I feel like such a slacker -.- I can't believe it's been almost two weeks already...Fudge.

I'm trying to not jump around with the perspectives too much, but I'd rather jump around with that than with time. If anything gets confusing, let me know :)

~11~ Southward Bound

Night fell with no further incidences, and the Toscans pulled off the road, breaking through a rank of trees in order to reach a small clearing just beyond. They struck camp with mechanical swiftness, pitching tents and tethering horses, preparing a cold evening meal. They started no fires.

Will Treaty, Araluan Ranger and Toscan prisoner, was taken from the hearse and placed in a tent, his hands and feet bound. A while later, they freed him to relieve himself, then they fed him, watered him, and finally roped him once more.

Will tried to make himself comfortable on the stiff, unyielding ground, but he felt like as limber as a slug, hands behind his back and his feet tied too tightly together. He mostly squirmed in the effort to prevent his arms from falling asleep and keep his blanket on at the same time. For a while, he glowered at the Toscans sitting around the camp, talking and jostling each other jovially. After all, they had gotten what they came for, and were going to be much richer for it.

But why me? Will thought, slumping in despair. If they think they'll get a ransom for me, they're going to be sorrily disappointed...

It wasn't ten fretful minutes later that Julius returned, his half brother, Niccolò, at his side with the satchel of medicines. Will resisted the urge to growl behind the gag and simply glowered at the younger man. He was satisfied to see the fleetest of hesitations in the Toscan's next step.

Julius recovered and smirked. "Let's take a look at that leg, amico," he said, too cheerfully, as he bowed into the tent. Will didn't move as the Toscan removed his gag, then rolled up his pant leg and once more cleansed and redressed the wound with a fresh poultice and clean linen. This time, Niccolò stayed to watch, studying every move his brother made, yet saying nothing.

"You're not going to tell me why you need me, are you?" Will asked Julius flatly, expressionlessly. The Toscan continued to bind the wargal wound, only speaking when he had tied the final bandage snugly.

"I suppose it would do no harm," he said with a single shoulder shrug. "I'm sure you remember how we found you."

Berkart Falk, Will thought darkly, recalling the mendacious man who had terrorized the three villages and their headmen, trying to reclaim the land for his own. He and his family, who had been banished to the Mountains of Rain and Night, had rightful ownership, after all, but when placed at the baron's feet in Redwood, Falk proved himself an incompetent, rude, slinking dunderhead who couldn't lead a squadron of goons, let alone three whole villages and their lands. Will had rooted him out and made an enemy of him. As Julius said the day before, he had created an enemy but made the mistake of not destroying him.

"Berkart Falk," Julius said, nodding at the wave of recollection in Will's eyes. "He told us everything about your mission when we found him, wandering with his wife and grown son in the wilderness. He didn't need much convincing, as I'm sure you could guess." Julius chuckled, but it was dry and flaccid. "I like you, Will Treaty, so I'm sure you understand how surprised I am, thinking back, of how much vehemence Falk feels towards you. It would seem that, when you make an enemy, it is the darkest of all mortals with whom you do so."

"You haven't answered my question, Julius," Will said calmly, still deadpan. "I'm not interested in why it is me you've kidnapped specifically, so much as why you need a Ranger at all."

Julius was crouching on his heels, his wrists resting on his knees. He looked like he was trying to explain something moderately complex to a young child, patient and gentle. "We work for another man, you may have guessed, named Septimus. And he works for Lord Aetius Opus...Never heard of him? He's a rising warlord in Toscana."

Will was puzzled with the doctor's sudden loose tongue. How much was actually true? As though reading the Ranger's thoughts, the Toscan smiled foxily. He reached into his jacket and pulled from an inner breast pocket a folded letter.

"There, you see?" He pointed to the thick red blot of the wax seal. "This is the mark of Lord Aetius, and of the Munerian Games."

Will studied the eagle insignia, the crossed swords and laurel wreath. It meant nothing to him. He shrugged carelessly, but Julius was not vexed. He shrugged as well.

"Anyway, it will be more...significant to you eventually," he said. He turned to Niccolò. "Stay here and watch over him. Send for me should his condition worsen." He pulled Will's blanket back atop him, then replaced his gag.

"Rest well, Champion. You'll need to be in top physical form if you wish to survive the Arena of Romena." Then, grinning, he departed.

Will stared at Niccolò. The youth, gangly and meek, did nothing but stare back, as though studying a particularly fascinating specimen with suppressed interest.

He nearly tried asking a question, but then remembered his gag and held his silence. Instead, Niccolò was the one to speak.

"He's really not all that bad," he said softly, and Will just stared. His accent was really thick, and he hesitated a lot in his speech. "Julius, I mean. I'm not saying that just because we're related, but he respects others where it is due." He shrugged a shoulder and continued the one-way conversation. "I may be struggling to earn that respect, but I work hard to shine light upon myself in his eyes." Another shrug. "If he didn't love our father so much, I'm sure he wouldn't even try to like me."

Niccolò grew perturbed with the steady gaze the Ranger was delivering him, and fell silent. Why was he explaining his fratello's respect to a foreigner, anyway? What did he matter?

Still, like Julius, Niccolò found himself liking Will Treaty. There was just something about him, despite his coldness towards his captors, that was likable. A shame that he might very well lose his life in the Arena. Or, if not his life, then his sanity.

Ϯ Ϯ Ϯ

Gilan shook his head at the destruction that had been wrought by the Toscans but two days ago, the remains of a hunter's hut – Will's temporary station – mere charred ruins. The fire had long since been extinguished, yet the stench of burned refuse hung in the air like the morning mists.

"A bit extreme, I think," he said, lifting one eyebrow.

Halt grunted, his eyes avoiding the ruins as he sought to rediscover the trail of their quarry. He didn't expect to find much, seeing as the rain would have washed it all away, but it was a good distraction.

"From what I had seen," he said, "they went south from here. The closest port, I believe, is Stonewall, another two days ride. We can make it in less than that if we hurry." Even as he said this, however, he remembered his son. The boy had decided that he, too, was going to help rescue Uncle Will, because that's what Rangers do. It would save time when Gilan turned around to take him back to Redmont, for they wouldn't have to detour northeast to Castle Redwood. Of course, there wouldn't be any delay at all, but Gilan was adamant in accompanying Halt and Horace as far as the coast, and he would have gone further had duty permitted it.

They could only go so fast with a young boy jostling around in the saddle in front of Halt. But then, their quarry may be unable to pick up much of a pace with an injured man and steep desire to not arouse suspicion...

Not for the first time, the old man wished that he had commanded—on the grounds as a senior Ranger—Gilan to take Crowley, along with Tug and Ebony, back to Redmont right away. They had left the dog at Redwood for her own health, and left the horse to keep her company.

Horace kept his hand casually on the hilt of his sword, eyes scanning the solemn glade studiously, without turning his head to indicate his doing so. Halt nodded in approval. It would seem that being around Rangers had rubbed some useful influence onto him.

"How many were there, did you say?" the knight asked softly, tearing his gaze away from the pond and its concealing reeds.

"Around a dozen," Halt replied, equally gentle. "One was killed and left to burn in the fire." He recalled seeing that burnt corpse, two charred coins on its eyes. He wondered what that meant.

The company of four faced the canyon established by trees and foliage, which led south, back to the road in a few kilometres. By the time the road came into view, their shadows had become stretched, oblong shapes on the ground. Young Crowley yawned and made to cuddle up to his father and sleep.

"Let's find a place to camp," Halt said gruffly, and the others nodded impassively, showing no signs of fatigue or relief. The grizzled Ranger held a deadpan expression himself, not wishing to relay his own exhaustion. He hated being old.

About a hundred paces into the trees, they found a small glade, a brook close at hand and even a log to sit on. Horace tethered Kicker to a bush while the Rangers simply let their reins fall, knowing that their horses wouldn't wander off.

Crowley, seeming to be limitless in his interest of Horace's massive battlehorse, wandered over to the beast and revelled his immense size. Gilan went about making a fire and Halt prepared to make supper and coffee.

"I was looking forward to one of Will's famous stews," Gilan said grimly, tossing a few twigs into the growing fire as though it would have been fruitful. Halt scowled at him from over the small cooking pot.

"Well, you'll have to make do with mine," he grunted, throwing in a pinch of rosemary from a small leather pouch. He gave the stew a stir, glancing over at Crowley, who was brushing Abelard down...Well, what parts of the horse he could reach, anyway.

"I should not have brought him," he murmured. "We are moving too slow, and I don't want anything to happen to him."

"We won't let anything happen to him, Halt," said Horace, having finished caring for Kicker and was sitting near the fire. "And besides, he's a growing man. He needs to prove himself."

"Prove himself?" Halt hissed, keeping his voice lowered but still sounding incredulous. "He's four years old!"

"And the son of a gnarly old goat," Gilan added, but he wasn't smiling. "Halt, four or not, he would feel the guilt any other would face – perhaps not as vividly – that his uncle was kidnapped right before his eyes. Give him this chance to say that he helped rescue him."

Halt would have replied rather sharply had Crowley not approached, yawning and rubbing his eyes.

"I sleepy," he mumbled, before snuggling up to his father and promptly falling asleep. Halt gently covered him with a woollen blanket, letting him rest his little head against his chest.

"Halt," Gilan said softly. "He has the spirit of his mother and the heart of you. Do not underestimate him."

Halt chose to say nothing, and in fact said nothing else that night.

Ϯ Ϯ Ϯ

Julius cursed inwardly. Will Treaty was thrashing in the clutches of fever, again.

The Ranger writhed beneath his blanket, unconsciously trying to free his hands and feet from their bounds. Sweat misted his face as though he had been out in the rain, his dark hair matted and glistening. He grunted wordlessly around his gag, giving the occasional whimper of pain.

"What did you feed him last night?" he barked at Ettore, the usually drab, docile man, who acted as the hearse driver in their little ploy. The Toscan shrugged helplessly, shivering in the early dawn air.

"The same as everyone else, signore," he cried. "Rabbit stew, a biscuit and watered wine."

Julius tried to regain his dignified composure, but it was difficult with him being surrounded by imbeciles! Frantically, furiously, he tried to remember the exact vulnerary ingredients he had placed into the poultice for Treaty's leg. Yarrow to staunch further bleeding. Poppy to smother pain. Elderberry for swelling and fever. Then a few special ingredients to battle the Wargal venom running through his veins.

The concoction had worked earlier, why would it poison him now?

He ducked into the prisoner's tent and swiftly unbound him, lying him flat.

"Niccolò, bring my bag, hurry now."

Niccolò, his half brother, who had delivered the news as soon as Treaty began showing signs of the returning fever, hastened forward with the apothecary satchel. Julius snatched at it and dug through its contents veraciously.

"Get me fresh water. Now!" he bellowed. The weedy youth scrambled to do his bidding.

Almost automatically, Julius mashed up the yarrow in a pestle to remake the poultice that had proved so fruitful the first time. He wasn't a first class physician, after all, and even they make the occasional mistake or the wrong diagnosis.

Niccolò soon returned with a pail of fresh spring water, and, grimly, he helped prepare the new dressing for Treaty's leg.

It took almost an hour longer than it usually did, as Julius was being extra vigilant and he was watching his fratellino like a hawk. They did what they could, and then departed from the tent, into the mid-morning sun.

"Septimus will have to wait another day," Julius growled. "I will not risk losing the Ranger, not now. Send out the scouts again. Any signs of travellers, let me know immediately."