The Dark Frontier

A Moonsea Adventure

Chapter 8

Preparation

Ezeroh Keep, Mirtul 20

Though the sellspears had been reluctant to return to the camp and face Stammel's tongue-lashing, they were squared away and prepared to leave by the time dawn broke over the trampled list. The priests joined them shortly, casting sour looks on the foreboding clouds that were slowly curdling in the sky, and the Holy Masters joined them after a last word with Tjesnitjérs. Forming up around them, the sellspears trudged off in a long line, their less fortunate comrades watching them go with dour faces.
As Aksana watched the others leaving, a touch of homesickness tugged at her heart. They were headed back to Melvaunt, away from all of these trees and the strange things that hid within them. Resigning herself to her fate, she looked around making mental notes as to who else had been left behind in this gods-forsaken place.
Lord Tjesnitjérs wasted no time putting them to work. Since the departing priests had taken all the tents, the list had become a churned and campfire-strewn empty field. The sellspears abandoned it for the keep, claiming the forge behind the armory. It seemed the Lord was under no illusions as to their building a barracks. He surveyed them as they bickered for the spot closest to the hearth. Spielos heard the commotion as he came up from the kitchens. He paused a short way from the forge and listened in.
"Varden Ravenmane vill see to your shifts. The vons on vatch vill use the two crossbows in the armory. There are three chests of bolts. Do not get fire anyvhere near the keg. If you are caught stealing, drunk vhile on vatch, or troubling my peshkas, you vill be hung." He fixed them with a fierce gaze. "If I catch you troubling my maga, you vill only vish I had hung you."
Ugh, this isn't good, Spielos thought. With everyone crammed into the forge and fewer people here... He shook his head as the thought trailed off into a maze of uncertainty and doubt. What have I gotten myself into? I need a plan. He looked around for a place to be less visible. He needed to talk with the Warden. Perhaps he could get a horse.
Tjesnitjérs gestured towards Anya. "Varden, vhile ve vait for the Church to send more varriors, choose von to command vhile you are gone." He waved for Atjets Hugo to join him. They left, discussing supplies.
"Yes, my Lord," Anya waited until her liege had left, then turned to study the men who had been left behind. None of them looked happy about it, and she didn't expect them to be. Their faces were hard, almost leering, and it was an effort of will to meet their eyes.
She divided them into shifts by trying to match the most experienced with the least, hoping the younger ones would cause less trouble this way and that they might actually learn something. Their discipline was terrible; she knew immediately that things wouldn't run as smoothly as if they had been soldiers. They complained, asked for favors and even argued with her decisions - in other words, behaved as sellspears, with their constant traveling making them always ready to gain rank.
She needed to decide which one of them she would leave in command. She sighed. How could she choose among those she did not know?
"How many of you have battled deamons and magas?" she asked finally, taking satisfaction in the look of fear crossing the faces of most of the soldiers. She crossed them off her mental list. Of all those present, only Rosjevo and the white-haired man didn't look distinctly nervous about fighting unnatural forces. No one spoke up, and a few tried to sidle behind others.
Spielos moved closer to the forge so that he could hear better. This was starting to sound interesting. Fighting mages sounded fun; the looks on their faces when their spells were bung-holed would be priceless.
Unlike him, Aksana made a sign against evil at the mention of such unnatural creatures. Talk of fighting them made her stomach churn. She observed Spielos making his way closer to where Anya was talking. The look on his face a stark contrast to what she saw in most of the other faces. She turned her attention back to Anya. This is a much different person than the one I met in the tent only a few days ago.

The long rest, intermittent though it was, did Thaurlann a world of good - and Lightning looked as though a good currying and feed would set him right. Eating sounded like a great idea to him, too. His belly was sawing at him like a carpenter in a damn hurry.
The forest was hidden in heavy mist, and water dripped from everything, soaking his grimy clothes (or what remained of them) and making the cold cloth stick to his skin. The calling of birds and frogs surrounded him. He stretched and groaned at the movement. Every muscle in his body ached - almost as much from his uncomfortable "bed" as from the injuries.
He treated Lighting to a handful of what was left from the horse feed, envying the horse for a brief moment. It had been days since his belly was full. On the good side, his leg felt a little stronger this morning, and travel did not seem so unwelcome a prospect as it was last night. He debated again about backtracking, in case he had missed something, but decided quickly against it. You're not invincible, he reminded himself. Let's just find something to eat, while we can.
He dragged his tunic from his chest, the material sticking along the way. He wrung it out as best he could, then tied it onto Lightning's saddle to dry. He looked around at the moss, the trees and the occasional flutter of insects and groaned. "What I wouldn't give for a roast boar right now."
Unfortunately the boars were uncooperative, and the trees joined them by stubbornly hiding whatever else he might have quieted his belly with. The mosquitos, on the other hand, found the wayward travelers just as appealing as the flying things from the night before. It was still cold enough to spare him from walking in a cloud of them, but they still seemed eager to fly down his throat in gratitude for the bounty he provided them.
He led Lightning upstream, making his way carefully around brambles, leaf-choked gullies and the occasional jumble of moss-encrusted boulders big as a house. The occasional wolf howled nearby, but luckily none came to see if Thaurlann was as tasty as the mosquitoes thought. The river narrowed bit by bit as he passed myriad little streams feeding it, and by midday it had become more of a wide creek than a river, and promised to narrow further as it climbed higher into the hills. The mist had subsided, but the forest loomed dark and dripping around him.
"We must have missed something," the muscular human finally said to his equine companion. "Wherever Jarrow's friends are, they aren't showing themselves." He looked around at the gloomy forest, listening to the sounds of the creatures that seemed un-intimidated by the midday sun, hidden as it was by the usual Moonsea mists and some dark, foreboding clouds. "Wonderful, more rain," he muttered to himself as he absently scanned the sky. Hearing the pessimistic words leaving his lips, he shook his head. What had become of him? Did so little remain of his spirit and honor?
"Well, we have no choice in any case, Lightning." The horse's ears perked up slightly at the call of its name. "We must backtrack and see what we missed, and if need be continue on past the battle site. I remember a bridge near the village, which we had almost reached when we met Koomdawr."
He mounted Lightning swiftly but painfully, almost forgetting for a moment the grievous wounds in his side and limbs. "Unless, of course, this is an entirely different river altogether." He shrugged his bare shoulders, which were starting to prick up with goose bumps in the cold, and pulled the reins in the opposite direction.

Thaurlann found their makeshift camp as he'd left it, the remains of his fire the only sign that he'd been there. From there on he moved more slowly, wary of what he might find waiting farther downstream. The wind rustled the new growth in the trees, seeming to whisper in some secret tongue as he picked his way through them. Flies and mosquitos gathered to eat from the feast of his wounds, but the wind over the water kept them from becoming intolerable until the rain washed them away.
It was near evening when he found the battleground of the day before, unmistakable by the scuffed dirt, the short, thorny walls, and the drifting mass of branches in the water. Of the horse-man or the attackers there was no sign but a single bright horseshoe shining in the dying light.
He stared at the horseshoe for a moment, as if somehow hoping to discern the fate of its owner through sheer willpower alone. While it wasn't forthcoming with any answers, it occurred to him that it was surprisingly shiny... far too shiny to be iron. It looked quite a bit like silver, in fact. As the glimmering light faded from the horseshoe, he stood up, taking the shoe with him. He walked over to Lightning and mounted his steed once more.
"I am tempted to rest here, but we must press on," he told the horse. "I don't want to spend another night outdoors if I can help it, and I must see if this river actually leads back to the village we were so close to or not." The pair spun around to face the river again, and Thaurlann kicked in his heels to make best possible speed downstream.
Time seemed both infinitely slow and surprisingly fast out in the wilderness. Lightning trotted along steadily, but the horse's irritation showed in his jarring gait - he wasn't happy with wearing the saddle for so long, Thaurlann knew.
Before long it became difficult to see, and he was forced to slow to avoid injuring his mount; not long after that, night swallowed the world, making further riding too dangerous. Thaurlann dismounted again and once more faced the choice of blundering through the woods blindly or staying in one place and facing the possibility of attacks from the flying bloodsuckers both large and small. With the recent rains he doubted he could find anything dry enough to build another fire.
He slid back against a nearby tree to the ground and stared at the darkness, which stared back at him with equal intensity. Without really meaning to, he fell asleep after only a few minutes.

The day had been long, filled with the tension and sadness of Heimdall and Alexana leaving, mixed with the relief at the High Priests going with them. A million little details seemed to need attention before those who remained behind could begin their hunt of the bandits. Anya, as the newly-appointed Warden, seemed to handle most of the details, but a fair number came to Rhia, and between answering questions, giving orders (to the servants and to the Mikhail), changing the dressings on her hands every few hours, and studying her Art, she was kept busy enough. Adding to her stress throughout the day, she couldn’t help but feel…wrong, somehow. As if she was missing something, feeling vulnerable.
By the time night came, and she had, like the rest of the keep, eaten a sparse dinner of rations and leftovers from the giant breakfast that had been prepared for the High Ones, Rhia was ready to collapse into her bedroll. Instead, she made the long ride back to the village with Anya and Atjets Hugo. She staggered upstairs to the room arranged for her, slipped out of her clothes, into the nightshift Alexana had left her, and then into bed. Rolling under the blanket, she moved Heimdall’s sword, which she had hidden there for safekeeping. Touching it, Rhia felt an inexplicable reluctance to set the blade aside, as she had originally planned. Instead, she curled her body around it, like a valued pet, and went to sleep.

The ocean was, as always in the end days of summer, an inviting sapphire blue. The girl frolicking naked in the warm and comforting waters, just in sight of shore, laughed with the heart-felt exhilaration of fearless youth. Flinging her midnight-black hair aside, she emptied a collection of oysters from a netting bag into the small dory floating beside her. Pushing away from the boat, Rhianna, daughter of Rhios, laughed again, and floated on her back for a few moments, staring up at a sky so blue and cloudless it almost didn’t seem real.
It isn’t real. Not in that way.
With a surprising shiver, the girl returned to the upright. She knew she wasn’t here simply to enjoy the day. With a deep breath, she folded in half, and then kicked down towards the sea floor. The oysters waited.
Rhianna searched the rocks below, looking for more oysters, but could find none. Strange, as she had just been gathering them from here, hadn’t she? Off in the distance, something finally caught her eye. There, set between two smallish boulders, was the largest oyster she had ever seen. It looked large enough that she could curl up inside it and hide. The giant shell opening to feed on what the rapid current brought it had been enough to attract her attention. Rhia marveled at the thing, almost unwilling to believe such a prize could exist.
It doesn’t. Others do, even bigger, but not this one.
Shaking herself into motion, Rhia headed for the surface, to get enough air for the task of bringing the giant oyster home. Her head broke the water far enough from her boat that Rhia decided against returning to it. She wanted to save her strength for the prize. After a few moments of rest, she dove again, angling directly for the oyster she had seen before. She angled away from shore, away from her father’s dory, and towards the open sea. Nearly half-way to the giant oyster, she discovered the current. It was quick, strong, and at a cross angle. Struggling, Rhia was sent spinning and twirling away from her goal, and barely managed to fight her way back to the surface in time to breathe.
The young girl had been frightened and battered by the current, but she wasn’t going to give up easily. After another few moments to catch her breath and get her bearings, Rhia dove again. Again, she was caught and tumbled away. Once more, she barely made the surface after much struggle. She dove again. And again. And again.
Floating on the water’s surface, Rhia rested. The sky above warned of clouds coming from the North. Storm clouds, this time of year, and the waters began to cool. But Rhia wouldn’t quit, and dove again.
That’s my good girl, but don’t be foolish.
Rhia stopped where she was and looked at things. The oyster, still beckoning to her; the sea floor, strewn with rocks and coral, decorated with plants and anemones, swaying slowly in the current. Slowly. She grinned, and kicked out again, heading straight down, until she was touching the sea bed. Then, carefully, she began to pull herself along, using the boulders and coral and plants as leverage against the current. Sure enough, the current pulled at her, but down here, pressed against the ground, she had managed to get beneath the worst of it. With a triumphant, soundless crow of delight, Rhia pulled herself to her prize.
It was even better than she had hoped. The meat from such an oyster could feed her family for several tendays, even if they didn’t sell it in the markets (though Rhia’s nose wrinkled at the thought of eating that much oyster for so long). The shell they could definitely sell at the market, and make enough to live for months. In fact, such a large source of the mother-of-pearl that was so highly prized by foreign traders would likely fetch enough money for Da-da to refit his fishing boat. This she had figured out simply from seeing the oyster’s size. What she hadn’t expected was the tell-tale lump under the back side of the meat. If that lump hinted true, Da-da could get a new boat, bigger, and with people to crew it. Eagerly, Rhia went to work.
First, she dropped a small stone into the open shell, which caused the animal to snap closed almost immediately. Then, Rhia got a grip on the edge of the closed shell with both hands, braced her feet against the rocks, and pulled. The mighty shell moved a bit, but not much. Dying for a breath, Rhia launched herself up to the surface, angled away from the area of rapid current -and her dory.
The first thing she noticed upon breaking the surface was the wind. It had picked up, and was definitely coming from the north. She saw the clouds now, billowing and black, lightning flashing inside them, promising the full fury of a winter storm. Winter?
It’s not real either. But don’t underestimate its power.
Deep breath, and Rhia kicked to the bottom again. She braced and pulled once more, then reversed her grip and pulled in the other direction. Slowly, it seemed she was working the thing loose from its grip on the stone around it. She went to the surface again. Deep breath, and down.
It was on her fourth trip that disaster struck. Pulling from the side, Rhia lost her grip. Her hands slid along the edge of the shell, which gashed them open, deep red blood flowing freely into the water. With a cry, Rhia kicked to the surface again. The sky was dark now, rain fell to strike the surface, and Rhia lifted her hands to let the fresh water wash the blood from them. She was tired, hurt, and beginning to feel scared, but she could not let this prize get away. Somehow Rhia knew that if she did the smart thing, swam to the dory and rowed home, she would never find this monster again.
But you would be safe.
Determined, Rhia kicked her way to the bottom once more. The sea floor was dark now, the waters cold with the winter rain pouring into them. Rhia once more adjusted her tactics. She slithered under the giant oyster shell, bracing her back against the rocks. After getting settled, she placed her feet against the shell, dug in, and pushed upward, hard. Rhia kept pushing with her legs, feeling the rock digging into her back, feeling the salt begin to sting as she cut herself on those rocks. Still, she pushed. Face purple, and close to giving up, she finally felt the thing move.
One more good push would do it, she was sure. Fighting to quiet screaming lungs, Rhia pushed again, and felt the crack of something giving way, finally. Pulling free and turning to look, Rhia found herself cruelly taunted. The shell had not come free of the rocks. Instead, her small feet had focused the pressure into a weak spot, and the shell had cracked, revealing some of the meat within, but getting her no closer to bringing the monster home.
Some treasures are not meant to be recovered.
With a snarl of denial, Rhia kicked to the surface. She gasped in only one mighty breath before returning to the deep once more. Raging, she put her raw hands on the edge of the shell crack and heaved. A sliver of the shell came free. If she could not have the whole thing, she would have the best of it, she decided. Using the shell sliver as a blade, she began cutting. Slashing, gouging, digging through the living meat of the oyster until she caught a glimpse of what she was looking for, Rhianna then screamed in triumph. She buried her arms into the flesh, and pulled out the pearl hidden within. As she had suspected, the slightly uneven sphere was the size of her head. Quickly, Rhia shoved her prize into the netting bag and kicked towards the surface, towards her dory, towards the island, and home. Towards the current, which trapped her with the ruthless lack of care that so often is found in nature’s might.
With the bag in one hand and her shell-knife in the other, she could not use her hands to fight the current. Her legs alone were not enough to see her through, and she tumbled into a watery hell. Clutching the bag and the blade to her, Rhia managed to curl into an exhausted ball. In that form, trying her best to keep her lungs from inhaling salty death, she rode the current as best she could, though she knew it to be hopeless. The current swept her down and away, into the dark cold depths. Rhia couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, couldn’t tell up from down. She was going to die, and she knew it. That was the fate of those who wasted the ocean’s bounty. Her people didn’t hunt oysters for the pearls, not like the foreigners, who would shuck open the shells and leave the meat to rot in the sun while they took the shells and any pearls away to sell. That was blasphemy, and the gods of the oceans sunk those ships. Hadn’t Da-da shown Rhia the wreckage enough times for her to know that? Wasn’t that why the foreigners now paid Rhia’s people for their shells and pearls? How had she let herself forget? She had killed the mighty shellfish, taking only the pearl, and she had done so viciously, and in greed. She deserved to die. Now she would.
It’s not quite so easy as that.
Rhia felt her motion change. The waters swirled in a new direction. Too late, she realized why, and her shoulder struck the coral wall. Her skin parted, the coral broke, and her arm went numb. She could only watch as her limp fingers let the netting bag fall free. Now she knew which way was down. She saw the bag go that direction, while the current sent her rushing the opposite way.
Rhia’s head came up into darkness, and aching lungs pulled desperately needed oxygen down her throat in a gasp. The air was heavy, and bore the scent of men, and of fires banked under sod. Her right hand stabbed with pain, and she looked down to see it locked like a vice around the hilt of Heimdall’s sword.

The Forest, Mirtul 21

The night was restless and interminably long. Thaurlann kept waking in fits and starts as wolves howled, insects crawled over his wounds, the rain soaked and chilled him and the furry fliers landed on him and his horse. At one point he found the river lapping too close, and he was forced to move farther into the forest, shivering violently. The misty dawn came as a relief.
He was pissing near the swollen river when he spotted a tangle of branches floating toward him in jerks, slowed by the long tail of brambles that constantly caught against the bank and was dragged loose again. Something white lay within it, seen and then hidden again as the knot turned first one way and then another.
Thaurlann retied his breeches and belt and went in for a closer look. Curiosity had gotten the better of him, and there was something familiar about this tangle of branches that made him think that he had seen it before, but completely missed something important about it. He pulled the tangle closer and reached inside with his arms.
The tangle tried to drag him into the stream, but the current was no match for his strength. Buried under a mess of twigs and leaves, he found the white horn Koomdawr had shown to him. The swirling waters had washed away its protective coating of mud, but some had settled into the curves and whorls of the silver, putting them into relief. The fine mesh was formed of many tiny characters, but not in any language he knew. When he lifted it, muddy water drizzled out - and for a moment, it seemed that the wind blowing past the mouthpiece might make the horn sound. For a moment he could only hold his breath, waiting, but of course the horn remained silent, and the odd feeling of import passed.
Thaurlann looked down at the tangle again, and a sudden, horrible realization came over him. When the horse-man had been pointing at the tangle and talking about "Jarrow's friends," he was pointing at the horn, not the direction Thaurlann should take. So, he had wasted a day or more, but at least he had found the horn before it drifted downstream and sank into the lake.
He walked over to Lightning and opened up the saddlebag, about to put the horn next to the silver horseshoe. He stopped though, admiring the detail on the horn once more. The curling, fluid characters were delicate and elegant, but obviously strong enough to withstand the wear that had dulled the silver and darkened the horn. Rings hung from it, meant for the strap that would hold the horn, but nothing else marred its beauty.
The warrior walked to the back of his mount and untied the damp tunic, which had yet to fully dry thanks to the overnight rain. He wrapped the tunic around the horn as best as he could, leaving two corners at the edges to tie around his belt. The makeshift pouch was clumsy and uncomfortable, but at least he could easily keep track of the horn without it being obviously visible.
"I have a good feeling about today," he said, taking the silver horseshoe in his hand again and giving it a kiss. Then he placed it back in the saddlebag. "I know I've already asked much of you, but if this river actually does lead back to the village, I promise you an `indulgement' of the highest order." Thaurlann mounted up again, Lightning giving a weary whinny. He pointed the horse's nose downstream once more.

Ezeroh Keep, Mirtul 21

Unable to sleep, Rhia fumbled with flint and steel, and finally lit a small candle, which she sat on the stool beside her bed. In the warm, flickering light she pulled the sword partly free from its scabbard, and looked closely at the blade.
The steel gleamed like polished silver, the edge seemed sharp enough to cut her breath. The blade was shot through with what looked to be almost invisible cracks. Thin as spider silk, the cracks seemingly had no pattern, but reflected the light with a soft, blood red color. On second thought, there was a pattern to the tiny cracks. It was as if the blade had at one time shattered into millions of tiny slivers, and then been painstakingly rebuilt. But of course that was ridiculous. No smith could ever accomplish such a feat, even had they been foolish enough to attempt it. Still, the design - or imperfection, perhaps - gave the blade the appearance of a work of art. Rather, a work of Art.
Catching her reflection in the blade, Rhia smiled a bit. She stared into her own eyes for a moment, then, with a feeling of terror she could not explain, the maga closed her eyes and looked away. She slammed the blade into the sheath once more, and almost hurled the thing from her, but stopped, overcome by a feeling of profound sorrow.
What in the Hells is going on here?
Rhia set the weapon down beside her, but did not take her fingers from it. Seeking calm, she began a set of concentration exercises, taught to her so long ago they had become reflexive. After a few short minutes, she could think again. Her mind went back, exploring the details, seeking some clue as to what was happening to her. She saw the blade, the impossibly sharp edge, the red etching, and then her reflection. From the safety of memory, she could examine everything more closely. She saw the cream-colored sailor’s blouse, open at the neck, and the bandoleer across her shoulder. Rhia’s eyes snapped open, the feeling of terror returning in full force.
Rhianna Morrolan had gone to bed in a nightshift.
Without thinking, she pulled the sword free again, looking for her reflection in the blade. Once more, she confirmed that the woman in the reflection was no reflection at all. Then she met her own eyes, and the world became a red-grey blur.

The Mikhail weren’t concerned, exactly. Not being truly human, they didn’t feel human emotions. Still, something was not correct. Normally, they could feel the Mistress. Her presence was to them like spring weather to mortal men; it brought them alive, and swept away the doldrums of an endless winter.
Now, however, something felt wrong. Without looking at one another, the wrongness was shared amongst them, but as they didn’t have any orders to the contrary, the three Mikhail remained upon the roof of the keep, standing watch over the surrounding area.

The village roused slowly, almost reluctantly. Women made their way quietly through the scattered detritus left by the huge group they had, until yesterday, hosted in every spare inch of space. They made their ways to their hearths, where sod was moved aside, and a few pieces of precious wood were added to coax the fires back to life. In almost every case, however, the bright blaze of heat was quickly dampened again, as the more common peat moss was added, and the fires returned once more to giving heat, but little light. The exception, of course, was the kitchen of the inn.
From the inn, the sounds and smells of breakfast began to emerge. With the Holy Ones now gone, so too was the scent of baking bread and roasting meat that had accompanied their morning meals. Instead, the giant kettle hanging above the fire contained porridge, with bones and fat scraps left over from the previous meals thrown in, to add flavor to the grains as they boiled into edible mush.
Though the men grumbled, it was little more than the good-natured carping of Moonsea dwellers, for in truth, hot porridge was a long sight better than the breakfasts many had become accustomed to over the long winter, or the scraps left to them after the priests and their retinue had finished their meals.
The grumbles became less-than good-natured, however, when the men saw what the children were bringing into the common rooms. They quickly had the fireplace ringed by slats of wood, upon which were neat piles of horse dung, collected from the stables. The visit of the Holy Ones and their retinue had placed a huge drain on the already limited resources of the village and the keep. With the bandits having dragged off most of the keep’s provisions, the village had been required to send what little had been collected over the springtime months for use in providing for the Holy Ones. Summer would (hopefully) provide more, but people in the Moonsea didn’t survive by depending on hope, and dried horse dung would burn in the fires, if it came to that. In the mean time, the men would put up with the smell of horses in their drinking room and their homes as well.
Rhianna Morrolan neither saw nor heard nor smelled any of the morning’s activities. When she didn’t appear for breakfast, Alba sent one of the older girls to bring her a bowl of porridge. The girl, both hopeful and fearful that doing so might result in the Lady Maga actually talking to her, bound across the muddy streets and up the stairs quickly. When she arrived at the room where the maga had been sleeping, the girl cautiously approached the door and knocked. Hearing no response, she strangled her curiosity and simply left the bowl beside the door before retreating.
Hours later, Atjets Hugo, accompanied by Cosmina, entered the boarding house, went straight up the stairs to Rhia’s room, knocked, noticed the untouched bowl of porridge, said something unintelligible to, apparently, no one, and entered the room. Cosmina followed. They stood for a moment, examining the scene before them; namely, Rhia sitting in bed, in her nightshift, staring off into space.
“Well of course it’s not here! She took it with her. You said so yourself!” Waving a hand in dismissal at whoever he had spoken to, Hugo quite efficiently set to work. He first checked Rhia’s hands, which were, as he expected, healing nicely. He then changed the dressings, had Cosmina move Rhia gently into a sleeping position, and cover her with blankets. Then he looked over the scene once more, nodded as if satisfied, and left the room.
Cosmina stood looking at the maga for quite some time, a wave of mixed feelings washing through her. Eventually, quite uncharacteristically, she quietly closed the door and took her seat in the hallway once more.

It was the little waves, tickling her feet in a rippling rhythm, which woke her. Lying on her back in the sand, clutching the scrap of wood that had once been part of her ship, she looked up. The sky above was blue and cloudless. As if the world had been made better by the destruction of - how long ago now? “How long was I out?”
Her voice sounded rough, dry. Like a nearly-drowned sailor who had swallowed too much seawater. Like it should, then. Rhia sat up. The sand was white, warm, and somewhat unexpected. After all, the last thing she could remember was diving from a burning ship - her burning ship - into the churning ocean to escape the pirates.
Bandits, actually. You’re mixing things up.
Rhia frowned, and put one hand to her head. She felt about, but couldn’t feel any sign of a head injury. Shrugging it away, she stood up, using the sword in her hand as a brace. Wait, sword? No, it was a plank. A broken section of deck plank from the ‘Chain Breaker.’ She had grabbed it in the water, her only chance for survival.
Close enough. We don’t want to hurt you, after all.
Rhia turned her head, scanning the beach. She saw no one, just clear sandy beach. In fact, she saw nothing other than sandy beach and water. Not shore then, not even an island. She had washed up on a sand bar. This didn’t seem right. Not right at all.
“Well I’m sorry, but you’re not giving me very much to work with.”
The deep bass voice behind her brought a scream from Rhia’s throat. She turned.
Then she threw up, or would have, had she a physical body to do so. Instead, she just stared at the Mikhail, who stared back with looks of grave concern. The wind ruffled their hair, but she felt none of it.
“What am I doing here?” They didn’t respond, only staring at her. “Mikhail, what is going on?” No answer. They stood ready, as they always did when she was in their presence, waiting for any order she might give them, but they seemingly could not hear her. She tried to tell them to bring Anya to her, one of the sell-spears, anyone. They did not move. Nothing Rhia said had any effect. She raised her voice, screamed even, and yet they did not move. Not until she brandished her sword at them, at which point they recoiled slightly, then, looking like kicked puppies, turned back to look out over the walls, standing guard, as they had been ordered.
While I do appreciate, even encourage, travel and such, moving so swiftly and without warning makes it so difficult to carry on a conversation.
Rhia shook her head. In fact, her entire body shook. This made no sense! What in the Hells?
“There you are! Now, where were we?”
Where were they, indeed? Rhianna turned at the sound of the voice, saw a familiar face, then felt the world twist and spin. For a moment, she blacked out, falling into a wave of icy darkness.

Thaurlann had not been surprised to find the list empty, as he had expected the soldiers to head out after the bandits the morning after he left. As he had looked around at the burnt-out campfires, half-dug latrines and lack of any permanent defenses, he had quickly realized that they weren't planning on coming back any time soon.
Now, as he lay somewhere in the castle, barely aware of his surroundings, he had even more time to think about his circumstances. A thousand questions burned in his mind, threatening to engulf his entire head with their flames.
He had seen some soldiers that had obviously remained behind, but what of the bandits? What of the two creatures? What of Koomdawr, if they even knew of him?
Thaurlann knew he should stay resting. His belly, though, no longer competing with rain or insects or wolf howls, had a captive audience - and it demanded immediate attention. It had not been full for days. He remembered a feast hall on the first floor, and before he even knew it, that's where his legs had taken him.
The food was much more common fare than had been prepared for the clergy, but the children in the kitchen surrendered it to him without resistance, scurrying about their own tasks and occasionally pausing to stare at his hair and eyes - though never hard enough to constitute a challenge.
The remaining sellspears weren't particularly dominant, and though some grumbled when they had to pay their bets, none bothered him. In fact, the great hairy one they called Hoghead came to talk with him a bit as he lay dazed, chortling as he offered the outlander some of the good wine he'd won.
Now the food was a heavy lump in his gut, and his body was one great leaden ache.
Thaurlann politely accepted a little of the wine, though he sipped it sparingly. As he finally had a chance to take in his surroundings, a feeling of surreality overtook him. How could he be in this warm, comfortable keep, when only hours before he lay in the damp mud of the forest, unsure whether he would make it another day? The food in front of him, the other sellspears, even the bench beneath him felt as if they might disappear at any moment, and he would find that he had never left the forest at all.
Thaurlann shook the dazed blankness from his eyes, nodding over at something he thought he had heard Hoghead say. Or maybe it was just an echo in his mind. He looked at the other soldiers in the dining hall and wondered if he would ever get answers to his questions. This stalwart soldier seemed like a good place to start, though.
"Are you all that remains?" he asked.
Hoghead grunted an affirmative, idly scratching his bristly chin. "You have missed the others by a day. All of a sudden, the Holy Vons decide to go back. Bad luck for you, neh? I do not think you can catch them, vith your vounds... and by the time they are closed, it vill be a long trek into the Forest, hah!" He shook his shaggy head. "I vould not vant to be von chosen for that by the Varden."
Thaurlann's eyes brightened as he saw Anya enter the room. He mused to himself that they had traded places since the last time he had seen her - now she was the battle-hardened soldier, and he was the wounded patient.
He even smiled at the mention of Krel, although part of him still felt some resentment towards the priest. "It looks like I have no need to catch the others," he said softly to Hoghead. "The ones I seek are still here."

With her military experience - and new rank - it didn't take Anya long to arrange the guards' shifts (though she couldn't stop the grumbling about them), and by the following morning she had already selected someone she thought wouldn't be a total disaster as her lieutenant in her absence. He hadn't looked any less nervous at the thought of magic than the others, but Gobel seemed competent enough - and after all, she didn't think it too likely that another mad mag would sweep down on them. Besides, the sellspears seemed to react better to him... for whatever reason.
That left the question of whom she should take with her. Of course, Rosjevo hadn't appeared particularly disturbed at the mention of demons and dark magic, but the white gypsy had shown no fear, either. He had even come afterwards to speak to her about fighting wizards. Since he had not gone with the priests for some reason, perhaps he could be of use. She had need of those not too frightened to fight, and there was no place for him at the keep now that the stores had been depleted.
Of all the others, Aksana seemed the best to add to her band. Anya knew her a little, after all - and she was another woman. Anya didn't want to question her motives in selecting the harmless-seeming scout.
There weren't many guards to spare in the keep's defense, but she thought so few would weaken the keep little, and strengthen her band much. That made it doubly a relief when the big outlander who had aided her - Thaurlann, she recalled - came limping back to the keep half-dead as the light faded. Wounded though he was, he was strong, had his own horse, was unlikely to fit in with the others, being an outlander - and after all, he had helped her before. Still, by her expert judgement of his wounds, it was clear that he would need at least three days of rest and care to be of value on her hunt. Longer, should he fall ill.
Perhaps she should speak to Atjets Krel.
Lord Tjesnitjérs only gave her a curt nod when she reported her arrangements with him. He said nothing of their early departure nor her decision to take along some of the mercenaries, only telling her to take what supplies and equipment she needed... and wishing her good luck. Lowering his voice, he added, "Take care of the maga, Varden. She must not die."
“Yes, my lord,” Anya bowed her head and was dismissed. She walked through the Keep, looking for Atjets Krel. She wanted to bring the foreigner in her group, and she hoped Krel could help him heal faster, as he had done for her. Every moment that passed was a moment more that her vengeance could slip away. And she would never accept that.
When finally she found the Atjets, she approached him respectfully.
“Excuse me, Atjets Krel, may I have a moment?”
Krel took a moment to respond. The small healer seemed to be reciting something softly under his breath, perhaps some prayer or maybe just a stray thought. Finally, he nodded slightly. "Varden." After a moment hesitation, Krel made a sign of blessing between them. "Your new rank suits you. It appears that I have been assigned to aid your qvest, although not as ve had expected. You have begun to select others, yes? It is unfortunate that there vill not be others of the church more capable to aid you, but they vill come soon." Krel took a slight sigh. "So vhat vould you speak to me about?
"Please valk vith me, Atjets," Anya said as she began to lead the way toward the place where Thaurlann was bedded, "I do not believe it is unfortunate that you vere left behind. Nor do I believe it to be a coincidence. Qvite the opposite. Vhen I see you by my side, I see a companion that vas chosen for me by divine grace. I do not take it lightly and I am very grateful."
They arrived at the room. The raven-haired woman looked at the priest with her usual emotionless grey eyes.
"The blond foreigner that arrived last night, he has gone through a trial to a lesser degree, not unlike I did. I believe he vas also tested. And I believe that he passed and that he must come vith us. Of course, he is in no shape to come now, but if I am correct and that he has shown himself vorthy by passing the gods' trial for him, you should be able to invoke Talona's grace to heal him as you did for me. Vill you try this?"
Anya stepped aside to allow Krel to enter the room first. The ranger noticed the priest hesitate as he looked into the forge. She peered inside and saw the empty cot where Thaurlann should be.
"Vhat is this?" Anya entered and saw no sign of the blond warrior. Only Aksana, Spielos and Rosjevo sitting nearby. She spoke to them.
"Vhere is the foreigner? Vhy is he not resting?"
Spielos looked up, holding a fishing hook before his eye. He twisted it slightly, inspecting the sharpness of the point as he drawled, "If you mean Thaurlann, he staggered off a while back muttering something about eating a whole cow. It looked like he could, too. I do not think that would be a good idea, though," he remarked impishly, a bright twinkle in his eyes. "We're depleting the stores in the castle enough as it is."
"Stupid foreign govnuk!" Anya spat. "How is he supposed to come vith us tomorrow if he doesn't rest ?" She gave him a reproachful glare. "And you did not think to keep him from depleting the castle stores?" she said, completely missing the bard's humor, "Do all foreigners have rocks in their heads?" Without waiting for an answer, she then turned to Krel, her face apologetic. "Forgive me, Atjets. I vill get the foreigner and bring him back to you. Please think over my reqvest."
With that, she left and made her way down quickly to the feasthall. Her blood was boiling at the thought of her divine vengeance going awry. How dare these foreigners mess up her plan! Her grim face made sure everyone that crossed her path got out of her way. When she arrived at the feasthall, she saw the blond warrior talking with another soldier.
"You!" Anya pointed Thaurlann out as she approached him, "Vhat in the name of Bane are you doing here? Vhat good vill you be tomorrow if you do not rest? Get back to your cot, you stupid svoloch! Atjets Krel is vaiting to talk to you. Hurry!"
She took a few steps back toward the door, then stopped and peered at Thaurlann with an annoyed look on her face. "Vell? Are you coming, foreigner?"
Thaurlann's cheeks reddened slightly. "Yes, of course," he responded. He stood wearily on his legs, favoring one side noticeably. In fact, he made no attempt to present any show of strength as he hobbled behind her. "I am very glad to have made it through the forest, if only to see you again," he said as they walked up the stairs. He tried to sound conversational, but his voice cracked just a little bit, and the red flush had not left his cheeks.

As they approached the room, Thaurlann saw the Atjets and bowed deeply. Spielos looked up as the blonde man walked into the room, and it seemed that his color was returning. Briefly, Spielos thought that the food might have done him some good. Then the big man's face went white. He stumbled, then crumpled to the ground, breathing in short, sharp gasps and trying to hold back the food he had just eaten in the hopes that it would digest before his stomach expelled it to ease the load. After a few minutes of writhing in pain his body ceased the shockwaves, and he remained motionless on the ground.
Spielos snorted. "He won't be going anywhere for a while," he opined to the air.
Anya shot Spielos a unhappy look, but said nothing. After all, he was right. Still, she was convinced he had to come. She turned to Krel. "Atjets, vill you ask Talona to show her blessing?"
Krel looked from his patient to Spielos, who had just volunteered himself with his comment. "Gypsy, help him to his cot. Then ve shall see if Talona agrees vith your statement." The small healer's tone was a bit harder than he had planned, but his reprimand still stung and his mind was on edge.
Krel stood and waited for Thaurlann to be moved. Silently he considered the treatments he might need and the pain killing herbs came unbidden into his mind. The outlander was obviously in great pain, but Krel was forbidden to do anything about it. A part of the healer rebelled at the thought of allowing the suffering, but he considered the teachings of Loviatar. The Mistress of Pain was an excellent teacher, and perhaps the outlander had something to learn. His lesson certainly appeared to be one he would not forget.
The healer pushed aside those thoughts, allowing Loviatar to continue her lesson. His mind began to focus on the task at hand. Too lost in his thoughts to notice that Spielos was no longer present to assist him, he said, "Tell von of the servants to bring hot vater and clean cloth for his vounds." Quietly Krel began to recite prayers of cleansing on himself and Thaurlann.
Anya nodded at Krel's request. She immediately left the room and caught a servant in the corridor.
"You! Girl!" she accosted the youth roughly, "Atjets Krel reqvests hot vater and clean cloths in the forgeroom. Now." The wide-eyed girl nodded, trying to bow in her grip. "Yes, Varden!" She took off at a run, already yelling for those she outranked to drop what they were doing and help her fetch what was needed.
Listening to Anya accost the servant in the hallway, Aksana was glad that she had hung back out of the way. This woman was definitely different now that she was back on her feet. With a shake of her head she slid closer to where the Atjets was working with Thaurlann. She had been impressed by his work on Anya and wanted to watch him tend the injured outlander. It was hard to remain circumspect; the other sellspears, wary of a tongue-lashing, had abandoned the barracks-forge quickly when Anya approached. Now even Spielos had hurried off. At least it gave her a good view of what was going on.
Smiling, Spielos rose from his space on the floor. "I will help you get him into a cot, sure. Just stay out of the way, I wouldn't want you to get blood on you," he quipped pleasantly. He gave Thaurlann a once over as he arranged the big man into a more compact package. There wasn't much to do on ships if the wind was right and sailing was easy; Spielos had spent a great deal of time wrestling. That combined with his training in tumbling and dance had given Spielos a fairly keen understanding of how to manipulate the human body. He moved Tharulann to a thick blanket on the floor swiftly but with surprising gentleness. Spielos wanted a minimum of shifting that might aggravate any wounds from which Thaurlann suffered.
"There he is," Spielos muttered as he finished. "Now I'm going fishing," he declared as he grabbed his gear and started towards the door. A handful of children came puffing up the stairs with stacks of cloth and small kettles of steaming water, too small to manage anything larger. They placed a bucket beside Krel and filled it, hurrying off to fetch more despite fascinated stares at Thaurlann's ugly wounds. Anya watched the servants work and was satisfied. She made a note to put in a good word about them with Lord Tjesnitjérs, then returned her attention to Krel and what he was about to do.
"No, you are not," she said firmly, wondering if the Gods were testing her again already. She was never one to take command before, and now command had been thrust upon her. She wasn't certain of what she was doing and already she felt like she was losing control of this very small band. "You vill stay here until you are dismissed by me or the Atjets." She still needed to talk to them about when they were leaving and their objective, but healing Thaurlann came first.
Krel paused in his prayers and examined the supplies being brought in by the servants. He gave Spielos a passing glance, but did not respond to his comment. Instead, he added, "For now, the gypsy can help the little vons carry the vater." He made a symbol of cleansing over the water, reciting more words of prayer to Great Mother Talona. He paused to address Anya. "Varden, you may stay if you vish, but this vill take some time. I must cleanse his vounds and treat him as I may. Then I vill pray over him to see if Talona finds him vorthy of her gifts."
"Yes, I am," Spielos said, his tone pleasant. He dropped his voice so that only Anya could hear him. "If my proximity to the sellspears has you confused, let me remind you that I am not one of them. Nor am I one of you, as it has been made clear to me time and time again. I'm willing to help you, but you catch more flies with honey than vinegar."
Shouldering his pack, Spielos started towards the door. He didn't seem to hear Krel's words. Inside, his mind was racing. From bad to worse, Spielos thought. This is going to get out of control. He'd just spat in the face of a direct order, but he wasn't some damn scrub or lackey. It is still a piss poor way of getting the chain of command sorted out, he mused. He expected the command to be given to seize him, or perhaps just a sword in the back. Still, he kept his head up and walked with a purpose towards the door. Better to die on his feet, at least this nightmare would be over.
Thaurlann, finally recovering somewhat from the unexpected pain, lifted his head wearily to watch the gypsy walking towards the exit. "His sense of responsibility hasn't improved at all since I left," Thaurlann muttered to himself, though he suspected Krel and Aksana probably caught the remark. He looked up at Krel and smiled with recognition. "I trust you and I trust the blessing of Talona. But we must talk soon about what I've learned. There are more than bandits in the woods threatening these people."
Krel began to carefully examine Thaurlann's wounds, prodding firmly and expertly. He spoke quietly as he worked. "Outlander, vhere do you think you are? The Dales, or some soft southland village? These are the vildlands." He paused to look at Thaurlann. "Everything here is dangerous. Bane's blessed people are pounded like metal in the forge, strengthened and hardened." He went back to his examination. "A year from now this village could be gone. It is vhy they stick together, huddled in behind their vall, in the shadow of this keep." The healer's thoughts drifted to another village, long ago. A mining village, not very different from this one. One day prosperous because of the ore mined there, the next destroyed by a brutal plague, burned away by Talona. Krel's gaze drifted to his hands, scarred by the plague which he alone still carried.
"Is this the danger you spoke of before? Did you heed my counsel?" Krel continued, the answer obvious in the wounds which he saw. The angry red puffiness suggested infection, but he was confident it wouldn't be difficult to clean away. The rest of the wounds required stitches and poultices.
Thaurlann turned his head away with a mix of shame and anger. He knew a lecture was coming, and maybe he deserved it. After all, if he had listened to the Atjets he would have met a much better end than this. On the other hand, if the priest had come with him that night, it might have been the edge he needed to ultimately defeat the creatures.
"I did, in fact meet the evil I told you about. We can discuss it later," he said, suddenly no longer wanting to talk about it. "I also met a strange creature in the forest whose words I hoped you could help me understand. He wanted me to take this-" Thaurlann stopped suddenly, looking around the room to see if Rosjevo was still there. "He wanted me to look for someone or something called Jarrow. Have you heard of it?"
Krel let his patient change the subject as he continued cleaning the wounds. He prodded Thaurlann's injured left arm for several moments, muttering blessings under his breath. The healer paused to wring the water out of a fresh cloth. "No. It is not familiar to me. Could be a local. I have barely left the keep since ve arrived. There is much going on here as vell."
Satisfied that the wounds were clean, Krel prepared to stitch the injured arm. "I must close the vound or it vill not heal cleanly." Without waiting for a response, the healer continued his work. After a few stitches, Krel added, "So you discovered much in your venture? Perhaps your miss step had some purpose then."
Thaurlann shrugged weakly, trying not to tear at the fresh stitches. He felt like he had much more to tell, but nobody to tell it to. The priest could simply shrug it all off as a morality lesson, he thought.
He looked over at Aksana, who watched the work intently. She might listen to his story, but could she help him make any sense of it? He hadn't even thought to see if she had a reaction to the name Jarrow, and as a scout she might have better information.
That question could wait. Realizing he might be impolitely staring, Thaurlann sunk his eyes back down towards his chest. For now, he would just quietly heal and rest. He needed at least that much. He just wished the damn rats in the walls would stop squeaking so loudly.

Going to take her turn standing sentry on the battlements, Aksana paused on the steep stairs. Rosjevo was coming down, looking like the stormclouds pouring buckets of rain outside. He caught hold of her arm and drew her aside.
"The maga, she vill not go. She is sick." His face twisted at the word, as though it were sour. "I vill stay behind vith her, and lead her after the hunters as fast as possible as vhen she is vell. Tell this to the Varden." He shook his head dourly. "I can travel qvickly if she marks the trail. I vould think it foolish to do this vithout the maga - if it vas not the Varden's plan, of course. But still it vill make things harder. This is the best vay." He paused. "Your horse vill have to vait until then."
Aksana studied the dark man intently. "I vill do as you reqvest, though I like it not." She shook her head. "This plan to go into the voods seems to get vorse and vorse." She continued up the stairs muttering to herself. "Bane vatch over us."

Spielos whistled a jaunty little tune as he walked back to the keep, speculating on how upset the Warden was going to be. He figured it was only a matter of time before he wound up in chains or dead in the woods, so he might was well enjoy himself while he could. This side trip was just what he needed. He hadn't caught anything, but he really wasn't trying all that hard, truth be told. No, he had been content just to lose himself in the motions and the water.
Looking around him as he walked back to the keep, he could understand the desperation and hostility he had found here. The settlement was isolated and surrounded by enemies. It was much like a ship out on the sea; you had to know your mates and trust them, because your life really did depend on them.
Here, Spielos was an unknown, and he'd have to prove himself. He knew it in his bones, but he was having a bit of trouble adjusting. Being out on his own for so long and having earned respect in the southlands were handy, but poor, excuses for his behavior. If he was going to be here for a while (and it looked like he was) he'd have to fit in a bit more. Still, he feared how much of himself he was going to have to hide to do that.
Whistling, he made his way into the keep and up to the forge.
The echoes of whistling though the cold stone corridors startled Thaurlann awake. He realized he must have dozed off during the treatment, and checked to see if Krel and Aksana were still in the room.
"So, how was the fishing?" he asked meekly as Spielos entered the room.
<"Even the fish here are rude and don't like me,"> Spielos said. "I will try again, perhaps tomorrow." He smiled. "It is good to see you're still alive."
Thaurlann nodded. "You too. The last I saw you, you seemed to be headed for some trouble yourself. Obviously you managed to resolve it without any permanent damage." His thoughts drifted off for a moment as he thought about his own wounds. He moved his arm around tentatively and found it surprisingly limber, although still sore. "Praise Bane; Krel is truly blessed by the gods," he said under his breath. He looked back at Spielos suddenly. "One of the other soldiers said the captain and most of the company headed back to town. What happened with the hunt for the bandits?"
"I don't know." Spielos shrugged. "I went fishing." He gave the blonde main a level gaze and soothed, "Don't worry, I'm sure they won't leave without us. I'm also very sure that the Warden will keel over in a rage if you don't get well quickly, so I advise just getting some rest."

With the great room behind the armory converted from forge to garrison, Thaurlann didn't have to go far to re-arm himself. With the armory open to the keep's guards, there was plenty to choose from. Disassembled suits of armor were neatly arranged in racks and in alcoves, but there were no shields. Three tables along the wall were cluttered with gauntlets, breastplates, helmets and weapons, all of an impressive quality to Thaurlann's expert eye. Many bore the Tjesnitjérs crest. Heavy, ironbound chests held weapons and armor as well: jagged daggers, slim sabers of different lengths, dark gauntlets and hundreds of bolts for the two crossbows the sellspears had appropriated for the watch. Thaurlann was quick to spot a suit of armor looking something like his old set might have once resembled, back when it was first forged, and perhaps not even then. He grabbed a pair of gauntlets, discarding his muddy, torn gloves on the floor. A simple longsword completed the ensemble, and Thaurlann felt almost back to normal. His shield was still an issue, but he had a vague recollection of leaving it strapped to Lightning.
Checking Lightning's condition proved more difficult; the horse lines the sellspears had used were gone, and the children of the keep told him that all the horses were stabled in the village. A young boy, muddy to the knees, told him that his horse was well enough and promised it would be well cared-for.
Then again, the boy's vague reassurances about his horse did not calm his fears about the steed. He fought the urge to run down to the village himself, realizing that he was still not at full strength himself.
He had gotten the gist of the current bandit-hunting mission; although he felt that his own encounters in the forest might still need attention he was willing to do his military duty now, and do his duty to Koomdawr later.
Thaurlann searched for a chain or belt to hang the horn around his neck; he had no way to hide it effectively, and he would not leave it behind. Once he felt ready, Thaurlann sought Anya, or "the Warden" as he had heard her called, to find out their specific plans.

Fortunately, it didn't take too long for Thaurlann to track his new liege down, although all the walking wore down his injured leg.
Outside, in front of the keep, Anya brushed her grey mare gently. Her faithful companion through so much. She had come out alone, before the others, because she wanted to try riding without witnesses. If her hand forced her to ride differently… she didn't want to wince in pain in front of those she was to lead. She could not show weakness. They would not follow weakness. Not that they followed her now…
"Vhat am I doing, Silkymist?" she whispered to the horse, "It is crazy. Stupid. Vithout Rhia it is folly… I cannot lead these people. We have not even left and they do not listen to me. I do not think I have what is needed to bring them out of the voods alive. Heimdall has it. Rhia has it. But me? I have never lead anyvone in my life. I have spent the last five years alone vith you, Silkymist. And now, all of a sudden, I am the Varden of Ezeroh and I must lead this group into battle? Gods help me I cannot do it… and still I vill. It is the destiny thrust upon me by the Gods."
Gripping the reins tightly, she mounted the horse and searing pain shot through her left hand. She swore loudly and cradled the hand under her other arm. She would have to be careful with it.
Thaurlann watched Anya riding for a minute, admiring her prowess and beauty. He had considered his previous protective feelings towards her somewhat improper. Now, though, feelings of respect replaced those feelings, and he was comfortable approaching her.
Thaurlann walked slowly up to her until he could catch her attention, then dropped to one knee. The horn of Koomdawr dangled from his neck and bounced off his leg.
"I am ready for our hunt, Warden," he said firmly. "My sword is yours to command."
Anya brought Silkymist to a halt before Thaurlann and looked the foreigner over. She had always found the blond hair of southerners to be strange and misplaced. Especially on males. There was something feminine about blond hair, in her opinion. It was part of the image of weakness foreigners had in her mind, but she knew that looks could be deceiving. This man had endured a trial from the gods, and she thought he deserved respect for it. However, she was surprised by the way he seemed to completely submit to her. It was the exact opposite of the other outlander. Anya wondered what she had done to deserve it and felt uncomfortable.
"Stand, foreigner," she said sharply. "Be careful who you kneel before, here in the Moonsea. It is a mark of respect reserved for boyars and clergy, on certain occasions. Do it in front of anyone else, or when it is not reqvired, and it is a sign of veakness." Thaurlann nodded and stood to face her, though he still kept his head tilted just slightly down from her.
Anya dismounted, carefully avoiding using her left hand. Landing before the warrior, she was about to speak again when she realized she didn't know what to call him.
"Vhat name do you go by in these parts, foreigner?" she asked, giving the opportunity for him to keep his birth name to himself if he wished, as was common in the Moonsea.
"The only name I've ever gone by," he replied directly, somewhat confused by the wording of the question. "Thaurlann. As for my sign of respect, I felt it fitting considering your rank. I gave an oath, of sorts, to Captain Garsha, to help the keep. It seems that duty has now fallen to you, in the hunting of the bandits. I do not consider it a sign of weakness to bow to one's liege."
"Stop!" Anya said sharply, "Lord Tjesnitjérs is your liege, not I!" Thaurlann stopped speaking, but his face showed he had more on his mind. Her face softened a little. "Look, I know our vays might seem strange to you, but such a mistake can be called treasonous here. And treason is punished by death. Be careful. I am your commanding officer. Nothing more, nothing less."
Thaurlann nodded. It was hard to tell from his expression, that almost of a scolded child, if he truly understood or not. After a moment, he added, "I should also add that I have likewise made an oath to a Forest Thing named Koomdawr to return this horn to something called Jarrow. I would appreciate any help you can offer, but for now I will not interfere with our duties to the keep. Just let me get my horse from the village and I, for one, will be ready to ride."
Anya took a vivid interest in Thaurlann's words. "I know of Jarrow," she said, "He used to be Lord Tjesnitjérs' mag, but he is dead now. Rhia has taken up his position."
The news struck Thaurlann at first, but he quickly recovered. "Well, I suppose if he has a replacement, I should take the horn to her?" he asked tentatively. "I thought I heard she's ill and won't be joining us, though. I suppose I should wait until we return since we are so close to leaving."
Thaurlann looked behind Anya at her steed, then off towards the village. "As I said, I lack only my ride, assuming he's still in good shape, before we leave. I don't know about the others, but I would be glad to check on them if you like, Warden."

The Second Cycle