The crusader did not return the next day, nor the day after that. A week passed. Rumford had nearly given him up for dead, and though he was not surprised, he did feel a twinge of regret that the world had lost as good a man as that. Rumford wondered idly if Galadrius had suffered, or worse – if he might one day recognize the rotting scarlet tabard upon an undead foe.
But he had little time to ponder the matter. There were rations to be divvied up, orders to be given, and weapons to be repaired. As Galadrius might have said, "The crusade goes ever on." It was this notion that found Rumford driving a horse-drawn cart into the heart of New Tristram, bearing an eclectic mix of weapons for repair.
Rumford heard the rhythmic clank of iron on steel long before the smith himself came into sight. He was out front of his forge, hunched over an anvil, pounding a hammer over a blade. The sheen of sweat on his brow only made the premature lines of his face more pronounced. Rumford jumped down off the cart to greet him.
"Haedrig," he said, clasping the smith's forearm. "It's been too long, old friend. How are you?"
Haedrig wiped his face with a dirty rag, leaving a dark streak across his forehead. Now that he was closer, Rumford wished he hadn't asked. He noticed the shadows under Haedrig's eyes, dark as storm clouds, and the drawn tightness at the corners of his mouth. Once, this man was rarely seen without a smile. Now it seemed he would never do so again. "I've been better. What can I do for the new captain of the guard?"
Rumford gestured back at the cart. The horse was pulling up clods of sweetgrass and chewing noisily.
"Horse needs shoeing. Weapons need sharpening."
"I can shoe the horse now, while yeh wait. As for the weapons . . . sorry, Andrew. Full up. Yeh'll have to wait nigh a fortnight; I cannae get to it 'fore then."
Rumford's jaw dropped. "A fortnight? That's far too long!"
Haedrig shrugged, his expression sour as he fetched his farriery tools. "Me apprentice ran off, so I'm on me own now, and they've got me caring for the wounded in what little time I have to meself. City coffers are keeping me belly full, but at what cost? Tell you what, yeh can pick up yer iron piecemeal if that works better for yeh. Come back in a few days; I'll get as much done as I can. No promises, though. Not even for you, Andrew."
"Tell me what I can do, then, to lighten your load," Rumford said.
Haedrig sighed. "Can ye spare a man to watch o'er the sick and the wounded? Me wife was, 'fore she took ill herself. I've been stretched thin covering her work and me own."
"I'll do it myself," Rumford said.
"Ye're a good man, Andrew," Haedrig said gratefully.
Rumford shrugged. "We've got to help each other out if we're to survive this mess. You'd do the same for me."
"Aye, and more." A short while later, the cart-horse was freshly shod and Haedrig began unloading the weapons from the cart, tossing them onto a rack with haphazard care. Rumford came around to help and soon the cart was empty.
"I'll check in on Mira on my rounds," Rumford said. "Thank you again, Haedrig."
"Be safe, Andrew." Haedrig turned away and picked up the first blade to sharpen.
Rumford completed his rounds, loading the cart with rations to be distributed at the barracks. He felt guilty at the meager stack of crates, filled with little more than stale bread and moldering produce. It wasn't enough for all of them, not when they spent half their time fighting for their lives. Each day more of them fell, and the next they faced their brothers-in-arms, husks of what they once were, across the battlefield.
He passed the makeshift infirmary, and was concerned to see it dark and still. He did not often make it to this corner of New Tristram, as far as it was from the barracks and the gate to prevent the spread of disease. The red lantern by the door remained unlit. Rumford wondered if the driving rain had put it out.
He knocked upon the door, which opened easily under his fist. For his own peace of mind he drew his sword and kept it low at his side. His cautious nature had kept him alive on Captain Daltyn's patrol; he hoped it would serve him the same now.
"Hello?"
But his only response was the echo of an empty house. Rumford continued, peeking into the large hall that had been laid with rows of cots. No one greeted him save the howl of the wind.
Rumford did not fancy checking the cellar, which was accessible from both the stairs to his left and the exterior of the house. He suspected if the injured and infirm had turned, they would retreat into the darkest hole they could find – it was their nature. If he went in alone he would not stand a chance. He elected to report his findings to Haedrig and return with help. Either way, this did not bode well for Mira. Rumford left the house, his spine prickling with unease, and he did not sheathe his sword until he was nearly back at the forge.
Haedrig took the news in his same stoic way. Rumford's heart went out to his friend. He reached out to clasp Haedrig's shoulder, briefly, and the smith's hammer paused in its low arc.
"Give me a couple of days, Haedrig. I'll take care of this. I've got a friend who can help – a crusader. He's out at the cathedral, but he should be back soon. If Mira is still alive, we'll find her."
Haedrig responded with a grunt and a half-shrug. "No sense in false hope, Andrew."
Well, the captain had nothing to say to that.
As short-manned as they were, Rumford fell into long days of gate duty once more. He dozed off at his post more than once, only to be startled awake by the clash of steel on steel, real and imagined. Lack of sleep and proper food played tricks on his weary mind, and on several occasions Rumford thought he glimpsed a savior in bright armor come to redeem them, just as Galadrius had a fortnight prior. Other times, his mind's cruel eye showed him the crusader, as powerful in death as he had been in life, shield and armor stained red with blood that no longer pumped through living veins.
And there it was. The once-gleaming armor, dulled by blood and battle, staggering towards the gate. Rumford almost didn't think it could be real, but it was.
"To arms!" Rumford called, but there was was no mistaking that familiar form for the dead. Galadrius was weary, injured, and worse for wear, but he was alive. His smile split his broad face with relief.
"Captain," he said. "I cannot say what a comfort it is to see you once again."
"At ease," Rumford said, and his guards lowered their weapons. He let out a shaky laugh. "You've lost your helmet, my friend."
"Indeed."
"Did you find the fallen star?"
Galadrius nodded. "The story is not finished yet. In fact, I believe it is just beginning. But it can wait until I get a tankard of ale and a hot meal in my belly."
Rumford moved to the crusader's side; just in time, in fact, as Galadrius slumped against him. "Hold the gate!" he barked to his men, and helped his injured friend hobble to the Slaughtered Calf. He did not notice the silent stranger trailing behind.
Leah was waiting in the common room, spooning broth into a wizened widow's mouth with care. Her green eyes widened when she saw Rumford and Galadrius. Leah dropped the spoon. It clattered across the oak slab table, splashing her and the old woman with broth. With a hasty apology to her charge, she rushed to greet them.
"Galadrius! Captain – what's happened?"
Rumford shook his head grimly as he deposited Galadrius into a chair. "Not sure. He found the star, though. That's about all he's said since he got back."
Leah leaned over the crusader while Rumford went to find him something to eat.
"Galadrius?"
He waved her away. "Continue your ministrations; my wounds will keep."
Leah looked uncertain, but she did as she was bidden and returned to her table. Rumford returned with a bowl of wilted vegetable soup in one hand and two tankards of beer.
Galadrius fell to eating as if his last meal had been in this very tavern many days ago. He paused and used his spoon to prod a turnip lump. Rumford, who was sporting a rather enthusiastic layer of foam over his mustache, grimaced.
"It's not much," he admitted, swiping the back of his hand over his upper lip. "Most of our farms have been burnt to the ground, mine included. All's that's left is what's in folks' cellars, and what few trade caravans make it past those rotting bastards."
If Galadrius heard him, the only indication was the way his lips tightened at the corners. He scooped the turnip chunk up with a bit of gruel and continued eating like a ravenous dog.
Once he'd sopped up the last of the broth with a heel of bread, Galadrius looked marginally better. Leah had finished her task at hand and joined his table. She sat upon her hands and bounced her leg, setting the table to rattling, full to bursting with questions. Finally she couldn't take it anymore.
"Captain Rumford says you found the star. Did you find Uncle Deckard?"
His eyes were heavy as he nodded. "Alas, his wounds were too grievous. We bore him back on a litter. I performed his last rites myself."
Leah's face crumpled. "No," she whispered. "No!" She struck her fist upon the table and bolted so quickly her chair overturned.
Captain Rumford and Galadrius watched her go. "She has suffered so much loss in her young life," Rumford lamented. "It is a wonder she can smile at all. What of the star?"
Galadrius shook his head through a mouthful of ale and beckoned to someone behind Rumford. "'Twas not a star at all, but a man."
And out of the shadows of the Slaughtered Calf emerged a solemn figure. He towered over the other patrons, and were the crusader, a tall man himself, to stand, the stranger would dwarf even he. The stranger was built in perfect, broad symmetry, like he'd been shaped by the hand of a god rather than born of a woman's womb. His skin was the rich color of fertile soil – the kind a farmer like Rumford would sell his soul to plow – but his eyes were a piercing, unnatural blue. Rumford shivered under his gaze. The stranger picked up Leah's vacated chair and sat down. Every movement he made was deliberate, like the dangerous grace of a cat as it stalked its prey. Something about him unsettled Rumford, not unlike the the way he felt around Galadrius. Not threatened, per se, but something about the stranger's presence set his nerves on edge.
"A man?" Rumford asked, his mouth dry. "Then a very lucky one, at that. How does one survive such a fall?"
The stranger shrugged. "I do not remember."
"Nothing?"
"Not even his identity, I'm afraid," Galadrius said. "Although, a clue: as you can see, we ran into a bit of trouble on our journey, and he has proven himself quite adept with a blade."
Rumford quirked an eyebrow at the stranger, whose gaze did not waver from him. "Indeed. Well, things have happened in new Tristram since your departure – we will need every able sword arm we can get."
Galadrius frowned. "More risen dead?"
Rumford hummed through his teeth. "The infirmary. Those injured by the buggers are turning themselves. Haedrig Eamon, the smith in town, his wife was caring for them, but it's been several days and she hasn't come home. Haedrig, well, he's a friend. He asked if I would help him, but we don't have any idea what we'd be walking into!" The more Rumford said, the more agitated he became. Galadrius laid a hand on the guard-captain's sleeve.
"I will accompany you."
"But your wound –"
"I've felt the sting of duller blades," Galadrius said.
Rumford sighed, half-exasperated, half-relieved. "What does that even mean?" He laughed, and to his surprise, Galadrius did too.
"It means you could not stop me, friend, even if you wished."