Rain clattered down through the leaves in great, heavy drops and spattered onto the tired shingle roof, already sodden with years of weather and moss. Merren squinted up at it in consternation as he hobbled up the path, which was quickly becoming a muddy torrent. The bundle of haphazard sticks and split logs jangled dully and thumped against the heavy plank door as he stepped inside and kicked his feet against the rushes laid down by the doorway.

The sweet, earthy smell of vegetable broth hung heavily in the warm, muggy air and he smacked his lips appreciatively together, dropping his bundle next to the fire-pit in a jumble, and wiping his nose on the sleeve of his tunic.

The fading leaden twilight from outside was shunted away as the door closed, and with a clucking noise like an irritated hen, Mara set about sorting the mess of firewood into neat piles.

"I've told you more'n once, husband. It's not safe to be out at even'; shadows aren't as empty as they ought these days. You dry off that axe afore it goes rusted, and yourself afore you catch your death o' cold," she said, finishing with a severe look.

Merren grinned at her toothily and scratched the greying hairs on his chin, then reached down and picked up the muddy-handled axe from the rushes.

"What's for supping, love? Broth? Ar, I could do with some and all..."

He took off his sodden tunic and used it to wipe the mud from the axe blade, steam rising gently from his wiry back. The pot clanked as Mara's ladle briskly stirred the contents, and the orange embers of the fire hushed and whispered softly, casting a soft red glow about the old woman's set features.

Merren chewed his lip ponderously and examined her face with the eyes of memory. She had never been beautiful in the way of elves or the lasses of the plains, but there was still a care and determination about her, a solid decency and a good head on her shoulders, and out here that was worth much more.

A pity now, to see how fragile she seemed - it was death for a mother to lose her children, and only testament to her strength that she was still going. Gods knew it had been hard, so very hard. But they were still here and they were still alive and warm together, and by Merren's reckoning, that was something to be proud of.

Mara's sharp eyes caught his, and something of his thoughts must have been showing on his face, for she paused, and then gave him a brief, stolid smile before handing him a steaming bowl of broth and some bread, crumbling a few lumps of goat's cheese on top.

They ate in silence and then simply sat, watching one another as the firelight faded to the faintest trace of a muddy brown glow; the drumming of the rain outside became a faint patter, and then stopped.

Finally, with a heavy sigh, they moved over to the bed and clambered inside, and within five hundred heartbeats, Mara's breath had become a rumbling snore.

Visions drifted across Merren's eyes bizarrely; glimpses of sunlight from a past age, shreds of forgotten laughter echoed brightly up from the depths of his memory - the raised voices of two boys, tussling in the trees at the edge of the clearing, laughing and shouting, their feet thudding on the ground and the old forest creaking in the breeze -

With a wash of cold panic across his chest and a little jerk, Merren was awake, blinking his eyes furiously to clear the gum of sleep from them. The creak had been real. A thread of impossibly bright silver moonlight cut the darkness by his bedside, and there was the faintest of splashes by the door.

His heart hammering dangerously, Merren lay stiff as a rod, waiting for another sound to tell him where the intruder was.

There - the slide of one wooden bowl against another, in the far corner.

As quickly as he could, Merren leapt from the bed, aiming for where he had left the axe by his bundled tunic, but the bedskins came off with him and his feet tangled, throwing him to the ground. There was a clatter and a shriek from behind him as Mara sat bolt upright in bed, clutching her chest.

His veins burning with urgency, Merren writhed and struggled to loose himself from the skins, and was free. Ignoring the ominous crack from his protesting hip, he darted for the axe and after a moment's fumbling it was in his hand, trailing a tunic over its head. He turned into the blind darkness and yanked the tunic away, bearing the blunted old blade, and staring about into the shadows to find the intruder's shape.

There was a crash as a basket was kicked over and a sack dropped to the ground. Its contents tumbled out, and there it was, a black, gangly shape; a darker blur in the sharp shadows cast by the moon. With a yell, Merren swung his axe directly at it, but it jerked sharply aside and the blade turned, striking with a hollow 'thump' and glancing out of his hand. There was a grunt of expelled breath and the thing rammed into him and knocked him over backwards, but with less force than he had been expecting.

Mara gave another shriek and a candle-stand flew through the air and bounced off the doorstep where moments later, the swarthy figure stood silhouetted against the moonlight, slumping slightly against the doorframe and panting.

Scrabbling around behind his back, Merren found a thick stick of firewood and closed his hand about it. With a jerk and an inarticulate yell he leapt toward the figure and swung the wood. It lunged away from him out towards the clearing, but the branch connected with its shoulder and the thing sprawled forwards into the mud of the path, tried feebly to pull itself up and collapsed again. Its long, straggly black hair trailed in the dirt.

His eyes wide and jowls shaking, Merren raised his arm to strike again, but a hand caught his wrist and Mara's voice hissed "Merren, no!"

He glanced from her to the figure on the ground, his mouth flapping in bewilderment whilst his stunned mind raced to catch up.

And then it came to him; a slow wave of realisation. The weakly struggling form was not a goblin; it was human. As the moonlight caught her, he would make out a tallish, dark-haired girl, her body thin with hunger and her limbs shaking weakly as she tried again to get up. He dumbly lowered the stick and let it fall.

"Gods."

Mara had rushed forwards, her night-dress trailing in the mud as she stooped to turn the girl over and look at her face. Merren padded forward in a daze, stopping on the other side of her.

The moonlight caught the girl's pale, muddied face and he could see her madly rolling, unfocused eyes and sweat-beaded forehead. She blinked fiercely and tried to get up, her head lolling slightly, but she slipped again and fell back to earth.

"Adhnizish adhûn! Azlat! Azlat! Get - get off me!"

Mara recoiled as if she had been burnt, and a shadow passed over her face. Something about the ugly words the girl had just uttered seemed to chill the air and make the shadows deeper. She backed away, and the girl struggled feebly to stand, though her limbs were shaking and there was blood on her lip. Quivering, she staggered backwards a step, blinking at the old couple as if trying to find clear sight and failing. A drunken hand fumbled at her belt and drew a knife. Its blade bobbed and weaved like a silvery fish in the darkness as she struggled to hold it steady, and then...

She collapsed. Her limbs gave way and she fell in a crumpled heap upon the path before slumping onto her side, unconscious.

"Gods...," breathed Mara.

There was a long moment of tentative indecision as their breath slowed and the chill in the air subsided. Finally, Mara's features set.

"Come, there's some sickness upon her, or some blight o' hunger. Help get the poor wretch inside."

They shared a glance, each thinking with the other, but neither speaking their mind.

Between them they picked up the limp form and carried her inside onto the table, scattering wrapped cheeses and oatbreads onto the floor. Her skin under Merren's fingers burned to the touch. As Mara set about lighting candles from the fire's embers and wiping the mud from the girl's brow, it became obvious that a terrible fever had gripped her, and it did not take long to find the source of it.

A soiled bandage was wrapped about her left forearm, and underneath was a dreadful wound; a palm's breadth of skin had been crudely cut away, and what was underneath was inflamed and jagged, and sent a foul smell into the air.

"Ye Gods," Merren muttered under his breath. "How w's she still standing wi' a wound like to that? Must be a poison an' fury in her blood by the look of things. She's needing a healer, or a rite-sayer if uncommon luck isn't with 'er."

Mara was frowning at the wound, and holding the girl's wrist with an unconscious tenderness that Merren had not seen from her in many years.

"Can't find a healer, 'less we were to wander north and yell for an elf, but there's no likeness they'd come for us, even if'n we find them, much less for one who speaks her tongue," she finished darkly.

They both stared at the girl's face. The shadow of death lay over her and hollowed her eyes, yet there was still a cold, high beauty about her - pale, shapely features turned in troubled sleep and shaded by the want of nourishment and care. Her breath was heavy and there was blood upon her lip; Merren supposed that his axe must have hit her chest and gave silent thanks to whichever spirits were listening that his neglect of the blade and his panic had let the blow fall so lightly. Nevertheless, a wash of hot guilt crept up his back and spread to his brow.

Whichever way he turned it, and whichever black tongue she spoke, here was a child, or little more, hurt and hungry. As such there was only one choice.

"Aye, no elves. Journeying that path these days i'nt a good notion if you're wanting to come back upon it, elves or no." He chewed his lip for a moment. "We'll see what we kin do for her 'ere. If'n she dies, so be the will o' the gods, if not, then we kin see if her heart's as black as her tongue."

Mara's knuckles were white. There was a yawning finality in the air, and Merren knew that their chances of living beyond this were slim. To see another child fade from sickness would cast a pall over both of them that would not be easy to survive, and if she were nursed back to health? Well, they were both old, and even in the grip of fever, the girl had moved like a snake. What were the chances that anyone who spoke a tongue so foul would have a good heart?

No matter. Fate was not to be played with or ignored, and better to be murdered in their beds and know her heart was black than to let her die and never be sure.