bow was lashed to its side, and a quiver hung from around its neck, but it had neither reins nor bit.
            Its nostrils flared, and it swiveled its head to watch Thaurlann, shifting in the dewey meadow grass. Dark-clotted wounds showed along its side, neck and belly as well as cutting across its long muzzle, and dew gleamed on its dark coat.
            "Well, whether a bandit's horse or not, you don't deserve to continue in such a condition," he said. "Not to worry; I'll take care of you." He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and slowly moved forward.
            The horse watched him approach with its ears laid back, but when Thaurlann was a stone's throw away and still hadn't reached for a weapon, it snorted, laboriously getting to its feet. As it rose, its neck seemed to melt and mold itself into a new shape, a trick of the eye that the mind couldn't quite believe. Where the neck had been, a human torso rose, black with the same dark hide of the horse and with the same streaking of old scars and new wounds. Its chinless face was inhuman; a wide nose rose up smoothly into a receding forehead, where the horse's ears remained. When it spoke, its voice was oddly slurred; Thaurlann had to strain to understand it.
            "You no care I, Man. I care I. Why you trees, Man? You no careful, you-" It groped for a word, scrubbing at the stiff, short-clipped hair that sprang from its forehead and disappearing under the decrepit wolf-hide tied about its throat, making its back look oddly ridged. "-kill. I say Mans hunter kill. No listen. Huh." It blew out its lips, a sound Thaurlann would have expected more from Lightning than this creature's humanlike head. It regarded him with liquid black eyes as it groped for words.
            Even though the words made sense, the situation utterly dumbfounded Thaurlann. For a moment, he thought perhaps the Forest Things had killed him, and the last several hours had been some bizarre, nightmarish journey to the afterlife.
            "You try care I; I care you. You no trees. See I?" It pointed at a largish gash in its hide, stepping forward to be sure that Thaurlann saw it. "I kill hunters, hunters kill I. No kill you. No trees you, no kill you."
            Finally Thaurlann shook off his stupor and addressed the horse-man. "No, I'm not a hunter. Not hunter." He emphasized by pointing at himself while shaking his head. He struggled at piecing together the other parts of what the horse-man had said. "I don't think I can help much with your wounds, but I have some horse feed back there," he pointed, "if you can eat that." He turned to walk back towards where he had left Lightning, then thought about the last thing the horse-man had said; it might have been a warning to leave the forest. He stopped in his tracks and turned back to face it.
            "I just need to go back and get my horse, and I'll be on your way. I mean you no harm." He waited for the horse-man's response, maintaining a non-threatening stance.
            The horse-man nickered and tossed his head in frustration, his hooves leaving deep dents as it shifted its considerable weight. "No you hunter, Man-hunters. Trees!" It gestured at the surroundings with its head, then repeated the gesture with its arms. Its 'fingers' were hard-tipped, encased in thick, dark nails. "You go no trees careful, no you kill... hurt much." Blowing a little from its efforts, the thing sank back down into the grass and weeds. Now that it had moved, Thaurlann could see the saddlebags that its bulk had hidden from view before.
            "I no go no trees. You now go, you safe. Say you Mans, much hunters-" He made a strange, modulated whinny, "-go now. No safe much now. Much hunters now, trees." Its hide shivered as though shaking off flies, and for a moment it stared past Thaurlann, lost in its thoughts. Then it bent over and scooped up a handful of mud, plastering it against the large gash in its side.
            Thaurlann was equally frustrated, though he gave no outward signs. He tried to maintain his calm concentration on the slurry speech but kept getting lost by the double negatives. It didn't help that Damaran wasn't his own native tongue.
            Perhaps the "much hunters" are the bandits? he wondered. He scratched at his chin, which was finally showing some signs of stubble after four days of travel.
            "Do you know where these hunters come from?" Thaurlann asked the creature. "I come with -" He paused for a moment, wondering if telling it about the group of soldiers would just further spook it. "I come with the mission of finding them and bringing them to justice. But as you see, I am hurt and need to rest before I go more. Can you help me find the band - hunters? Can I help you in return?" He made broad gestures with each sentence, occasionally sending a shot of pain up his arm as he twisted the gash in just the wrong way.
            Wiping its hands on its withers in an oddly human gesture, the horse-man cocked an ear at him. "Hunt you hunters? Safe no now. Hunters kill you, I." It stretched toward him, huge nostrils flaring. "Help you I...?" Getting to its feet once more, it watched him for a long moment, then turned, bending its forelegs to pick up the dirty saddlebags.
            "You say yes you hunt hunters. I say yes I hunt hunters. I say, I old say, I old old... much, much old say yes." The creature loomed before him, its tone serious. "Hunters now kill I, kill you." It nodded in different directions as it spoke. "Hunters no kill I, you." It clapped a hard, heavy hand onto his shoulder, sending a jolt of pain through his left arm. "Yes? Say?"
            Thaurlann nodded in agreement. "Yes." He tried to lift his own arm to the horse-man's shoulder in a reciprocal gesture, stretching it to its limit. "I am Thaurlann," he said, thumping his chest in a gesture he must have picked up from someone else on this journey, it seemed so unnatural to him. "You?" He pointed at the horse-man's own chest, preparing to repeat for emphasis if the creature didn't pick up the question's meaning, but it proved unnecessary.
            "Koomdawr," it told him, a name that sounded more like a horse's sneeze. It raised its head high, nostrils flaring and ears twisting this way and that.
            Thaurlann realized he had just made an alliance with this creature. He fully intended to live up to any oath that he had made, but he had also made an oath to the mercenary group. He had a feeling that if he brought back this preternatural creature, more than one soldier would reach for a spear rather than offer a greeting.
            Despite the nagging feeling to get back to the keep, he looked up at the patch of clouds that hid the sun and realized that any attempt to track the bandits had likely already left for the day. For the first time since the previous evening, he actually felt safe in the watch of this strange creature.
            "Before we do anything, though, I need to eat" - he motioned to his mouth - "and rest." - he mimicked leaning on his hands.
            "No," Koomdawr said, stringing its bow. It waved its free hand back the way they had come. "Hunters now," it coughed, then gestured off that path at an angle. It was harder to understand its speech when it mumbled so quietly. "Go you horse! Now! Go go!"
            Thaurlann jumped as if Captain Garsha himself had given him the order. He rushed back towards Lightning, ignoring for the moment the hunger pains. Koomdawr limped after him, the thud of its hooves surprisingly quiet.

            Krel awoke slowly from his sleep. He had collapsed like a rock in the chapel, where the servant child had indicated he could spend the night in the keep. Willpower alone had kept the small healer going over the past couple of days, and his body cared not where it would spend the night, just as long as it did not have to move.
            He was troubled with what he had to do this morning. It was no small event to approach the High Masters and ask a favor of them, not only for himself, but for the outlander witch. Krel spent the early morning in prayer that Talona would guide him to the right path.
            He considered his upcoming meeting with the most holy one carefully. Certainly he had dreamed of becoming a Chosen, but that dream had always seemed far removed. Few were ever Chosen, and he had been satisfied to accept what ever role he was given by his Goddess. Now events were beyond anything which the young healer could have foreseen. Talona had been answering his prayers with unexpected strength. Her hand had guided him to this place and he had already been blessed with an unexpected compliment from one of the most holy ones. Now he was seeking a meeting to beg a favor, to be given a dangerous quest at the side of the outlander witch. He offered up silent thanks to his beloved Goddess and begged for the strength to see Her will done through these interesting days.
            At the edges of the room, rats watched him with beady black eyes.
            Rhia awoke in the now-familiar confines of the Keep hall, where she had slept the night before “the Aliz incident” and where Heimdall lay snoring. Her mind was again in turmoil. She was still processing last night’s conversation with Anya, and it wasn’t mixing well with her anxiety over the Holy Masters’ potential decision today. In an effort to calm her mind, Rhia began her morning ritual of meditation and study. She traced over the familiar threads of the Weave in her mind, reviewing the Weave patterns she had committed to memory what seemed like ages ago, trying to rehearse the movements and words she would have to repeat to perform the Weaving, but the bandages on her hands kept getting in the way of the motions she needed to perform.
            Eventually, in frustration, she pulled the things from her hands. Slowly, cautiously, she flexed her hands, watching the wounds on her palms. Her greatest fear was that she would be unable to Weave ever again, but it seemed that her fears were unfounded. Her hands didn’t feel great, but she judged that she could likely use them if needed. More slowly, she returned to her studies, leafing through her pattern book as well as one of Jarrow’s. A few adjustments and a couple of hours later, she closed the books and stood, feeling much calmer.
            Carefully, she packed her things, threw her bag onto her back (either way, she would likely be traveling this day), and made her way to the armory, to collect the weapons Lord Harkon had returned to her last night.

            As Thaurlann returned to his horse, even the feed in the bag on the ground looked tempting. He slung the saddlebags over Lightning's back, then led the steed back towards Koomdawr. "I hope you're not too spooked by your bigger cousin," he whispered to the horse as he walked.
            There was no need to worry on that account; Lightning perked up as soon as he saw Koomdawr, and they had a brief conversation consisting of snorts, ear-flicks and head-tossing. Then they both froze, turning towards the horse-man's backtrail.
            Koomdawr leaned down, attempting to speak quietly, making its low, slurred words harder to understand. "You go horse now. You go go, I go go Man-hunters now, no kill. Now!" It stood fidgeting as it waited for Thaurlann to mount up, looking back down its trail. Thaurlann thought for a moment he heard someone talking, but the sigh of wind in the trees might have fooled him. He was tentative at first to get back in the saddle, but Lightning seemed more than capable of bearing the weight. When Thaurlann was ready, Koomdawr raced away, Lightning in hot pursuit. Despite their weariness, the horse-man led them up and down hills, across streams, jumped windfalls, backtracked to leave a false trail several times, and the path seemed to open before it without ever a stone or hole to trip them. Thaurlann tried to keep track of the path they followed, but it was futile; the ride was a blur of dodging trees and leaping underbrush.
            Koomdawr finally limped to a halt on the bank of a large stream. He was blowing hard, as was Lightning, and he knelt in the water to drink. Streamers of blood leaked away in the current. The stream was a welcome sight, and Thaurlann shared a drink with Koomdawr.
            "I no go now much," Koomdawr panted. Thaurlann could see his dark hide trembling, but was it from the icy water, his wounds or exhaustion? "Hunters find no now... find yes." It looked at him with palpable intensity. "Hunters now, kill I, you go water. Friends," and it opened a flap of its saddlebags and lifted out a curved white horn engraved with a mesh of silver, tarnished with great age but still beautiful. "Friends Jarrow go. Say hunters much now."
            Koomdawr dropped it back into the bag and rose, water raining from his belly. Looking around, it found a tangle of branches, brambles and leaves that had clogged a rivulet near the bank and began pulling it loose. "Now you-" it mimed Thaurlann sleeping. "Hunters, I say." Releasing the knot of driftwood before it was pulled completely free, the horse-man slogged back out of the water, bending low to plaster on more mud.
            Thaurlann hesitated. Not because he worried the "hunters" might find them while he slept, but that this also-wounded stranger might bear the brunt of it. It was a point of honor, though, and Thaurlann would not dishonor him by refusing the help.
            He found lying on the ground cold and a shocking reminder of how small he felt without his armor. He pondered the horse-man's statement about the horn; apparently it was worried that it might be killed by the hunters? Then Thaurlann would have to find these "friends of Jarrow," whoever that might be. In his mind, he imagined a gnarled old tree spirit or guardian of the forest. For all he knew, the squirrels were his "friends."
            Exhaustion quickly overcame thought, and he drifted to sleep.

            With the drawbridge down for the day, the sellspears had gravitated in to the warmer feasthall, where children ran to and fro, bringing food and water. The Holy Masters had returned just before highsun, taking their meal with Lord Tjesnitjérs; Alexana's spot was conspicuously empty. Captain Garsha sat at the long table farthest from the draft blowing in, speaking with Lieutenant and Atjets Hugo.
            Krel had watched the High Masters arrive, but had not been able to speak with them yet, as they had been greeted by the Lord and joined in the meal. He spoke quietly with some of the other clergy and inquired of the other Talontar, specifically those who served the most Holy Mistress, if a short audience would be possible once the meal concluded.
            Rhia ate her food from a vantage point off to one side; the sellspears gave her a wide berth, so that she sat in a circle empty of anyone - except for the runner-boy she'd seen earlier, who dared bring her food and looked as proud of his own bravery as the other children were awed.
            It hadn’t yet been made clear what would happen, and so she tried to remain inconspicuous. That task was made a little difficult by the behavior of the servant children and soldiers who passed near her, or had some reason to interact with her. Admittedly, the two sets of reactions were quite different, but both made her feel somewhat obvious. Curiously, she scanned the crowd for signs of the “conspirators” from last night.
            One of them was crossing the room, trying to find a spot to sit. He was quite noticeable with the red-haired girl walking beside him. "The Lady, she must not be feeling vell," observed Rosjevo lightly, as he and Aksana joined the noisy breakfast table. He nodded towards her empty chair. "Perhaps she is too ill to travel to Melvaunt today? Vhat a shame that vould be for her uncle, and for the Church."
            He did not look bothered in the least by the fact that events had moved completely out of control, or that Garsha was going to make his move now, instead of waiting for Ravenmane's permission. Unless neither had approached the other yet. One thing only was clear: that the camp was a mess of confusion. If things were not sorted quickly, the lengths Rosjevo had gone to the evening before would all have been for nothing.
            "After ve eat," he said quietly, "I am going up to that armory to meet the half-elf. The Varden vants a meeting in the chapel soon, and he ought to be present, especially if Stammel vants to send me along on the tjornuk. Vhat about you, little von? Are you still on my side, or vould you rather spend more time vith your vhite-haired juggler friend?"
            Aksana blinked at Rosjevo in confusion, Half-elf? She shook her head and filed the reference away for further consideration later. A bit of color touched her cheeks at the mention of Spielos. She quickly looked down letting her hair fall to hide her embarrassment. That was another line of thought that needed further consideration. "Who is this Varden you speak of?" She said quickly. As if her brain had finally caught up to her ears she suddenly looked up at Rosjevo, "Vhy vould I not be on your side?"
            The sellsword shrugged. "Because my side is no longer the safest von," he murmured dully, "owing to the haste of a vell-meaning but very youthful Talontar. But I vill speak no more of this. At least, not here.
            "As for your other question, the Varden is Ravenmane. Something of a surprise, given her - vell, her dishonoring. Mind you, I have far less knowledge of the subject than you do, and pretend to understand nothing. Perhaps there is nothing to the story at all. Yet I suppose there vas nobody else available for the job, or as eager to accept it. She is now an officer, and von vith a big fight on her hands, but vith no army. Such heavy responsibility may test too harshly the soul of a voman whose fight is wholly personal. I vonder very much vhat Garsha makes of this." He eyed the Nanther officers, seated at their far table. Garsha was watching the hall, his face closed and his eyes cold. He seemed to be paying particular attention to a knot of sellspears complaining farther down the far table. "Probably not much."
            Aksana continued to shovel food into her mouth. After so many days of trail rations she relished the taste of something warm to eat, even if it was something that she would have normally turned her nose up at. "I am sure ve vill soon find out vhat the Captain thinks," she mumbled around another spoon full, "vether ve like it or not."
            Unfortunately, she was wrong; some time passed, and neither Garsha nor his lieutenant made any announcement to the gathering. Anya was nowhere to be seen. Rosjevo itched to approach the dais, but he could not so much as look in its direction, and in the meantime he felt a sleepy, disspiriting weight fall over the hall.
            He paddled his spoon listlessly in the muck. "I do not know vhat unsettles me more - this food or the silence. Enough. I am going up to the armory to speak vith Heimdall. If you do feel like pulling the Manakja aside, then for all our sakes do it before the Atjets gets a vord in. And try to give me enough time to varn him properly. It should take no more than a few breaths, but he vill need it. Aftervords I vill make you a proper meal - and over it toast your persvasiveness."

            Rosjevo didn't find Heimdall in the armory, but by catching one of the children in the feasthall it was revealed that he'd gone down to the dungeon. Going down the steep steps with the help of a candle, Rosjevo followed the sounds of conversation through a tight passage into the dungeon proper. Heimdall sat on a table with manacles at each end and a candle beside him, watching a giant of a man in a cell. The huge man appeared a bit the worse for wear, and for that matter, so did Heimdall; he held a worried frown and a bit of dark rye and goat cheese. The giant watched with narrow-focused fascination when Heimdall raised them and took a bite.
            There was nothing Rosjevo expected less than to walk into such a scene as this; he paused, absorbing the atmosphere of the dungeon, and still but for the wavering smoke of the candle. He had not been in many places like it, and had heard no news of any prisoner, oversized or otherwise. The place itself was hideous. Was this how the Boyar kept his villeins mindful? He wondered - and then chided himself, for the sellsword in him cared nothing, either way, and the indifference was what he needed now.
            Rosjevo gently cleared his throat. "You are the Lady Tjesnitjers's man, sure enough," he intoned, and moved a few steps nearer, so that Heimdall could see him clearly. He ignored the prisoner completely, and sounded amused, if a little cool. "I see her Mistress at vork in you."
            Heimdall jumped to his feet, startled. "You can?" He choked on his food and had a fit of coughing. "She wouldn't be trying to choke me, would she?" he asked with a weak smile. "I don't feel like eating much, anyway."
            "Can I have your food?" the prisoner asked, pressing hopefully against the bars with one huge, meaty hand outstretched. Heimdall ignored him.
            He frowned. "Why are you down here, anyway?"
            "It is better if you do not vonder," said Rosjevo, his interest fleeting briefly to the prisoner. "The Boyar's Varden, she is organizing a raiding party. Did you not know? There is a meeting in the chapel later today that I think you ought to attend. Good advice is needed, and some vords of caution. Your friend the vitch, she knows all about it. Ask her more, as you require."
            Much as he wished to stay, the presence of a desperate witness made elaboration risky. What was more, Heimdall did not appear to recognize him, and that was surprising enough to warrant caution, though the Mooneye in Rosjevo was unexpectedly pleased by the effectiveness of his disguise. He bowed abruptly and turned to leave.
            Heimdall broke from his frozen astonishment. "There's what? Against the bandits? What warden? Wait!" He hurried after Rosjevo, stopping him with a hand on his shoulder. "When is the meeting?" Behind them the prisoner strained to reach the bread and cheese that Heimdall had left on the table, though it was well out of his reach.
            Rosjevo's frown followed the length of Heimdall's arm up to his face. "Do not detain me," he said. "The Boyar, he has made a justice of Saer Ravenmane. Do your allies here tell you so little? Ve meet vonce she has called for us. If you still vish to aid the Tjesnitjers, stay near the Maga and assure her presence in the chapel. I do not trust sorcery in the hands of these foreigners any more than does the Church; but you trust her, and I trust you. More importantly, she trusts you. They all do. Guide them safely now."
            Heimdall's arm fell away. "Saer... Anya? But... what..." The confusion on his face gave way to anger, but it wasn't directed at Rosjevo. "Yes, I think I'll ask Rhia. But... I don't think we've met. Who are you? Why are you telling me this?" He peered more closely at Rosjevo. "And why do you want me to guide them? Guide them where?"
            "To the other side," the bedraggled sellsword replied. He glanced again at the prisoner, helpless and filthy, before turning. "As for me, I am nobody; a Nanther soldier giving aid to the Varden. Perhaps ve may speak again vhen the time, it is not so pressing. For now, I must go. Do not keep me longer."
            Heimdall watched him go, pondering what he should yell at Rhia for first.

            Rhia watched the shaggy sellsword and his companion as they ate, and wondered what kind of mischief the day was going to bring. Her fingers, seemingly of their own accord, found the shiny copper coin in the pouch at her belt, and drew it forth. Rhia’s lips were forming the words of power without her conscious thought. Fortunately, working the threads of the Weave required effort, and the ring of the coin leaping from her thumb was the normal ringing that accompanied a good metal coin being flipped. With a start Rhia caught the coin and looked around.
            It seemed as though no one had noticed the “heathen vitch” and her magic coin. Not that the coin is any more magical than any other is, but who knows what they’d think. The dark mood of the land and last night’s conversations were affecting her. It was dangerous to stay here. But it’s more dangerous for Harkon and Alexana - and their people - if I go. She had some decisions to make. Some were already made, as she had told Anya last night, but others… others required more thought.
            Rhia looked around again and noticed Rosjevo and the girl had gone. It was obviously time for her to do the same. She pushed away from the wall, dumped her dishes in the appropriate spot, and made her way as unobtrusively as possible out of the feasthall.
            She found Heimdall waiting in the foyer, regarding a suit of armor with a glare and tightly folded arms. Spotting her, he moved to block her path. "What in the Nine blasted Hells is going on?"

            Aksana watched Rosjevo leave with a heavy heart. She had no wish to do what had to be done today. She had done many similar things over the years but she had never done so to someone she knew. Even if he was supposed to be in on the plan she felt bad about it. She sat there a bit longer examining her feelings and motives poking at the food that no longer tasted as good. With a heavy sigh she pushed her bowl away and stood up. Best get this over with, she thought sourly.
            Fortunately, Manakja Aliz was among the attendants serving the Holy Masters; the rest of the priests had apparently remained in the village. She let herself be drawn aside without complaint. "Vhat do you vant to tell me?"
            With an inward sigh, Aksana began. "Thank you for speaking vith me Manakja. I am sure that you are very busy, it is a great kindness by you. My heart is troubled and here ve are far from the council of those who raised me." She risked a quick glance at Aliz to see if there was any indication if the Manakja knew whom Aksana referred to.
            Aliz smiled, her face unreadable. "Come, child, ve vill sit." She led Aksana to the gathering hall, seating them far from the walls - the better to avoid eavesdroppers, Aksana knew. Regarding the Manakja, she found it impossible to tell how much the Sharran knew, or didn't know.
            Aliz leaned forward, speaking quietly. "Tell to me this thing that troubles you, child, and let Shar be your comfort."
            "Perhaps it is only that the gypsy spins strange tales of demons, but it is not for von such as I to decide such things. I have met the vitch's servant; he is much like the creatures in the gypsy's songs. I do not believe him to be quite right, not..." she paused and swallowed, "not human. Vhispers I have heard that he is at least part demon." She waited to judge Aliz's reaction, not willing to say more against Spielos unless it seemed more bait was necessary.
            Aliz raised an eyebrow. "The outlander you speak of, it is true that he does not look like von of us - but, my child, neither do you." She smiled soothingly. "It is not that I do not believe you - it is only that you are young, and perhaps do not know the silliness sellspears speak to ease the vaiting betveen battles. There is alvays some demon or boginki or domovoi," she gestured to ward off angry spirits, "that they can boast of meeting - or somevon new among them that they can tease." She leaned back. "Do not be frightened by the tall tales they tell, child. Soon you vill find your rank among them and they vill let you be."
            Aksana was strangely comforted by Aliz's words even though that had not been the purpose of speaking with her. It made her long to be home where she understood the things around her. "But this other, Heimdall, he belongs to the vitch. Do not vitches keep demons about them?" She let a bit of uncertainty creep into her face. "Or is that just another tale that my veakness uses to prey upon my soul?"
            Aliz frowned. "The vitch, do you say?" She pursed her lips, but didn't seem convinced. "Tell me vhat it is that makes you think he is a demon." Her eyes flickered, following someone walking past behind Aksana, and her lips thinned. "Or perhaps this talk, it can vait. Shar comfort you, child." The blessing was perfunctory; the Manakja's attention was already elsewhere. Aksana glanced over her shoulder to see what had distracted the Manakja. She saw the healer Krel walking across the hall. She gave an inward sigh. So much for my distraction, she thought. She bowed her head slightly to Aliz. "Thank you Manakja." Aliz nodded vaguely and stood, gathering her cloak around her. She stalked toward the Holy Mistress Ludmila and her visitor.
            Having seen the explosive temper of the Manakja earlier, she chose not to interfere further at this time. Having done what she could, Aksana withdrew slightly and watched to see how things would unfold.

            Krel had been considering how to approach this conversation all morning. As a healer, he was trained to reveal all information about a patient. Even the slightest detail could lead another to some revelation of a treatment. Events seemed more complex now, and Krel had been struggling with the various confidences he had found himself involved within.
            Like Rusova, Holy Mistress Ludmila had an air of competence and authority, but where Rusova's regard was calm and vaguely stiff, Ludmila often had a mischevious smile and a gleam in her eyes. She lacked the removed formality of the other Holy Masters (barring Master Pavel), and she smiled at Krel when he was brought before her in the dim gathering hall. Her aides gave him curious looks, but only stoked the fire in the hearth and retreated.
            "I hear you have been vanting to see me, Atjets Krel? It is good that my Dragon is come and gone, people vould talk. Maybe they vould say I vas the von Favored, neh?" She clucked with mirth and waved him towards a chair, revealing the tiny rows of tattoos trailing up her arm. "Do not mind, I only tease you. It is the right of an old voman like me. Sit." She adjusted her shawl, tucking it about herself despite the crackling fire. "Maybe also I have a thing to tell to you. Maybe not yet. Vhat is this thing that you come to tell to me?"
            Ludmila's greeting caught Krel off guard. The sudden thought of her as similar to the grandmother he never had struck him, but was quickly pushed aside. She was one of the most holy, most influential members of his order and Krel had to fight hard to resist the urge to run away. Still, a slight smile encroached upon his face.
            Krel bowed low and tried to remember all that his mentor had taught him. "Holy Mistress, thank you for speaking vith me. I am the von truly favored by this meeting." He settled into the chair, thankful that he had remembered to leave his armor and weapons behind, and folded his scarred hands into his lap.
            The slight healer paused and then began slowly. "Lord Harkon's servants, the vitch and his new varden, asked me to join in council vith them. An unfamiliar event for me since none of them vas injured. The Lord has commanded his varden to pursue the bandits. Not unexpected, but they are concerned vith our return to the city." Krel paused briefly to organize his thoughts. "They ask for help from the church in this matter. Common bandits may not merit the attention of the Favored, but these appear to not be common thugs. Von of the bandit leaders is apparently a Mag, von serving the darkness. Harkon's vitch fears that common soldiers vould be easy prey to this von.
            "Their petition has been given to me to deliver. They ask for aid from the holy Favored, that some be allowed to help bring down these bandits. They also ask that the vitch Rhia's service to the people begin vith this duty, that she may aid in varding the men against this dark Mag."
            Ludmila's smile faded as he spoke. By the time he finished, her face was quite serious. "It is good that you come to me vith this, Krel." She frowned, lacing her hands. Her thumbs trailed slowly over her tattoos. "Of course this matter of an evil Mag concerns the Church, but it is a thing for the Church of Myrkul to deal vith. I vill speak to Holy Master Pavel of the matter. Vhen ve have returned to the city, he vill no doubt send the Brotherhood to leash this dog, vith Cloaks long-tested rather than this new-svorn Maga. Perhaps also he vill send his Favored. You may tell to the Lord and the Varden that the aid they vish vill come."
            She cocked her head at him, birdlike with her bright, sharp eyes. "So. This duty, it is done. It is vell that the vitch, she came to the Church vith her reqvest. A good sign. Now, you may stay and drink hot tea vith me if you like. As you know, tea is good for the humors, and hot tea is good for anything." She gestured at her retainers, and one of the priests hurried over to take the kettle sitting in the fire and pour a carved wooden mug for her. Then he looked at Krel questioningly. Standing back with the rest of the priests, Aliz looked daggers his way.
            In that moment, Krel saw any chance of pushing the issue vanish like the hot steam rising from the kettle. He had been dismissed. Even if he wanted to risk pushing the most holy of his order, a thought he could barely even contemplate, he could not ignore the glaring presence of Manakja Aliz. He considered the information Ros had given about the nature of this enemy, but he had been cautioned about this knowledge and Manakja Aliz. The small healer could see no way he could press forward.
            "Your offer is most kind. However, I should let Lord Harkon's servants know the qvick response they can expect from the church." Krel rose from his seat and bowed deeply. "Thank you for your time, Holy Mistress."
            "Time belongs to the Gods and Their Chosen," Ludmila said with a nod of acknowledgement, warming her hands with the mug. "It seems the Gods send you to remind me. So, no tea vhile there is vork." She sighed, raising her hand, and the priest took away her mug as another ushered Aliz forward. Krel left the audience chamber at a casual pace, ignoring both Aliz and Aksana as he made his way out.
            Aksana watched him leave the chamber without having a confrontation with Aliz. She nodded, satisfied that she had done her part. She waited a few moments more before leaving so that she would not be associated with Krel in any way.
            Back outside of the keep, Aksana paused to gather her thoughts. It is behind me now, and no harm done to anyone. She smiled slightly, pleased with herself. The smile faded quickly as she pondered what to do now. I guess I should find Rosjevo and let him know that Krel got his audience. Glancing in the direction of the soldiers camp, she supposed that was as good a place to start looking as any. I have not seen Spielos all morning, she mused to herself as she walked, perhaps he will be there as well. Her lips tried to form a small grin at the thought but she quashed it quickly. Fool! Head down, she stomped on towards the camp, not really paying attention to where she was going.

            Once back upon the field, drier now in the muted daylight, Rosjevo went swiftly to his horse, watered and rubbed it down with an old wool blanket, and armed himself. His shield he hung behind one shoulder, and took up his spear in both hands; his axe and dagger swung stiffly from his belt; as always he clapped his wide-brimmed helmet firmly down.
            Then he went looking for the sergeant. There was no one better in the camp to ask concerning the military's plans: Stammel was a war-horse of the old school, frequently able to guess the Captain's mind before the Captain himself did. Rosjevo had not been in the army for long, but he had met men like Stammel many times in the past, and whether they gnawed roots, puffed on leaves, or crept into every woman they could manage, there was always some useful information to be gained from them.
            His response was typical of a sergeant as well. "You vant to know vhat the Captain, he plans? Vhy not the Lord? Vhy not the holy vons? Vhy not Bane?" He fished out a root, dipped it in a tin cup to wash off the dirt, and ground it between his teeth. Looking out over the camp, he grunted, and his voice wasn't as harsh. "I also vould like to know that. First ve vill stay, then all of a sudden ve must go - I think the-" He caught himself, glancing at Rosjevo, and chewed his root for a moment in silence.
            "Ve are fighting men. They do not pay us to think. Thinking is for Lords and for the holy. Stupid spear-svingers vould only get into trouble... and sometimes the thinkers do, also." He waved his hand in dismissal. "The Captain, he has not commanded us to muster, so ve do not muster. Go, gamble avay the money you earn from sitting and drinking the Lord's ale."
            Rosjevo smiled and touched a finger to his helmet. "Right avay, sergeant," he said, and quietly moved away.
            Trudging his jangling way across the churned earth, in the general direction of the latrines, the sellsword did not bother to repress his disappointed scowl. The trouble with men like Stammel was that you could never tell when the mood for philosophy might strike them. He knew even less now than he had guessed this morning, and there was nobody higher up than Aksana or himself who he could go to for information.
            He wondered how Aksana was doing, and Krel - then chided himself for surrendering to his anxiety. Rosjevo guessed that Ezeroh Keep itself was ultimately to blame: huge, dark, and brooding, it loomed oppressively over all the surrounding lake and land, setting even his thoughts beneath its shadow. And then there was the Forest. Off beyond bowshot, maybe, but preying on his mind, its pale leaves wavering, a coiled serpent rattling its tail. He watched it as he came to the ditch and relieved himself, watched it and wondered and cursed.
            Ravenmane was possessed by something now, and there was no one, not Heimdall or anybody, to stifle it easily or effectively. Tjesnitjers himself might not have control of it, even had he wished control; and the Maga, handsome as admittedly she was, seemed an ineffectual friend, and probably unwilling to ensorcell her old allies. As willing as Rosjevo was to personally murder Emistil, murder him in his sleep or while he was pissing, there was little wrath to motivate his willingness, little wrath or temperature; it was only plain cold murder, the kind you dealt to a winter wolf or rabid woodland animal. The dhaeraow must be put down, that was all. Resort to madness was unnecessary.
            Something will have to be done, he thought. Some way must be made for cautiousness, for retreat, for reinforcement should Forest Things appear. Rosjevo did not fear much, but he did fear magic - and the older and wilder the magic, magic of the sort practiced by leshies and creatures like them, the bleaker was his feeling. Elvish spells were something else, but even those were far beyond his basic comprehension, and everything Rosjevo would not understand, he shied from. That was why the Maga's presence must be preserved; she must deal with the worst of it. And from what he had heard about the ambush on the scouting party, the worst was better dealt with loudly, or with fire.
            The Great Forest and every soul in it was better burned to ashes than explored without a larger group behind them. The Warden, comfortable as she may have been with such evil and haunted places, was ignoring the stark reality.
            Something would have to be done.

            Spielos enjoyed the hot, if simple, food he was able to secure in the keep. The servants and workers in the keep seemed a bit upset over something, and were a bit short in their dealings with him. It was something he was starting to get used to, but it seemed a bit more pronounced today. Perhaps tensions were a bit high due to the company being in town. Perhaps it was something else; Spielos knew rumors flew faster than birds. He wasn't going to let it bother him, but his reception didn't have him expecting company at his meal, either. That was fine with him. He found a quiet corner and eagerly began to devour his food.
            Surprisingly, three sellspears came to sit near him. "Tell us more about this Queen and the man she stole," one said brusquely, and the others grunted agreement. "Have you seen this thing?"
            Spielos arched his eyebrows and blinked twice, looking for all the world like a surprised white owl. "Seen that thing? You mean the story I told?" He broke into his easy grin. "No, I've not seen any such thing. I heard that tale from someone who said they heard it from someone who might have known someone who saw it happen. In other words, it is most likely a tall tale," Spielos finished, stuffing some bread into his mouth.
            Two of the sellspears chuckled and poked the third, holding out their hands; she shook them off and stared at Spielos challengingly. "How do ve know you are not an elf-man? Your hair, it is all vhite, but you do not look old. Maybe you are not a gypsy. Maybe you are this friend of a merchant's uncle. How else do you know vhat this man, he sees? How else do you live so long to get vhite hair but the face of youth?" she demanded. The other two frowned at both her and Spielos, foreheads knotting.
            "If I call you a man will you be one?" Spielos asked around his mouthful of bread. She scowled. He jerked a finger at his head. "I don't know why my hair is white."
            "Then you maybe are an elf-man. You do not know!" The woman turned a fierce stare on the others, and after a moment they looked away. One slouched off, and the remaining man and woman were disputing who won what when Spielos spoke again.
            "Theach used to say- well nevermind what Theach used to say," he rambled, swallowing a gulp of his broth. "Let me ask you a question, then," he continued, his tone only slightly exhasperated. "Why are you so rude? Can't you see that I am eating? And have you never heard a story? Ok. That was three questions," he noted in a small voice as an aside to himself, before he continued on. "Still, one of the fun things about stories is that they don't have to be true. They just have to make you smile, or laugh, or cry, or forget that the world is hard. Stories are..." he waved his arms around him, indicating everything and nothing all at once with his spoon and a crust of bread.
            "Stories are important," he finished, not really knowing how to articulate what he was trying to say. This frustrated him more than the motley band of inquisitors interrupting his meal. "Now, please, let me finish my lunch."
            The woman stared at him, eyes narrowed. "You think you are teaching me, gypsy dog?" Her hand went to her curved belt knife, but the man touched her shoulder. "The Sergeant, Yana."
            She ground her teeth, but released the knife. "Only fools forget that the vorld, it is hard," she sneered. The other Moonfolk within hearing also stared at him, some snorting derisively, but the two sellspears finally left him in peace.

            He’s cute when he’s angry.
            For some reason, that was the first thing that went through Rhia’s mind. She had to work hard not to smile. It was especially difficult, as she hadn’t felt like smiling in what felt like several lifetimes, and the effort took her a few moments. Finally, she raised an eyebrow.
            “What?”
            Heimdall clenched his hair in indignance, making it stick out between his fingers in tufts. "You and Anya have been organizing a raid without me? And Anya is a Warden! Why didn't you tell me? What are you planning? When are you going? Why do I have to hear this from some crazy sellsword?" His strident voice rang throughout the room, and sellspears and servants alike stopped to stare, some spitting between their fingers at the two, others nudging each other and grinning. A few priests poked their heads in to see what was going on, but disappeared quickly when they saw who was yelling.
            Rhia tugged on her bottom lip for a moment, trying again to keep her face neutral. “Let’s walk and talk, shall we?” She took Heimdall’s hand and led him towards the stairwell. He followed without complaint, and the two of them took the stairs up to the door just shy of the roof.
            “Fine,” Rhia said, standing in front of Heimdall and glancing around to be sure no-one was too close (including rats). “Let’s deal with this.” She did not release his hand. “Anya and I are not organizing a raid anywhere just now. We are trying to get the Holy Ones to stay put here for a few days. When they leave, I will have to go with them, as will Alexana and the soldiers. That means the keep will be left defenseless again, except for Anya, the Mikhail, and some children. Somehow I doubt Emistil and his cronies will be scared off by such a show of force.”
            “Look,” she sighed, “we don’t have a lot of time or opportunity. The bandits are hiding in the woods, and need to be crushed. Lord Harkon awarded Anya a position as his Warden to reward her for her service, I think - I wasn’t there. We figured all this out late last night. We’re trying to find a way to get permission to take some troops, some priests, and ourselves out to kill the bandit scum before the Holy Ones leave - beyond that, we don’t have much of a plan. The priest who found Anya is asking his boss if we can stay. I don’t know what we’ll do if she says no.”
            She paused for a breath. “We didn’t tell you because you were sleeping, it was late and we were tired. We’ve been busy-ish all morning, and I haven’t seen you. So now you know. Ok?”
            "Next time, wake me up," he grumbled, but without any real force. He didn't release her hand, either. He frowned at the floor, thinking. His hair stood out where he'd mussed it. "I've been hiding out most of today, but one of the kids told me that he'd run a message to the village, telling the priests to get ready to go. I hate to say it, but I don't know how we could find the bandits, anyway. It's been almost half a ride already, and they had horses. With the rain... What difference does it make to have a bunch of people if we can't even find the bastards?"
            Rhia nearly laughed again. “Heimdall, what am I? What do I do, I mean. My specialty.” She paused a moment to let it sink in. He opened his mouth, then slowly shut it again. Color began to creep up his neck.
            “Now, what does Anya do? What is she especially good at?”
            Another pause. Heimdall's looked as though he'd have preferred that the rushlights go out. His free hand rose to scrub at the back of his neck. "But it's been days-"
            “Now, consider that we know where the priest found her. We know that she wasn’t hiding her tracks when she… left the enemy camp. Better still, we know they have things that belong to her, and to Harkon.” Rhia sighed, then gave Heimdall a lopsided, wry grin.
            "Finding the bastards won’t be the problem, sweetie. Getting to them with enough troops and anti-Artistic preparations, while leaving the keep well-enough defended, that will be the trick. Getting permission to do it, I’m afraid that will be the real trick.” Rhia looked down the staircase, not really seeing what was there. Idly, the fingers of her left hand began tracing patterns on the back of Heimdall’s hand - the one she was still holding in her own right hand.
            Heimdall was having trouble concentrating himself. "Er, I'd... uh..." He was the color of a fresh-boiled lobster. "Why don't... why don't you just you ask, er... you know... the... Alexana?"
            Rhia paused for a moment, trying to remember the conversations of the last night. She shook her head slowly, and though she did not resume her pattern tracing on Heimdall’s hand, neither did she let it fall. He wrapped his fingers into hers as she spoke.
            “I don’t think she…” Rhia began, then started over. “Alexana told us the Holy ones were leaving for Melvaunt, and that all the church servants would go with them. She seemed to mean herself as well. I don’t think she can convince them to stay, but we never asked her to, either.” Rhia suddenly looked excited, and squeezed Heimdall’s hand in both of hers.
            “Heimdall, can you ask her? She knows how important this is, but she was so tired last night - we all were - perhaps she had given in to despair, or simply hadn’t thought about it…” In her sudden excitement, Rhia had pulled herself closer to Heimdall - or perhaps pulled him closer - there was no way to be sure, indeed, Rhia seemed not to even notice, but her face was mere inches from Heimdall’s when she looked into his eyes and asked him for his help.
            “She trusts you, Heimdall. If there is a reason she can’t help us, or a way we haven’t thought of, she might tell you about it, rather than an unknown sellsword. This is her family land, and it’s in danger. She needs you.” She paused again, and tilted her head slightly to the side, before speaking softly.
            “I trust you, Heimdall, and I don’t know what we’re doing. I’m alone, and scared, and I have to find a way to help Anya and the rest of these people - even if they’d rather see me burn at the stake than help me out of the mud. No, because they’d rather see me burn. But I don’t know how. I need your help.”
            Heimdall swallowed, but nodded agreement. "I'll do anything I can for you," he said, radiating determination. He paused a moment, his face inches from hers, then gave her hand a quick squeeze as he drew away, trotting back down the stairs. Rhia watched him go, and would have followed, but was suddenly struck by a wierd moment of vertigo. She felt herself... swinging? The feeling passed quickly, but left her feeling weak, and with the distinct impression that she had watched herself standing there while walking away down the stairs. It was confusing, and Rhia sat down on the step to collect her thoughts.

            When Spielos finished his meal, he left the keep. Silently, he mused to himself that he should be blinking in bright daylight, but instead the sky was as it always was: slate grey. Still, he had been in the Moonsea long enough to adjust to the inhospitable weather common to the area, and a day without rain or gusting wind was a day to be enjoyed.
            Looking around, he was pleased to see that the sellspears had dispersed. Perhaps his singing had done some good after all. He was equally pleased that they were not howling for more songs. Even though his voice had been conditioned by years of training, singing for several hours straight did leave him with a desire to rest his voice.
            He could not let it grow tight after the workout he had given it, either. Humming softly to himself, he went walking back towards the camp. Looking around, he noticed that the few servants he saw were giving him that peculiar slack-jawed stare. He wondered if they realized it made them look like fish left too long out of the water. Most likely not, he concluded.
            Either way, it would not benefit him to return the stare, and he didn't really feel like stabbing anyone at the moment. Instead, he smiled broadly at them and greeted them each as he walked back towards the encampment. The children started and scampered away without a word. He was thinking that perhaps he could work out a deal of some sort with Stammel so he could leave most of his gear in the camp. He'd been carrying it around for months, and it would be relaxing not to have to worry about it all the time.
            There was no doubt about it; the Mooneyes' attitude toward him had cooled considerably. Some spat between their fingers at him - after he'd passed. They hadn't forgotten his prickliness of the night before.
            He found Stammel speaking with Lieutenant Obrad. Stammel clapped his hand over his heart in salute, turning to Spielos as Obrad left. He searched Spielos' face as the storyteller spoke.
            "You can leave your things vhere you vant, gypsy, but it is not the job of the varriors to guard them. Unless maybe you pay. Then they can earn tvice their pay vithout ever lifting a spear." He grunted in amusement, but his eyes still studied Spielos impassively.
            Spielos smiled, but shook his head. "I think we can reach a better deal than that, sergeant. You know I'm valuable to have around; you've admitted as much yourself. My singing can keep the men occupied and out of trouble. It has other benefits as well, should I be inclined to use them- such as inspiring courage. I think perhaps some deal could be reached where I'll keep your troops entertained provided you could guarantee me the safety of my belongings."
            "Of course, perhaps I would have better luck in the keep. They might appreciate a good song now and again- and I have to say the food is better there. Though I do prefer the company of common men to that of the lords." Spielos let that thought linger in the air, arching an eyebrow at Stammel.
            "You sang good songs," he said grudgingly, "so I tell you this. Soon these dogs, they vill be too busy to steal. Maybe the crows say you vill be too busy to vorry about stealing, also. Maybe a vise man vould step softly vhen the crows, they talk of him." He caught Spielos' eye for a moment, his gaze intense; then he walked away.
            Spielos trotted a few steps ahead after Stammel. "I didn't mean to offend you- what crows?" he asked before he gave up and kicked a rock laying on the ground with all the ferocity he could muster.
            While Spielos was left to puzzle this out, Rosjevo, leaning against his spear-haft a number of paces off, monitored the outlander's reaction closely. There was something about Spielos's inability to take a step without lurching immediately into someone else's path that amused him, much though it must have worn away at the hapless man's nerve.
            Spielos sat there fuming for a minute or two before a voice snapped him out of his tantrum.
            Once Stammel was safely away, Rosjevo tapped the flat end of his weapon into the earth and spoke, though he did not move closer.
            "If you are looking for an out-of-the-vay place to store your things," he said casually, "you could alvays take them down to Ezeroh's cellars."
            Spielos turned to face him, expecting some hostility. Instead, Rosjevo continued as though he hadn't nearly been shot a short time ago.
            "Nobody must go down there but the rats and the bravest servant children - but legends, they say that some gypsies have power over such creatures. Is it not true? It must be dark enough there to hide a bag or two, at any rate."
            Spielos considered him for a moment before he replied. "If you know this,then clearly somebody must go down there, eh?" He considered Stammel's words and the odd behavior of the townspeople towards him. "Thank you for the suggestion, but since it is so hard to find a place to store my bags, perhaps the gods are telling me I'd best be ready to run very quickly from here. I think I'll carry them a bit longer."
            Rosjevo shrugged. "Suit yourself," he grunted, hefting his spear to bear it away. "Though I doubt the gods vould vorry themselves much vith the fate of a heathen outlander." Tipping his helmet forward, Rosjevo slogged off, sparing the bard no word of farewell.

            Rosjevo met Aksana at once, though he had yet to think of looking for her. She was coming across the field, her expression characteristically unreadable, though she did not carry herself as a troubled person might. Rosjevo frowned.
            "That vas fast," he murmured, glancing over her shoulder for any sign of pursuit. "Did it vork?"
            Aksana started out of her daze. She looked up at him blankly for a moment. "It vent. Good or bad I can not tell." She looked around to see who might be near enough to hear them. She spotted Spielos not far away. Her gaze slid across him and quickly resumed scanning the camp. "The healer, he got his meeting. It vas vithout the Manakja Aliz's interference, but not vithout her knowledge." Turning wheels were visible in the sellsword's expression, and he nodded slowly, absently, neatly missing her acknowledgement of the bard. Finally he grunted. "I can not tell either," he admitted. "The interference, it can come after a meeting almost as vell as during von. But your trying, that vas good - especially good, if it vas also undetected." He looked around again, but this time his search was purposeful, if less productive. "So the Atjets, vhere is he now? Has he gone straight off to Ravenmane?" But Aksana's attention was caught by one of the sellspears. The woman was stalking toward Rosjevo with "fight" written in every movement. Aksana barely heard Rosjevo's questions her attention was drawn to the scene taking place behind him. "Ve discuss this more later," she said absently as the pushed past him towards Spielos and the sellsword threatening him.

            Spielos staggered forward, the shove nearly toppling him.
            "Who vill save you now that you are not the Sergeant's pet, gypsy-dog?"
            Yana grinned at him, standing with her hands in loose fists. There was a rock in one of them. With the other, she made a gesture at him that made the quick-gathering sellspears bark with laughter.
            "You think an outlander elf-gypsy ranks higher than the Faithful?" With her free hand, she drew her curving knife, flipping it expertly. The dark metal showed signs of long use. "I think a dog like you, he needs to be gelded." The sellspears howled; this was apparently the height of humor.
            Spielos regained his balance quickly and and his rapier flashed into his hand. Yana immediately slipped her knife back into her belt, making a curt gesture at the watching sellspears. One of them tossed her a spear, which she leveled at Spielos, testing him with little jabs.
            "Ah, a critic," he drawled, his words a stark contrast to the fury on his face. He then began to chant as he started to circle her:
"Die, die, die, you pizda
Don't utter a single word
Die, die, die, you pizda
Just shut your pretty mouth
I'll be seeing you again
I'll be seeing you in hell."
            The grin slid off the sellsword's face, and she hesitated, pulling back momentarily to spit between her fingers at him. "You vill go to the Hells alone, elf-svoloch." The gathering watchers looked impressed, some of them going so far as to spit at Spielos themselves. None looked inclined to jump in and help their fellow out. Most were muttering to each other, no doubt placing their bets.
            Spielos smiled grimly. If he killed the sell-sword, even though she attacked him first, it wouldn't go well for him. He was as sure of this as he was that there was a sun in the sky - somewhere. In spite of this, he wasn't going to let himself be killed. Or worse yet, gelded.
            They circled each other, jabbing and dodging at the center of a growing crowd. Among them, Aksana asked what was going on. They gave her a strange look. "A fight," one said. The other, not quite as grouchy, asked if she would take a bet against Spielos - but in the same instant, there was a crunch as Spielos smashed the pommel of his rapier into Yana's face. She staggered back, one hand clapped to her nose. The fight was over only seconds after it had begun. The sellspears grumbled in disappointment as they dispersed.
            As the crowd jostled and shoved and argued about their bets according to their rank, Aksana felt a brush against her hand as a scrap of wood was pressed into it. She wasn't sure who had done it; there were nothing but sellspears (and Spielos) in sight.
            On examining it, she found it was carved with a tiny message in the simple runes she had been taught, runes used by the Sharran Church:

ENSURE STAY KEEP / GO W MAGA HUNT MAG

            Aksana quickly tucked the note into her belt pouch. She could feel a headache coming on at the thought of all of the things she needed to do, or not do. "One problem at a time," she grumbled softly to herself. She nudged the nearest sellsword. "Vhat trouble has the gypsy gotten into this time?"
            "Stickbiter maybe does not vant a gypsy for a pet after all, neh?" The man grinned, scratching his oily beard. "Or maybe does not vant a gypsy that maybe is part demon. I vill bet you two pence that a Sharran vill qvestion him before nightfall. I vould not vant to be the von vith a pet under the qvestion, either!"

            Krel walked slowly through the keep as he considered the meeting with the Holy Mistress. He honestly did not know what to think. This was the second meeting with the Holy Mistress in as many days. By all indications, she was impressed with him, which could only bode well for his future within the church. The Holy Mistress had promised that aid would be sent to track down these dangerous bandits. By all accounts, he should be satisfied with this trip and be happy to be returning home to the temple.
            So why was Krel still troubled? Why did he feel responsible to those he met with the night before? He owed them nothing, in fact, Anya owed him a great deal already. The slight healer could not explain it, but he needed to decide what to do next.
            Krel's pace quickened slightly and he glanced over his shoulder to see if anyone had followed him out of the audience chamber. He needed to tell the others how things had gone. He had not seen Anya all morning, but he had seen the others at the meal. He would start looking for them there.

            It seemed only the blink of an eye before Koomdawr poked Thaurlann with the end of his longbow.
            "Hunters." Koomdawr bent down, fixing him with a penetrating look. Its voice was low, making its speech barely comprehensible. "You-" It tapped its head. "Kill I, you go Jarrow friends, yes? Go water." It pointed towards the clump of branches, now hanging from the bank by a paltry few twists. It put a hand on his shoulder, leaning forward intently. "Yes?"
            Thaurlann instinctively felt around for his sword for a few moments before realizing he didn't have one. He glanced over at Lightning before returning focus to Koomdawr. "Yes," he finally answered. "I understand." He didn't like it, but he understood. For his part, Koomdawr didn't look entirely satisfied with his answer, but he only flicked his tail, putting his bow (now strung) and quiver down by Thaurlann. As he went to inspect the tangled brambles and fallen branches he'd dragged around them as a poor barricade as Thaurlann slept (quite a lot of it - it seemed the horse-man had been quite busy), Thaurlann realised that the grizzled old pelt that had hung from Koomdawr's neck was missing - or rather, the horse-man was no longer wearing it. Instead it lay over Thaurlann's own body.
            Thaurlann got to a crouching position and walked over to Lighting, arousing the sleeping beast gently. Then he walked forward a few paces, waiting to see what would happen. The horse snorted wearily, clearly uncomfortable for having rested still wearing its saddle, but rose to its feet at his urging. It walked over to drink from the stream... and then raised its head, scenting the wind.
            Whatever Koomdawr had sensed, Lightning now felt as well.
            The hint of battle invigorated Thaurlann. His blood began pumping again, and all the weariness from the previous night's journey left him in a rush. He returned to his sleeping spot to pick up the bow and quiver, though he gave it a once over and silently cursed the dishonor of using a ranged weapon. He scrounged through some of the driftwood until he came across a particularly well-shaped branch. He tested the branch tentatively against the ground. With a satisfied nod, he tucked the branch into his belt, where his sword should have been. Then he returned to Lightning, patting the horse firmly. He mounted up and took up position behind one of the barriers erected by Koomdawr, to await the "hunters."

            Stammel wasted no time with pleasantries. "You lot of dogs! In the morning, half of you go back to Melvaunt. The other half stays here to vork for the Lord. If you stay, he vill pay you from now on. You can see who stays vhile you make the palisade. Hogdi, Vorf! Bring the axes and shovels. All of you, move! If you are not svinging a sword, you can sving an axe!"
            There was the expected groaning and cursing among the sellspears; some were already scuffling over their rank. Most likely the lower-ranking warriors would stay behind; it was unlikely that any of them would choose to stay in this tiny speck of a village.
            One of them got up out of the mud with a curse even as he lowered his head to the woman who had spilled him. Undaunted, he turned around and shoved Rosjevo. "Get me an axe. I von't dig in the dirt like a peshka."
            Rosjevo nodded amiably, then shoved the man back. "No," he snarled, "it seems you'll just lie in the dirt like a steaming shit. But as you vish. Von shovel, coming right up." The man stared after him, trying to work out who had won the exchange.
            At once he stomped off, grumbling loudly to himself at the temerity of the common slovoch - but inwardly Rosjevo was pleased: not only were some of the troops staying, but a full half, and all at the boyar's command. That was something to thank Bane for, even if their best hopes were settled on leaving. He headed toward the drawbridge, his hopes greatly improved; at least he had one bit of positive news to bring to the meeting.
            It was no use bringing Aksana along, surely. She was openly fretting over her pet gypsy, something Rosjevo could not rightly fathom, given the likelihood of his soon being murdered; and she did not seem much enthused by their real problems, far worthier of her attentions though they were.

            The thought of staying out here in this Gods-forsaken Forest made Aksana's stomach queasy. For a moment her feet were frozen to the ground. Get ahold of yourself, she scolded silently. Taking a deep breath she gathered herself together and approached the sergeant. "Sir, I vish to stay here at the keep and serve the Lord." She swallowed loudly and waited for the usual tirade to rain down upon her head, but Stammel only grunted acknowledgement.
            "Ve take the tents, so get that vall up. If you vant to keep your horse, you maybe should keep an eye on it. Vell, do you vant me to carry you there? Go!" He stomped off to the empty patch where Spielos stood alone.
            "You vill not go back vith us. The other varriors, they do not trust you." Sergeant Stammel regarded Spielos with a frown. "It is too bad. You sing good songs and fight good fights." He paused, then said carefully, "It maybe is not so bad to stay here now." He clapped Spielos' shoulder and went to resume his shouting duties.
            Spielos' mouth tasted of ash at the sergeant's words. His plans to follow the soldiers out of this backwater were ruined. He didn't relish the though of traveling alone; getting here in the first place was very difficult. He was stuck here - for now.
            Still, there was opportunity to be had. While Spielos was not one of the soldiers, he did understand hard, physical labor. Years on a ship had taught him that much. He would not lift a shovel or a pick, but he could lend aid in a way that was far more useful.
            He took out his drum and beat a steady rhythm on it. In time, the shovels and picks began to match his beat. His voice rose above the din of the labor, bringing words spoken on the seas and in construction sites for hundreds of years to the ears of the sell- swords. A short time later, he changed his song, and strength flowed into tired limbs. Back and forth he sang, mixing and blending the two songs so that they were seamless, one. It was a hypnotic performance that took the mind off of the drudgery and toil and caught his listeners up in the ebb and flow of the work, like the waves rising and falling on the sea. The sporadic fighting slowed, then stopped as the sellspears chopped trees and their horses dragged them back to the list, churning the earth to sucking mud.

            Anya arrived back at the Keep from Ropominar, riding the grey mare that had been her companion for the last few years. She felt the eyes of the sellspears on her. She knew what they were thinking. What they thought of her. She put up a neutral face and sat up straight in her saddle. She looked almost majestic as she rode into camp, and more than one paused to watch her pass, but she could not bring herself to look any of them in the eye.
            "I am happy to be riding you again, Silkymist," Anya whispered tenderly to the horse as she dismounted and handed the reins to a stunned sellsword.
            "Vhat? Who do you-" the man started, but the raven-haired woman interrupted him.
            "The Varden of Ezeroh, that is who!" She walked away and did not look back as she added, "See that she is placed vith the other horses and fed. And if she is not treated vell I vill have your balls for breakfast. Mark my vords."
            And so Anya re-entered Ezeroh Keep.

            Rhia was a bit surprised to see the priest - Krel, she thought it was - looking for all the world like he was searching for someone.
            Krel glanced a Rhia briefly and then approached. "Have you seen Anya? She did not meet me for the meeting." The healer paused to consider the hall. "The church vill send aid, but ve are still returning to the city. Our next steps are uncertain."
            Rhia looked sideways at Krel, and her heart sank a little. "How long will it take for that help to arrive? The keep could be in bandit hands again by then." She sighed. "I have not seen Anya since last night. I saw Heimdall, though, and he is going to see if Alexana can possibly get the Holy Ones to delay. Uncertain is right." She paused to look around. "Let's find the others, if we can."
            Krel shrugged. "Several days at least. The Holy Mistress said she vould speak vith Holy Master Pavel and that aid vould be sent to deal vith this bandit leader vonce ve reach the city." He glanced back the hallway. "I did not get to speak of the sellspears tale, only that there vas a Mag among the bandits. The church can deal vith such a von, but as you say, I do not know vhat vill happen during the delay."
            Krel paused for a moment, "The Chosen of Loviatar might still be able to sway the decision. I had considered speaking vith her myself to get her advice on this matter."
            "Alexana will likely listen to Heimdall, so if she can be persuaded to do anything, he will manage it. Is there anyone else we can speak to? Someone who's likely to be sympathetic, and who has some authority?" Rhia thought for a moment, and then her eyes got wide. A somewhat frightened look crossed her face, which she eventually banished with a determined frown. She looked over at Krel again.
            "Do you...? What about-" She shook her head, started again. "Do you think I should talk to Master Valery?"
            Krel shrugged slightly. "Advice I can not give you on this. Before now I have never spoken to any of the Holy Masters. Holy Mistress Ludmila offered aid qvickly, just not as you had hoped. She vas pleased that you approached the church and it is a vise decision to not send untested vons after such a threat. Risk of a delay vas not discussed and I did no press her decision. If she could be impressed vith the urgency of tracking this risk vhile other aid is mustered to destroy it, then perhaps she vould reconsider a more immediate action. Regardless, I do not think it vill fall on her decision alone, so others may need to be impressed vith the need of immediate action." He paused before adding another thought. "Ve should take care to not offend the Holy Mistress vhen approaching another, should ve decide to do that."
            Rhia nodded. "Of course." She frowned a moment in thought. "Perhaps if I were to ask Holy Master Valery for permission to accompany the hunt? In that manner you're not crossing the Holy Mistress by asking another Holy One to counter her decision. Instead, I am simply asking my Holy Master for permission to join in - and if I am granted such permission, the timetable would have to be moved up to a time before I leave." She raised an eyebrow at him. "What do you think?"
            Krel only nodded slightly. "Perhaps... I think the key is to convince them that it is important to not delay. As the Holy Mistress told me, there are those better able to deal vith this back at the city. You must convey the importance of not letting the trail go cold." The healer paused as he considered something else. He would have to have permission from the Holy Mistress of Talona to allow him to join the hunt. Another master might advise in the matter, but it would be her final decision. Krel needed to decide if he was really determined to go first.
            "Should ve find the others now?"
            As though summoned, Rosjevo suddenly loomed up on the stairs before them, the skirt of his mail jangling with every step. He was carrying an old footman's spear, and it wavered in the half-light as the sellsword nodded brusquely to the pair.
            "There are priests in the chapel," he informed them. "The Varden does not look to be among them. Perhaps ve are better off stopping at her chambers? Unless you know vhere she is."
            "I... don't think she has 'chambers.' The keep isn't that big, and even if it was, I don't know if they would have been set up last night. I thought she was going back to Ropominar, but I had also expected her back by now." Rhia frowned. "Let's round everyone up and meet on the roof again. I wouldn't want to disturb the priests in the chapel, but we need to decide what we're doing from here."
            Rosjevo nodded shortly. "It is vell, then. Maybe I can go downstairs and see if there is any news of the Varden's vhereabouts, since you have only just come up and have no relationship vith the vatchmen. Perhaps you two should vait near the chapel for a short time, in the event that she, or somevon else, slips past me. I vill meet you on the roof in a quarter-mark, vith whomever I find."
            Krel nodded slightly. He was still unsure about how to proceed. Everything at this point seemed to indicate that he should be packing his things to get ready to head back to the city with the other priests. That course of action did not sit well with some part of him and as long as he was hear, it did not hurt to follow this path before him for a little while longer. For now, the little healer just followed Rhia until the meeting could be conducted.

            As she entered the Keep's main hall, Anya paused, wondering where to find the others. Just at that moment, she saw Rosjevo coming down the stairs. She lifted her arm in greeting.
            "Tell me Rosjevo," she asked, "Do you know where I could find the maga and Atjets Krel?"
            "Yes," Rosjevo said flatly, and then abruptly strode past the ranger, stopping only to lean into the doorway overlooking the feast hall. There was no convenient sign of the half-elf within, however, nor any afforded by the view from the drawbridge, and soon enough he was facing her again.
            "This vay, Varden," he said, and waved her toward the same stairway he had entered from. "They are going up to the roof, as some priests have taken hold of the chapel and a meeting may no longer be prudent there. Follow me."
            As he mounted the steps - less hurriedly now, as each step made him more and more aware of the sagging weight of his armor - Rosjevo spoke to her over one shoulder. "No von has yet seen your friend Heimdall today, I am sorry to report. Have you seen him on the field? His counsel might be useful."
            Anya followed him up the stairs. She still did not trust the man, but she also knew that he wasn't about to act on whatever he was hiding. He was interested in the elf, Emistil, and would probably only act when they met him. In the mean time, Anya would remain wary of him anyway. "No, I have not seen him," she said flatly. In short order they arrived on the roof, where the others were waiting.
            As with the previous meeting, Rhia had taken advantage of being the first on the roof and chased away any rodents she could find, and again Krel found them scampering under his robes. When the others arrived, Rhia stood looking over the walls, eyes scanning the distance. She was happy to note that Anya had made it, though she could not shake the feeling that the group's hastily thrown-together plan was unraveling. With a sigh, she turned to face everyone.
            "Well, what have we learned so far?"
            "News," Rosjevo said, lifting his helmet to wipe his forehead with the back of one hand. "Some of it good, some of it less good. The Nanthers, they are leaving a contingent of men here to serve at the command of Lord Tjesnitjers. And the Varden, too, I presume. They are not the best troops, I fear, but not the vorst, either. In force they vill carry out their orders.
            "Heimdall is missing. He may be vith the Lady Tjesnitjers; I have not seen her today, either. Or he might be in the dungeon vith that prisoner there: the large man, whose purpose in this Keep I have not yet been appraised of. Either vay, ve should find him, since ve are short on experienced varriors, and since he has faced these enemies before.
            "Also, our plan to distract the Sharran Manakja seems to have vorked, at least vell enough to keep her from stopping the Atjets's meeting. The success of that meeting vill have to be told by him, however. There vas a problem in the camp that prevented me from getting the entire story."
            Rosjevo looked like he had something more to say, if the way he kept glancing at Anya was any indication. And he left out the part about his too-effective rumor-mongery. But Krel deserved the chance to fill in whatever blanks he wanted to, and, at least from Rosjevo's perspective, they all of them seemed ready to learn a bit more about the young priest's thoughts and doings.
            Krel straightened slightly. "The meeting, it vent fairly. The Holy Mistress showed great concern vhen I mentioned a Mag being among the bandits. I did not speak of the darker rumors. She offered to speak vith the other masters and promised that aid vould be sent from the city to track this person down. Unfortunately she felt it unvise to send the Maga or anyvon unproven at this time." He shrugged and glanced at Rhia. "The Holy Mistress has chosen a vise answer and her offer to send aid is most generous. Obviously it is not the path you had vished for."
            Rosjevo spoke. "There is also now the qvestion of our tjornuk, and its best conduct," Rosjevo grunted. "I do not feel the matter is settled, though I vill respect the Varden's final decision, since I must." He turned his slow, steady gaze on the ranger. "I understand you vish to use your strengths," his said, "and that is vise, and I vill not argue the point of that. If you have enough qviet-footed folk among you here to lead a small force vell into the Forest, by all means you must do so. But I, and perhaps some others, can not go qvietly, hindered as ve are by armor. And there is no qvestion of using the mercenary force successfully for such a mission. Many of them go about as loud as dragons.
            "Still, to my thinking it vould be terribly unvise, fatally unvise, to leave aside the strength that group allows us. Therefore, Varden, I have another proposition for you, a... compromise. Two groups can be made to enter the voods, you see: von large, vell-armed group may enter first, to distract the Forest Things, and also perhaps our enemies; and they vill go loudly, vith lights and such, to drive avay the darkness. And vonce they are vell in, you and your smaller force can enter by a different route, and so find your path to the enemy's rear, unhindered by black magic, or voodfolk, or vhatever is living out there. The heavy force distracts, the light force has surprise; the latter strikes qvickly, and yet may summon nearby reinforcements, if the battle goes ill. At least then the troops vill be close enough to do some good. Thus you need not abandon your revenge, Varden; only leaven it a little, to ensure its svift fulfillment."

            Rumor spread fast, and mercenaries made poor builders; before long the sellspears were ducking into the forest, into the keep, anywhere to avoid the work of digging and felling trees. Instead they clustered in little groups here and there, hiding from Stammel and the Nanther soldiers to throw the bones and gossip.
            "You think ve vill find the bones of that outlander vhen ve march?" Rogoz had a scraggly excuse for a beard and was always scratching it. The others called him Itchy Rogoz. He scratched it now as he leaned out from around the deadfall they had hidden themselves behind to make sure Stammel wasn't descending on them. "He had good armor. A man could really fight in armor like that."
            "Bah. Vanka vould vear it," said Fat Ina. She had a great skin full of beer that she kept to herself, but she still drank the wine the others passed around. "Vith armor like that, he must be some lord's bastard. Maybe the lord, he vould pay to get it back."
            "And if not, it vas so big even you could vear it," Galka said. She amiably showed him the nut, and the others laughed. "It is too bad he vent crazy. He vas brave, for an outlander. Von of the Favored, he tended his leg."
            "You think the priests vill come to hear vhat the Holy Masters vill say?" Hoghead asked, taking a deep draw of the wineskin. Wine trickled through his filthy beard, and Fat Ina dragged the skin away from him.
            "Don't vaste it, you dog-eater! No, vhy vould they come all the vay to the keep? They must already know, anyvay. All those priests, they talk together like hens. Have you ever heard a qviet church?"
            Itchy Rogoz leaned forward to take the wine, but Ina let him hang, squeezing the skin and swallowing loudly. He kept his eyes on her as he spoke. "Vhat are they going to say?"
            "They vill say that the sky is grey, vater is vet and they are making you High Imperceptor." Galka laughed. "Ve leave in the morning, and ve take all the priests ve brougt and the vons ve found here, too." He leaned forward, laying a finger against his nose and winking at them. "They say the Lord, he has married the maga, and now the Chosen is going to Melvaunt to plead the Slon for their lives." Hoghead shook his shaggy head, waving off flies.
            "No no, the maga is his servant. You heard them last night. The Sharrans vould know. The Lord, he is a mag, too. That is vhy the Chosen, she came back from the Crusade. She is taking him to the Slon to save his soul." His harelip made his jutting yellow grin even wider.
            Galka grunted. "Vell, vhatever it is, maybe ve vill find out tonight... if ve can stay out of the Stickbiter's vay."
            Rosjevo appeared, a clinking shade in the fading light, and joined them. He carried a small ceramic jug beneath one arm, stoppered with a disk of wood; and this he passed to Galka, whom he knew a little, and respected. "Ale," he said, "too weak to hoard.
            "But not too veak to drink!" Galka laughed as he took it, and Fat Ina shushed him, poking Itchy Rogoz to see if Galka had brought doom down on them. Galka growled at her, then invited Rosjevo to sit with them. "Cold and vet and muddy like a tomb-digger's arse, but no blisters unless you lift the drink as often as Ina." She suggested that he reconsider his human ancestry in light of his father's interest in farm animals, and they fell to good-natured scuffling over the jug.
            "Somevon mentioned the outlander." Rosjevo nodded at the scout. "Is this the von you fought the Forest Things vith - the von made to stand duty all night? If he is alive, he does not deserve to be."
            Galka relinquished the jug and dolefully scratched his head. "Yes, that is the von. He maybe vas no so smart, but he vas an outlander." He shrugged; could they help it that they were dim? "But he vas brave, and they say he vas blessed by two Atjets. Von of them fixed his leg, neh? But then he vent alone into the Forest, talking about Things that had followed him." He frowned, eyes scanning the trees. "I hope it vas only the leg gone bad to make him say that. No man should meet a Thing all alone. Ve cannot all be Captain Muir." He spat through his fingers.
            Hoghead scoffed. "Leg or no leg, he is dead. Who goes alone into the Forest and comes back? Unless maybe his father vas a prospector. Or a gypsy."
            "Or an elf gypsy." Itchy Rogoz gave them all a significant look.
            Hoghead spat. "I vould not vant to be in his boots now."

            Thaurlann saw movement behind the brambles first, several shapes moving in and out of the trees; the "hunters" were nothing but men and a woman trailing them through the woods. They weren't especially quiet; he could hear the rustle of wet leaves and the snap and brush of branches. There were five of them, four men and a woman. Thaurlann didn't hide the disappointment on his face. He had hoped to get a glimpse of the bandits that had attacked the keep; these appeared be no more than commoners harassing what they didn't understand.
            They stopped beyond Koomdawr's makeshift barrier of thorns, and the woman spoke.
            "Who is that you have with you, Saer Thing? A little nobleman who hunts too deep in the Forest? Maybe he feels sorry for the deer and comes to vork a year for its mate?" The hunters chuckled, but Koomdawr didn't answer.
            "You have good luck today, Thing," she said conversationally. "The leshy, he could let us kill you, but he does not. He saw your pretty horn, and tells you that he vill trade. Give it to us and maybe ve let you go."
            Koomdawr snorted, and for once it was a human sound.
            "All right, ve vill not let you go, man-killer," she said irritably. "But if you give to us the horn, ve vill kill you qvickly. If you do not, ve vill take off your hide and butcher you a little at a time." There was hateful satisfaction in her voice to that.
            "Come you," Koomdawr said contemptuously. "Kill you, Man-hunters."
            "Come out from your valls, covard!" she called, and the men shouted agreement. "Fight us vith courage instead of hiding like the veakling you are!" Koomdawr's ears flattened back and he tensed. For a moment it did look as though he would leap the brambles and lay into the hunters. Thaurlann, too, nearly let himself be goaded by the men, even if the insults weren't directed at him.
            The moment passed, and the horse-man only hefted his heavy branch-club. "Come you, hunters. Come you now."
            "You are a fool!" the woman spat angrily. "Ve vill kill you and take it anyvay, and you vill not have the Maiden's mercy!" Bending down, she lifted a stone and flung it at Koomdawr. The first stone missed, but the others bent to pick up more.
            Thaurlann growled at the display, hoping to cover up the pain in his arm and leg. "You foolish people! If you attacked us head on we could mow you down, so you throw rocks like children. I have sworn an oath to this creature, so I will slaughter you if I must, but there would be no glory in it. You should return to your homes, and forget this foolishness while you can."
            They drew back, clearly dismayed. "He has a bow!" the woman said. They scrambled behind the closest trees. The men resumed throwing rocks at Koomdawr (badly; none of them came close to hitting the horse-man) as the woman addressed Thaurlann in a querulous voice. "Ve did not mean to offend you, Saer! Do not kill us, ve beg you. It is this Thing you have svorn to that is evil! It has killed many of us, and only a kind leshy has made it run avay. Surely you vill not kill us for our revenge?"
            Koomdawr neighed angrily, ears back, and planted himself in the small opening he'd left in the tangled barrier. "No you talk! Kill you!" He reared up, kicking his huge hooves at the man nearest him. The man dodged back with a yell.
            "See how it threatens us?" the woman with him cried from behind the tree. "Come, help us to kill it!" The man hiding there with her brandished a sword coated in grime, lobbing another rock.
            Thaurlann rode forward on the back of Lightning, coming up next to Koomdawr, calm despite the flying stones.
            "Is this true, friend?" he asked, unsure who to believe. "Did you kill innocents unprovoked? Surely humans armed with rocks could be no threat to you!"
            "Hunters no talk! Talk no!" Koomdawr boomed, baring his wide, flat teeth. His nostrils flared impossibly wide. "Man-hunters kill!"
            Thaurlann shook his head. "These are no hunters. These are just simple folk lost in their ways." Addressing both sides he said, "By the will of Bane, we must end this before it begins!"
            "Man-hunters!" Koomdawr insisted, but the peshka were peeking at Thaurlann from behind their trees. Unwilling to leave the slim protection of the thorn-walls, Koomdawr stamped and raged impotently. However, the rain of rocks stopped.
            "Ve beg, turn your blade on it, Saer!" one of the men called out. He pointed a dirt-grimed arm at Koomdawr. "Kill the Thing before it kills us all!"
            "Mara maybe has found the von!" the youngest of them cried.
            "You say I you kill Man-hunters!" Koomdawr said, not taking his eyes off the scruffy peshka. "No I kill no-hunters. You say I!"
            Thaurlann's muscles tensed at the intensity in Koomdawr's voice. He focused on the woman, who appeared to be the de facto leader of the peshkas. "Mara, I am a champion of Good, and I have traveled the Forest the last two days. I have seen the true face of Evil, and I swear to you this creature is not." He paused for a moment. "I swear on my own blood that this creature will never harm one of your kin, so long as you leave now and do not attack him again." He looked meaningfully at Koomdawr.
            "Say you no I!" Koomdawr bellowed in outrage, rounding on him. "I kill Man-hunters!" Taking advantage of his distraction, the burly peshka darted past the narrow path through the brambles. Koomdawr neighed in alarm, seemingly at the movement - but the horse-man pointed past Thaurlann instead. "Careful, Man!" One of the peshka had squeezed through the makeshift barrier, and he ran over to stand behind Thaurlann, favoring his left leg and keeping Lightning between himself and Koomdawr. He raised his walking-stick like a club, glaring at the horse-man.
            "No, Saer, be careful of that Thing! It's an evil one, even the leshy said so!" The young man was pushing his way through the bushes after the old limping fellow.
            Thaurlann's heart dropped in his chest at hearing the word "leshy," and visions of the previous night's fight swarmed into his head. Leshy was among the names Stammel had used to describe the Forest Things, and whether accurate or not, hearing the name again still chilled him. Having the peshka circle around him didn't help, and he could feel blood racing through every inch of his body.
            "It vill tell to you lies and steal you avay to the Thrice-Tenth Kingdom!" Mara called, stepping away from the sullen-looking man who had taken her burly companion's place behind the tree. He ran over to join the man, who was laboriously pushing his way through the brambles.
            Thaurlann drew his "sword" suddenly, as he began to feel boxed in. His composure collapsed for a moment, but he tried to pull it back together and made one last plea to the peshka - probably more desperate-sounding than he would have liked.
            "I tell you one last time, this is a matter for the gods and the Lord of this land to decide, not Forest Things!" He addressed Mara again, but kept his eyes on the two men nearby. "As a servant of Lord Tjesnitjérs I command you commoners to return to your homes at once!" Thaurlann hated the sound of his own voice, condescending and not entirely truthful. He just hoped, for their sake, they listened to him.
            Instead, the limping man with the club took advantage of his distraction by whacking him with his walking-stick, trying to unhorse him. Koomdawr let out an ear-splitting whinny and bore down on him, trampling the old peshka beneath his hooves. Spurred to action, Thaurlann wheeled Lightning about and swung his branch at the burly man, who had fought through the brambles nearby. It caught him under the chin, sending him reeling back into the thorns - but rather than ending the fight for him, an eyeblink later he rallied, fighting Thaurlann back with inexpert swipes of a sword. In a moment of sureal clarity, Thaurlann recognized the Unsleeping Eye of Helm on the pommel of the blade.
            The man ducked away, trying to keep from being pinned against the thorns, and Thaurlann caught him with another two smart thumps to the head - again with no more effect than a curse and a clumsy chop of the sword. Nearby, Koomdawr kicked out his hooves and swung his branch in a desperate attempt to escape the rest of the peshka swarming him. Though they attacked with nothing but their hands and teeth, they were impossibly quick, and their inhuman snarls made Lightning's ears flatten. Just as Thaurlann had feared, one of them came up behind him, somehow clawing furrows in his leg.
            "Ve serve no Lord! Ve are the True Children of Bane!" the burly man boomed, stabbing at Thaurlann. The woman, Mara, raised her voice as well. "You can join us and live, horse thief - is that not vorth killing this evil Forest Thing? Join us and be free!" Whatever else she might have said was cut short when Koomdawr's heavy hoof struck her, sending her sprawling.
            "You say I, Man!" Koomdawr cried desperately. "Go Jarrow friends!"
            Thaurlann now regretted that he had not trusted the horse-man completely from the start. Still, there was nothing for it. Even the clumsy jabs would soon land, without his armor to protect him. And he was in no condition to take another hit.
            He grunted in anger and determination, pulling the reins hard to the left, heading for the river at full gallop. As the horse pulled away he felt the predicted blow land, spilling warmth into his already tattered and bloodstained clothes. The peshka hooted and jeered triumphantly as he fled, but Koomdawr's bellow nearly drowned them out.
            "Go water trees! Water trees! Man!"
            "Myrkul take him! Get the Thing!" Burly snarled, his voice now thick and clotted.
            As Thaurlann reached the bank, he took a last look behind him to see if the humans would follow. Burly and his rangy companion had joined the others around Koomdawr, though one had paused to drag the limping man back. Koomdawr bucked, kicking Burly back with a loud crunch, but blood trickled from the horse-man's many wounds, and he staggered as the last two hunters harried him.
            Tears welled up in Thaurlann's eyes. This was the second time in as many days that he was fleeing from a fight, something he told himself he'd never do. But he also had made an oath of sorts to Koomdawr which he meant to keep. Also, depending on how long it took to find these "friends of Jarrow," perhaps he could bring back aid.
            He turned back towards the river, his side suddenly shrieking in pain. The last blow had hit him harder than he first realized. He dropped the makeshift club so he could grasp the reins as tightly as possible, then turned Lightning in the direction of the clump of branches Koomdawr had pointed out earlier.
            "Run swiftly, friend," he whispered, then dug his heels in without looking back.

            Gathering up Raisa's saddle and tack, Aksana carefully put it on the horse, concentrating hard to remember how to get all of the buckles and cinches right. The thought of walking to the village made butterflies stir in her stomach, but Stammel's words spurred her to action. She feared losing Raisa, her parting gift from her master, more than walking through the woods. The trip there would not be bad; she would have Raisa for company. It was the trip back she dreaded. Glancing at the sky she judged that she had plenty of daylight left to make the journey.
            In the village, Aksana went straight to the stables and made arrangements for Raisa to be kept there. After making sure that Raisa was in good hands and comfortable, she bade the horse farewell and prepared to return to the camp. She hesitated at the palisade gates before steeling herself and starting down the muddy path back to the keep. Her steps quickened until she was practically jogging down the path, each step threatening to spill her into the mud. Her eyes scanned the surrounding forest nervously. Evening was not far off, and it had already grown dim beneath the trees.

            Spielos had spent all day singing to the working soldiers, slowly watching as their numbers dwindled. It wasn't hard to note that the number of soldiers working at any one point in time was directly related to how close Stammel was to the job. Spielos smiled; he loved to sing, and he didn't have a boss to worry about pleasing.
            His smile soured when he realized yet again that his survival depended on making himself useful. He wasn't in thrall to anyone - he was in thrall to everyone. He had to get out of this place, and soon. He could feel it closing around his chest, squeezing the life out of him. He missed a note.
            As he blinked in surprise and confusion, he missed a second note, but covered it up quickly. When he ended the verse he was on, he made a show of getting something to drink. He realized then that his voice was almost hoarse and that he was exhausted. He hadn't eaten in... he forgot how long.
            He looked where the sun would be if he wasn't stuck in some sort of otherworldly punishment realm. From the dim light filtering through the clouds, the sun had been falling for quite some time. It is early, but I bet there is food in the kitchens, he thought, his stomach grumbling and his mouth watering. Now, I just have to get it without causing yet another scene or running into one of the priests, he mused, shuddering slightly.

            It was evening before Heimdall returned, dishevelled and looking worried. He approached Rhia in the darkened gathering hall, where the Holy Masters' retainers had packed up their things and headed back to the village. A page had lit a rush candle for her, allowing her to peruse the books she found on the floor above.
            "Sorry I didn't come back sooner," he said, glancing over his shoulder. "The priests cornered me and have been asking me crazy questions all day." He shook his head wearily, pulling a chair up beside her and stretching his hands toward the dwindling warmth of the coals in the hearth. "I'm just glad I helped save Lord Harkon, or I'd probably still be with them."
            He glanced at her from the corner of his eyes. "I have bad news," he said quietly. "I talked to Alexana before they grabbed me. She's in some kind of trouble. That's why they're going back to the city." He bit his lip, frowning. "She wouldn't tell me what they think she did, but she told me that usually these guys wander the wilderness for a while until they think whoever is still alive is probably holy. For them to set that aside and be heading straight back... she doesn't think she can convince them to stay, especially not now." He rubbed his face in his hands, unwilling to meet her eyes. "I'm sorry, Rhia. I thought she'd help us too, but... she can't."
            Rhia exhaled slowly, and bit her bottom lip in thought.
            "What do you mean, 'especially not now?' What's going on?"
            Heimdall looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's just... She broke some kind of law or oath to the church, so... they're putting her on trial." His face was a picture of misery. "I'm going with her, Rhia. I wanted..." He trailed off, leaving it unsaid. Instead, he unbuckled his swordbelt, wrapped it around the sheath, and solemnly presented it to her.
            "Since I can't... please. For protection."
            Rhia recoiled slightly, looking at Heimdall like he was trying to stab her with the sword, rather than hand it to her. "What do you-? Going with- going where?"
            Heimdall cringed, streching his hands out in a gesture that might have been placating or warding. "Melvaunt." Rhia closed her eyes a moment, forced herself to breathe.
            "Ok, you're going with her. Going somewhere that you don't think your sword will help you. They're going to put her on trial. A Chosen is going on trial, because, obviously, priests who weren't here are better suited to determine whether or not one Chosen by a goddess is in breach of that goddess' will. Right." Another deep breath. She opened her eyes, looked at Heimdall's worried face.
            "Heimdall, is everyone in this place going insane? Or were they like this the whole time, and I'm just now losing it by process of association?" He opened his mouth, but she put up a hand. "No, wait. That's not what I meant to say. I'm sorry. I just - I - aahhh!" Eyes closed again. Breathe.
            Heimdall watched her, wide-eyed with alarm. "Rhia- it doesn't mean-"
            "Once more; Alexana is in trouble, you're going with her to some trial, and you want me to take your sword. I appreciate the gesture, I think, but you -" She had put her hand on the hilt, intending to press the sword back into Heimdall's possession, to refuse it, politely. Instead, when her flesh had contacted the metal of the weapon, the world stopped.
            Darkness. Silence. She had seen nothing but darkness, heard nothing but silence for as long as she could remember. No. No, that wasn't true, because she knew she was in darkness, and in silence, which meant she must have seen light before, heard sound. She thought she remembered them, but it was so long ago, and the memory came with a sense of sadness. Like she had lost something. Something important. Something good.
            Suddenly there was a rush of heat, heat and light, like an explosion. The explosion roared over, into, through her, and she tried to scream. Her scream was lost in silence. In a split instant, she could see again. She saw herself, standing before a man - a man she vaguely recognized, holding something bright. Something so bright she couldn't see - like a bar of blazing sun. She saw herself touching the bar of light, and something sang - sang like the shattering of crystal.
            In the space of a breath, it was gone, and she was in darkness again. But, for some reason, she knew now that it was temporary. She felt the warmth, like a remembered lullaby, and it kept the darkness at bay. She sat in silence and darkness, and she smiled.
            Rhia gasped, blinked as if she had come out of a cave into sunlight, and shook her head. She adjusted her grip, taking Heimdall's sword by the leather scabbard, and brought it to her side. Looking very much like she'd been hit in the head, she nodded to him.
            "Uh, OK. I think I need to go talk to Valery now, and see if he'll let me stay." She made no move to go, but simply stood there, feeling like she'd somehow found something, something she'd not realized was lost.
            Heimdall watched her warily, hands still up. "Uh... but you... all right... We'll talk later, okay?" He backed halfway across the room, then turned and walked off, nearly hitting the wall since he was still looking back at her. Whatever had happened, her face must have reflected it.

            It was Atjets Ervins who warned Krel. Finished with the Holy Masters' work for the day, he had lingered behind with his scrolls and inkpots; now he approached Krel with nervous glances all around. "Aliz is looking very pleased, Atjets," he breathed, leaning close. "I vould be vary if I vere you."
            Krel looked calmly at Ervins far more calmly than he actually felt. "Vise advice vith that von. She spoke vith the masters long after I left?" The healer silently wondered why he had been cursed to cross paths with the Sharran.
            Ervins tittered nervously. "Not so long, but Mistress Ludmila, she did not look pleased. I think maybe her plans, they vere upset." He paused, giving Krel a significant look. "Maybe your plans, also they vill be upset." He leaned in conspiratorially. "Today I vas tallying the supplies ve vill take vhen ve return to the city. Vhen Aliz, she came to me, she told to me that ve vill leave vith the same number of horses ve came vith, in addition to the striker belonging to the Chosen and the mount of von of her servants." His hand rose to touch Krel's arm, but hesitated and finally fell away. "The Gods vatch over you, Atjets." The pudgy man nodded to him, then hurried away, leaving Krel in the dark emptiness of the gathering hall.

            Aksana arrived back at the makeshift camp just as everyone was preparing to break for the evening meal. Glancing around for anyone she might know, she headed for the keep. Work had not progressed very far; at least half of the sellspears had vanished, and Stammel was fuming at the edge of the woods. Fortunately, that made it relatively easy to slip back into the camp and the keep.
            Intent on avoiding Stammel and the other sellspears, Aksana was startled to find the gypsy eating in the kitchen, children busy with supper trotting to and fro around him - circling around him with plenty of room. She hesitated in the doorway, unsure as to whether she should go in or not. Her stomach rumbled embarrassingly loud, reminding her of why she had come here in the first place. Hearing the voices of others beginning to enter the feast hall behind her, she quashed her timidness and slipped into the kitchen, snagging a piece of bread from a nearby table.
            Spielos heard the tone of the kitchen change seconds before his ears treated him to a growl that sounded much like a rowboat scraping against the side of a baracled ship. He glanced over at the doorway and found Askana standing there. She seemed as shy and unsure of herself as ever.
            He smiled at her.
            Aksana concentrated on the bread in her hand as she approached him. "Do you mind if I share the kitchen with you?" She risked a quick glance up through her hair at him and then around at the children before her eyes settled back on the bread again. Odd that there are only children preparing the meal, she thought to herself.
            Spielos smiled even more broadly and uttered a soft, two beat laugh. Glancing at the children scurrying around him he mused, "You are the only one who will, it seems. I think the children, they are scared of me." He added as an afterthought, "And your habit of looking through your hair to hide your face to try and hide what you're looking at doesn't work very well once someone knows to look for it." He cleared his food over to one side a bit, making room for Aksana. It was simple fare, but the bread was warm and the vegetables were mostly fresh.
            "In fact, everyone has been acting strange today - or should I say, more strange than usual. I'm surprised I was even allowed in the kitchens. Do you know why that might be?" he probed innocently, popping a piece of beet into his mouth.
            Aksana brushed the hair from her eyes, her fingers lingered for a moment over her scar. "Some things hide more than vhat is seen." She sat and helped herself to some of the food as she considered what to say next. "You are an outlander, there vill alvays be suspicion and distrust tovards you here. Even vone such as myself, born and raised here, but who shows outlander heritage vill see such." Her hand brushed her bright red locks. "Of course," she mumbled around another mouthful of food, "I think that the vons ve listened to on the roof last night have been stirring the pot."
            Spielos arched one eyebrow as he tore off a crust of bread. "How typical," he mused, "throw suspicion onto the newcomer. I am sure it is only a matter of time before the priests come for me." He continued, bitterly, "I have done my best to be useful, but I think it might take something big, something important, to make an impression."
            Aksana arched an eyebrow at Spielos but said nothing. She listened to the Holy Master speak in the feast hall as she continued to eat.

            The feasthall was much quieter without all the sellspears; there were only a few present, along with the Nanther soldiers, the gathered priests, and a scattered handful of others. When Holy Master Valery stood, his strong voice echoed from the walls.
            "In the morning ve return to the city together vith the Chosen." There was a stir among the priests; few looked happy at this turn of events. Manakja Alexana herself sat straight and silent behind the dais.
            "Favored, you have not completed your Test, but do not have concern - your time vill come. Trust in the visdom of the Gods." He turned to the Lord, who rose.
            "Lord Tjesnitjérs, ve leave you enough varriors to garrison this keep, and ve vill send others to hunt vith you, as has been promised. Is there more you vould say?"
            Tjesnitjérs pointed at Rhia. "I ask that my maga, she stays to hunt the outlaws down."
            "Ve have considered the matter of the brigands you vould hunt. She is your vassal, of course, and if you vill trust her to hunt the brigands down, she must do this. Also, I understand that there is another mag vith them. Mistress Ludmila tells me it is best to use a mag to catch a mag. Catch this rogue mag for us. Aftervard, maga, you vill return to Melvaunt and present yourselves to the Church to be inducted into the Brotherhood of the Cloak."
            He pinned her with his gaze. His eyes were dark and unreadable. "Of course, ve must ascertain that you do return to us, maga. Atjets Krel, rise." He shifted that flat gaze to pin the little priest.
            "Ve have found that you have used herbs to ease the pain of the vounded. It is a grave thing to deny others the tempering of Loviatar. As a Talontar who has intruded into the domain of Loviatar, you are broken of the rank of Favored. Your Test vill be deferred until you have served your penance." The priests whispered among themselves, and those closest to Krel scooted away. Using herbs to numb pain? Scandalous! They fell on it with gossipy glee.
            Holy Master Valery wasn't done. "Your penance, Atjets, is to make sure the maga returns to us. You are charged vith also ensuring the capture or destruction of the rogue mag. Do this thing, and you vill be Favored of Talona vonce more."
            Valery released Krel from his piercing gaze and looked out over the room. "Before I go, I bless this place. Bane sees us all, and keeps safe our souls. Bane knows all; He delivers us from harm. Bane blesses his faithful, and ve rejoice."
            "Praise Bane," the Holy Masters said, rising to their feet, and were echoed by the rest of those in the hall.
            "Praise Bane, praise the Hand of Bane," Valery answered. Turning, he left the dais. The Holy Masters followed him down. Those sitting at the long trestle tables immediately began talking amongst themselves, some staring unashamedly at Krel, others at the maga, still others wondering aloud where "the elf and the gypsy" had gone.
            Krel stood stunned for a moment and then bowed his head in acceptance of the pronouncement. He understood the warning he had received about Aliz, to whom he had foolishly mentioned the healing. Krel had not given a second thought to those actions until now.
            The little healer's thoughts were a jumble. To be marked as un-Favored and then be punished with the task he had actually been seeking? A cruel twist of fate, or had the Gods manipulated things to put him on the path they had chosen?
            Not wanting to endure the stares while he sorted things out, Krel slowly walked out of the feast hall. His thoughts returned to one of the statements Master Valery had just spoken: Trust in the wisdom of the Gods.

            Watching Krel leave the hall out of the corner of her eye, Aksana gave a small sigh. "It seems ve shall not be the only vones exiled here."
            Spielos snorted. "At least the exile will still be in their own homeland," he countered. "I don't belong here. It is clear to me and everyone around me. All I want to do is leave," he confessed honestly. "If I had a horse, I'd go at once," he confided, "but the only people who have horses seem to be nobles, the priests and a few of the soldiers. As such, I fear drawing any real attention to myself would only turn out very badly for myself. Ah, I talk too much. There will be tongues wagging for sure," he finished, dourly.
            Aksana calculated the risks involved in her next words carefully. "I have a horse, but my mission here is not finished." She studied Spielos' face carefully. "If you still remain at the keep vhen I am ready to leave I vill help you get home," she paused somewhat astonished at her own forwardness, "if you vill help me in return. My sister, she disappeared some years ago. I believe that she may have been taken by slavers or pirates. I vish to find out what happened to her." The pain of her sister's loss and her inability to do anything about it showed on her face momentarily. She stood suddenly before Spielos had a chance to reply. "Make no hasty decisions on this." She smiled ruefully. "Ve vill likely be here longer than either of us vishes." She slipped out of the kitchen and up to the forge hall without looking back.
            Spielos stood there, poleaxed for a moment. He thought of saying something, but there was really nothing he could say. She was right; they would both probably be there for a very long time. Also, he didn't want to crush what little hope she might have had. If her sister had been taken by slavers or pirates she could be anywhere- provided she was still alive at all.
            Sighing, Spielos took another bite of bread. The redheads are always crazy, he thought.

            Heimdall approached Rhia after the meal, brow wrinkled with worry, but once he caught her he didn't know what to say. "About this... Rhia... Okay, I-" He took a deep breath and released it in a gust. "Listen. I wanted to go with you, but Lord Tjesnitjérs named me her guardian. I have to go." He laid his hands on her shoulders, looking her in the eyes. "I don't want you to go out there unarmed. You'll probably need it more than I will in the city. Take the sword, and..." He blushed, dropping his eyes. "Remember me."
            Rhia was still feeling strange from their earlier conversation, but it had faded into an almost comfortable background feeling, and she was ready for Heimdall this time. She placed her hands on his shoulders as well, mirroring his position. She ducked her head just a bit, so she could make eye contact with the troubled half-elf that had, in so short a time, made such an impression on her.
            "Heimdall," she asked softly, "do you think I could forget you?" She smiled at him, a little sadly. "I know you're... you're in a rough spot, and you don't have the luxury of time for figuring things out. So, listen to me, OK?" She moved her hands from his shoulders. "Heimdall, we need not be separated completely. I will keep your sword, and it will help me to find you. I will give you this, and you can use it to speak to me, in a way." She handed Heimdall a leather thong with a silver bosun's whistle on it. The whistle was engraved with a stylized 'R' overlaying a black star - Rhia's personal sigil.
            After a moment, she put the leather thong around his neck, tying it securely, but not removing her hands when she was done. "Every Starday, as close to sunrise as I can manage, I will look for you in my crystal, or in a pool of water, or whatever I can. You need do nothing but wear this, and I will know you are okay. If you need me, however, simply keep the whistle in your mouth, as if you were blowing on it, and I will come as quickly as I can. If you should need privacy, put the whistle somewhere visible, within arm's reach, but not on your body, and when I see it, I will end my vision for the week. Should you want me to stop looking in on you at all, well, paint the thing black, wear it for two Stardays, and then send it back to me. I will respect your wishes." Rhia's voice seemed soft, almost shy, by the end of her instructions, and she bit her lip as she waited for his response.
            Heimdall swallowed, holding the whistle out to look at it. "That's... thank you." Letting it fall against his chest, he brushed her cheek softly with his knuckles. "I'll treasure it. Just..." He cleared his throat, blushing more brightly.
            "Uh... when is Starday?"
            Rhia blinked for a moment. When is Star- "Uh, I don't-" She took a moment to compose herself. She hadn't known about the names of days as a child, true, but she grew up on an island. It had been Morolis that had taught her the calendar - well, several calendars, actually - as well as names of days, months, and even years. Then again, how many different names are there for each day?
            "Heimdall, Starday is the last day of each Tenday, according to some calendars. The 10th, 20th, and 30th day of each month. On those days, I will look in on you, agreed?"
            "Of course." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I'll look forward to it. Er... will I be able to see you, too?"

            Despite his efforts to remain conscious, he woke to the darkness and something scrabbling at his back. A touch revealed it to be another of those greasy flying hairballs. Lightning shifted wearily beneath him, and even that movement made him draw a sharp breath.
            It took every ounce of nerve not to panic. Instead, he attempted to take a firm grasp on the hairball that had landed on his neck, then yank it off him with whatever strength he could.
            Ridding himself of the things was surprisingly painless. Their bodies, smaller than those he'd dealt with before, were easy to pull away despite their wriggling, and he felt only a faint itch and tiny trickles of warmth flowing from where they had sat.
            In the darkness, a thousand questions sped through Tharulann's mind. How far had he gone? Had he passed Jarrow's friends? Was he even still going the right direction? What had become of Koomdawr? He didn't fancy another blind stumble through the dark, especially in his condition. On the other hand, there might be larger of those creatures nearby, and he might not have the strength to stay awake through the night.
            He felt sure that if he dismounted, he might never get back on, but he had little other choice. He slowly slid his leg back and dropped down the to ground as gently as he possibly could, but the shockwaves still reverberated throughout his body.
            He slowly got down on his knees and began feeling around for firewood. Sodden as everything was, it was difficult to find anything he had a hope of lighting, and his own exhaustion made the task that much harder, but he was in luck; a small windfall had protected a bit of wood enough so that he could light his fire.
            They were a bit up the bank from the river, under the shelter of dripping black pines. Smoke from the fire drifted up through its branches, and the tiny fire spat and popped in the space he'd scraped in a carpet of wet needles. The fire made a tiny cave of light, carved out of the pitiless blackness. Lightning bore thin rivulets of tacky blood, but otherwise seemed hale, if weary. His own wounds didn't look as good; his entire left side throbbed to the beat of his arm and leg, and his side went tight and hard where the hunter had struck him when he moved.
            Thaurlann fed the fire as much as he dared, trying to keep it alive without drawing undue attention to himself. Once he felt the fire was stable enough, he might allow himself the luxury of another rest, which he sorely needed.
            The crackling fire was blessedly warm, and it seemed to keep the flying bloodsuckers away; he woke to stoke the guttering fire a few times, and sometimes spotted tiny eyes glowing red in the trees, but they vanished when the flames rose. Occasionally the eyes were closer to the ground, but whatever animals they belonged to, they did not disturb him by his fire. Once he woke to the sound of something moving through the brush, but stoked the fire and it passed on without offering him any challenge.

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The Second Cycle