A/N: Hey guys, just stopping by to say thanks for the comments; always glad to hear from people. I just wanted to say real quickly to NoMoreSanity that I will be continuing to update this version of the story at FF. If nothing else, its a great way to keep track of the total words used. Again, thanks to both of you for giving me your thoughts.

Certainly Okaz was no stranger to malicious and disagreeable dreams, but his night spent in the house of the lay farmer Hludaz was marked by a sleep more restless and fitful than any other he had endured before. His mind seemed to be torn between the world of men and the world of dreams; he ceased to know for sure whether he was conscious or unconscious, watching helplessly as the low-burnt candles cast their elongated shadows up and down the walls. Everything he saw was fleeting, indistinct, and never fully comprehensible; he saw brief scenes of the elderly healer leaning over the prince, applying strange ointments and potions to his wounds. A split-second later and the room seemed to melt and swirl, finally emerging empty save for the catatonic Athawlufaz. With time and fatigue, Okaz ceased to see anything at all, his whole body slouching exhaustedly into his lap.

It had been a very long time since the warrior had been woken by the call of a rooster, but there was no mistaking that shrill and entirely unwelcome call as it reverberated through the house. No sooner had he been jarred from his meager allotment of rest then Okaz found himself tumbling ungracefully from the chair, flailing as he sprawled pathetically across the stale floor rushes. Either through the sound of his collapse or the continued exhortations of the rooster, the others in the house were roused to their feet as well, shuffling into the main room with the usual morning grumbling and eye-rubbing.

"You know," Hludaz yawned as he stepped over his prostate guest, "if I had known you wanted to sleep on the floor, I could have given you the dog's spot, near the fire."

Okaz rolled onto his back and sighed, still searching for the motivation required to get up. "Spare me," he mumbled through errant strands of hay, "it's far too early for wit. I can't have gotten more than five minutes of sleep."

"Well I'm sure you fared better than the Prince did," the farmer replied with a nod towards his table. "I kept hearing him moan throughout the entire night – probably all that medicine he was given."

The haze over Okaz's mind seemed to clear in an instant; grimy rushes went slipping into the air as the warrior bounded back over to the table. In his fatigue and complacency, he had all but forgotten about his Lordship's struggle against death. His hands reached out uncertainly, as if he thought it would somehow be disrespectful to even touch a nobleman.

"Your fear is misplaced," Hludaz promised as he followed his guest over to the dining table. "It is a good thing that he has been crying out in pain – it means he can feel it and respond to it." The farmer turned away and proceeded towards his cabinet. "Do you remember when you first brought him here, how he wasn't making any noise at all?"

An uncomfortable string of memories began to tumble through Okaz's mind; for a brief moment he could feel the cold sting of the rain on his back, and the painful pounding of his heart as the prince ceased to respond to his questions. Back in the real world, he gave the slightest shudder. "I do indeed."

"That was a bad sign," explained Hludaz, now returning with a fresh slab of dough. "It meant that his body was shutting down – he wasn't reacting to things anymore. Now he's getting better, so he can feel things better – or worse, depending on how you see it."

Okaz let out a humorless laugh, still keeping his eyes tightly trained on the body in front of him. "Hopefully he will be well enough to move again soon. I do not want to stay in one place for too long – and the remnants of the army will be looking for him."

The peasant began beating the dough carelessly against the table. "I hope you'll stay for breakfast, at least. Never sorry to have more company, and we always have plenty of food to go around."

"I suspect I have no choice in the matter," Okaz replied with a wave towards Athawulfaz. "I can't go anywhere until he's at least awake – the laws command it."

Hlduaz put down the dough and withdrew from it, wiping a few early beads of sweat from his brow. The look on his face was one Okaz had seen many times over; the look of an entirely spent man, wondering how he was ever going to make it through the rest of the day. "Then I don't suppose I could trouble you for a quick favor?" Hludaz said hopefully. "It'll only take five minutes, I promise."

Lingering traces of sleep were still harassing Okaz, tugging at his joints and making them sluggish; there was little he could have preferred less than to be sent on an errand. Still, after everything this farmer and his family had done, custom dictated that the warrior do his part to repay him. "With what do you need help?"

"I need somebody to run and fetch me some water, to cook with," the peasant explained as he continued to rest. "I'd have Baldaz do it, but he's not strong enough to carry the whole pail; and my mother is busy looking after the prince."

There was a momentary pause as Okaz processed this report, mentally counting the number of people the farmer had cited. "And…there's nobody else around to help you?" he asked rather consciously.

If Hludaz at all understood what his guest had insinuated he certainly didn't show it; there was only the tiniest twinkle of emotion in his eye as he shook his head. "No – nobody else. That's why I need to use the extra pair of hands while I still have it!"

For a few moments the warrior's head was filled with a whole array of potential excuses he could have made; about sickness, infirmity, or even royal station. Just as quickly he had shouted down his immature reluctance; a little activity and movement in the morning was good for the humors anyway.

"I will return shortly," Okaz pronounced with a sigh. For a moment he lingered awkwardly beside the table. "Is…is there a bucket somewhere?"

A solitary finger stretched out towards the doorway. "Right over there, by the entrance. Just go ahead and take it right off the hook; if you follow the dirt path down the hill you'll reach the well in no time."

Okaz plucked the wooden pail of the peg with little delay, the first rumblings of hunger beginning to stir in his stomach. It came to him that he must never have eaten supper last night, and he seemed to recall having something of a small lunch as well – a poor choice, but then again, so was marching on a full stomach. This modest breakfast would be the first time he didn't plan his meal around the demands of soldiery; for that alone it was worthy of being enshrined as a feast.

Hludaz had perhaps not been entirely truthful with his directions – Okaz was finding it to be a little more than a mere short walk. The hill he was walking down was steep if, not sheer, and it seemed to gradually transform into a repetitive series of tiny mounds and depressions, the monotony broken only by the chance stream or boulder. Although a little dull, it was hardly an unpleasant walk at least; after last night's terrible storm the new day's sky had been left a vivid, healthy shade of blue, with the forest songbirds and insects having apparently returned in full, if their renewed chorus was any indicator.

The water-well was as dull and predictable as one might have expected, although perhaps looking slightly run-down. Like any well, it was little more than a ditch encircled by a pile of stones, although in this case there was a distinct sensation that either the construction or the maintenance portion of the assembly had been performed with underwhelming attention-to-detail. A notable film of moss and debris lay thinly spread across the greenish surface of the water; very hoping that Hludaz would be boiling this liquid, Okaz ran his pail through the puddle and started back.

For the first time in many weeks, the warrior found his thoughts drifting away from the mundane and the practical and towards the lofty domain of the philosophical; a topic of which, like most people, he knew little about but had no shortage of things to say. He found himself marveling at the meager world-wealth of these peasant farmers – rationing dough and drawing their water from stagnant pits in the ground. That which he had always found grueling and arduous – sleeping in tents on the march and eating military rations – seemed petty now that he held it in perspective to the poverty of the rural folk. Since the earliest dawn of man, the Northlanders had always been quick to trumpet the importance of freedom – but what was freedom worth if you were not also equal?

This train of thought would continue no farther; Okaz found his reflections interrupt by a rumbling, so faint as to be indistinct, emanating from somewhere nearby. By this point, his instincts acted without him even realizing it; he was only vaguely aware of his pace slowing to a crawl, his eyes readily scanning the field for anything at all out of place. His mind began to run through its vast catalog of survival strategies and combat stances – all of this, he realized, without having been given even the slightest real evidence of a threat. It suddenly struck him how long he had gone without being truly relaxed.

Then, just when he thought it had been a false alarm, he saw them: a small party of horse-bound soldiers, their banner whipping violently through the air as they flew down the road. Armed warriors on the road were not terribly uncommon, but something about this particular war-band made immediately made them seem sinister; perhaps it was the furious speed at which they rode, or the unknown symbol which was sewn into their standard. Their conduct was entirely brisk and businesslike, implying no small amount of formal training; they dismounted in impressive synchrony, moving towards the farmhouse in an ominous, semicircular mob.

There was a loud knock on the door, a quick and tense exchange of words, and then they were gone, somberly filing one-by-one through the doorway. From his distant spot on the crest of the hill, it was impossible for Okaz to tell what had been said or what had transpired. The presence of armed soldiers this far west could mean but one of two things; either the Sweboz army had recovered already, or the armed agents of the Heruskoz were now patrolling the area for its remnants. Only the latter seemed at all likely.

Okaz crept silently along the wall of the house, his back pressed as flatly as possible against the uneven crags of the woodwork. In his right hand he still tightly clutched the water pail, splashing his trousers with loose discharges of water as he tried to hold it steady. It was somewhat foolish, he realized, to go through all the trouble of holding onto this tiny bucket, but he didn't dare drop it – the slightest sound could have ended his impromptu spying in a moment.

Muffled voices were coming from beyond the wall; Okaz positioned himself beneath the open window and rose up to a crouch, placing his ear just beneath the sill. The conversation seemed to be reaching its crux.

"-still don't see why you gentlemen stopped here. This is Sweboz territory; the laws of the Heruskoz don't apply here."

There was no immediate response save for a series of heavy, mail-clad footsteps. "We must have just been mistaken…this is the royal prince here, on the table?"

Okaz's back was killing him now; the disks of his spine groaned ominously in his awkward pose. The warrior took a trembling hand and tried to ease his pain.

"I never said anything about a prince…"

"Don't be so dense," one of the soldiers snapped peevishly. "This is the royal heraldry of Sweboz here, on his tunic. I would recognize it anywhere."

Hludaz was heard to pause uncomfortably. "I…I don't know who he is."

"You lie," was all that the warrior cared to muster. "Irwaz, ready your sword and-"

A sharp jolt of panic hit Okaz as the bucket slipped from his grasp, scraping shrilly against the wall as it tumbled downward. As if this were not bad enough, the comedic charade continued as the pail bounced again and again down the hard dirt road, its hollow banging making a commotion to rival that of a full-equipped army. Finally, just when Okaz's embarrassment had become all but unbearable, the circus ended; the bucket ceased to bounce and simply rolled the rest of the way down the path.

The party of warriors reacted in just seconds; as soon as the clatter of the water-pail had died away their angry cursing had risen to fill the void. Deciding that stealth had become irrelevant, Okaz removed himself from the wall and turned to run, burn the tired creaking of the doorway froze him in place. He watched reluctantly as the war-band came around the side of the house, their hands dangling over the hilts of their blades.

"Who is this?" demanded the leader, a fiery-faced gentleman with scowling wrinkles etched deep into his skin. "Some sort of thief?"

Hludaz, looking helpless and clueless in equal measure, followed his guests to the scene of the disturbance. "Oh – this is Okaz," he explained blankly, "a warrior of the Sweboz – and a fine one, at that. It is he who brought me the body of the prince."

No further words were ever passed between the soldiers, but when they finally moved, they moved as one, drawing their swords and bringing them to bear with finely-practiced precision. Okaz found himself flying into a retreat as a he backpedaled down the hill, his un-guarded arms raised in front of his face in a futile gesture of defiance.

One of the warriors at the head of the pack made a massive lunge; Okaz pulled his torso back at the last minute, but not quite fast enough; a brief sting coursed through his arm as the blade sliced into it. Genuinely afraid now, Okaz lowered both his arms and prepared for a final stand, watching with smoldering contempt as his enemies began a leisurely attempt to encircle him. A muttered prayer escaped the warrior's lips as he curled up a punch.

"No more Sweboz die this day!"

All heads turned just in time to see a dizzying blur slash through the air; a weak moan went out as one of the assailants toppled to the ground, his limbs flopping like wet seaweed onto the dirt. In another second, all had found themselves recoiling in fear at the giant who had no joined them in their diversion.

"Okaz, you devil!" Athawulfaz laughed, hefting the carpenter's hammer effortlessly in his right hand. "Thought you'd leave me out of this one, eh? Fat chance!"

"Your Lordship!" the warrior cried, quite forgetting about the battle he was supposed to have. "I thought you were unconscious!"

"I'm awake," the nobleman returned, "and I'm thinking it's time for a little…morning calisthenics."

Almost to a man the enemies ran for their lives; only their apparent leader, the dour-faced one, still stood his ground, his already venomous visage growing more furious by the second. As if something had been decided, his hand shot down reflexively to the hilt of his sword. "Then fight me, cur!"

His death was hardly worthy of the virile scream he had given; a dense crushing sound accompanied by the implosion of his skull, leaving his head to bounce and sag repulsively in the road where it fell; the captain's sword, finely made and richly ornamented, cart-wheeled whimsically through the air before impaling itself into the grass.

Athawulfaz casually drew the blade with his left hand, turning it over beneath the fresh light of the sun. He seemed to really be studying it, as if there were something in particular he was looking for. Then, without any warning, all questions were answered; Athawulfaz hefted the sword high into the air and, with an unearthly roar, pelted it into the field.

"We have been betrayed," was all he could say.

"Hrabnaz told the Heruskoz of our location," Okaz was quick to add, grateful that his suspicions were being corroborated. "That's the only way they could have known we were going north instead of south."

The lord pumped the air furiously with his fist, grinding his teeth so tightly they seemed as if they might shatter. "Those men were Hrabnaz's personal guard – his loyal thanes, sworn to do his bidding. He sent them here to finish me off!"

"There's no telling how long he has been an agent of the Heruskoz," the warrior cursed pensively. "Their foul king will have had access to even the most closely guarded secrets."

Athawulfaz turned around haughtily, moving at an almost unmatchable pace. "Not for long he won't."

"Wait!" Okaz called after him, jogging to match his steps with those of his hulking comrade. "We should ride to the capitol," the warrior agreed, "We should bring this knowledge to the king,"

"Aye," the prince seethed as he swung atop a vacant horse. "And we will need to hurry if we are to get their in time. Saddle up," he commanded with a sigh, "we ride for the east."

"Once again you return!" Heruwulfaz laughed as he descended the courtyard stairs. "I swear you have traveled more in these past few weeks than ever before in your life!"

Hrabnaz coldly brushed away his brother felicitations, giving him a dark look that was at once solemn and exhausted. "Indeed brother; and I will continue to travel until I have done all that I must do." He threw a hand irritably into the air; his servants took the message and made to quarter his horse.

"Your sarcasm ill-suits you," Heruwulfaz responded chidingly. "It seems to have put you in a terrible humor lately."

"There is no time for humor," returned Hrabnaz, his voice seemingly trapped in the same, tired monotone. "With each passing day the ranks of our friends dwindle and those of our enemies grow more numerous. It is a crime for you to live as carelessly as you do."

The king gave his brother a look of deep and genuine concern, laying his arm gingerly around the other's shoulder. "You are not well, brother. Come on, let's get you inside. Ansuharjaz has probably started eating already, the pig."

For the first time that evening, Hrabnaz laughed, but it was like no laugh Heruwulfaz had ever heard. The usual mirth and warmth was replaced by an unattractive mix of malice and bitterness; it hit the ears like a mad-dog's bark. "We may as well just throw him in the pot next time – slice some garlic in and you'd probably never taste the difference!"

"With enough garlic you won't taste anything!" joked the king, carefully ignoring his brother's bizarre and sadistic vein of conversation. "Now come on, I'm starving – and I'm sure you are too!"

For a moment the young prince seemed as if he meant to remain in the cold; his head turned slowly back towards the direction he had come from, his eyes boring an invisible hole into the surface of the road. He seemed almost enraptured, or maybe even lucid – his every tiny filament and particle seemed to freeze perfectly in its place. Only his hair was moved, whipping and fluttering under the influence of the nighttime winds.

Then the trance was gone as he turned back towards the awaiting feast; only the glossy stare in his eyes left to suggest anything was wrong.