Jessi: Sorry about the lateness of my chapter but my computer decided to die. Happily it's now working and I can get back on the internet.

Chapter Eight: Sickness

Malurion's steed was not a nimble, light-footed thing like the elf-horses, nor was it a sleek beast like Rhawn. It was instead a massive stallion with a shaggy grey coat, peppered with white. Two dark eyes surveyed the world from beneath a roughly cut mane. The horse was not a handsome animal and its temper was just as ugly.

When Targ passed by to saddle Rhawn it was only by a hair's breath that the slightly-yellowed, tombstone teeth missed his arm.

Its name was Tymer, the elvish word for temper, a suitable name indeed.

As Malurion came round the corner, his arms full of tack, the dragonslayer mentally crossed his fingers. With baited breath they all watched as the rouge saddled Tymer, patted him on his side and swung up into the saddle. Throughout it all the horse had remained perfectly still.

"Where did you get him?" Targ said, eyebrows raised. Malurion smiled and stroked the white mane,

"Brought him from a group of dragonstalkers. Best stay away from Tymer, he's an evil-minded bastard," seeming satisfied with that description of his mount, the moon elf kicked Tymer into a walk. Targ could have sworn that the horse smiled too.

Lledr studied his two younger brothers. They rode side-by-side on the road, speaking between themselves in Elvish. Both looked a lot happier and the mage was glad that, after the events of last night, their relationship had healed.

This certainly was different from the last time they rode out of Waterdeep with Targ. Instead of the mass of lice-ridden rags or borrowed things of Lledr's, Malurion wore expensive travelling clothes, tailored to fit his slight frame perfectly.

Things were looking up for the dragonstalker.

The next member of Targ's old adventuring band was Cy' and he lived on the coast. It was a pleasant enough area, if a little isolated. The supplies that they had reinforced with food brought from the last village were running thin so Malurion had gone hunting in the thick woodland that ran right up to the cliff edge.

The rouge silently went from shadow to shadow, an arrow readied on his long bow. To any average traveller he would be completely invisible. To someone skilled at woodcraft, merely difficult to see.

It seemed usually hot. Frowning, the moon elf dashed his sleeve across his forehead. At this time of year he shouldn't be sweating.

Malurion forced himself to concentrate. Up ahead he had spotted a herd of deer and, as a testimony to his skill, they had not detected him.

With an easy motion he raised his bow and sighted along the arrow. It was difficult to aim, the scene was blurring before his eyes. The rouge began to sway on his feet, his weapon lowering. He made no noise, even as he collapsed face-down into the dirt.

"Malurion has been gone a long time..." Rhisiart stared into the forest where Malurion had vanished over three hours ago.

"Maybe game is scare here? It's not like he could get lost in a forest," Targ scratched the head of Menji who was enjoying the warmth of the fire and laughed. Lledr glanced up from his spell book and saw the worried expression on his younger brother's face,

"I sure Malurion is fine, Rhi."

After a moment's pause the black-haired elf got to his feet, brushing himself off,

"We at least need something to eat. I'll find us something."

With that he ran silently into the trees.

It would be hard to track Malurion, even harder in the dark. Rhisiart was sure that his elder brother needed his help though. The dragonstalker boasted that he could bring something back within ten minutes and both of them had won a lot of bets.

He spun around, hand on his weapon, when something touched his leg. A sigh of relief escaped his lips when all he saw was Menji, thick tail wagging. Together they ran deeper into the forest.

Malurion lifted his head, something which now took a tremendous amount of effort. Everything seemed blurry and unreal. Sweat trickled down his face and back, making his clothes stick to his body. The heat that he remember before he lost consciousness had gone, instead it had been replaced by icy chills.

He shivered and tried to move his arms.

He saw then that his arms had been stretched out and tied to a rough, wooden frame. Splinters dug into the bare flesh of his arms, briefly he wondered where his cloak and coat were. His long bow was nearby, lying in the soft dirt.

"He's awake," a voice, speaking Common, most likely a human. Malurion's vision was so blurred now that he could barely see ten feet past his nose.

"What's a fancy prince like yerself doin' in our neck of the woods," another voice came from somewhere in the blurred regions, "We'll make a pretty penny sellin' yer back to-" he spoke no more, his sentence ending in a strangled gurgle that sounded exactly as if...

...the knife sliced through his throat and the bandit went down, blood spraying from the gaping hole like a macabre fountain. Rhisiart was already drawing his sword and before the others had turned back in his direction he'd taken the head from another. He landed in a neat crouch, sword strokes passing over his head.

The fact that there were still seven more did not bother the young elf. Back home he had fought in sword tournaments against elves one hundred years his senior and he'd won, the circlet of silver leaves had been placed on his head, shining against his black hair. These humans had learned sword fighting from other amateurs and as one bandit found out, its very easy to hit your companions when your opponent is quicker than a wasp and almost as hard to hit. The bandit fell, the sword of his comrade in his ribs.

Emrys' sword came up in an arc, and slimy entrails escaped to land on the dirt floor. The edge of the blade kissed a bandit's throat, opening up a thin line of crimson. Menji chose that moment to pounce, teeth closing on an exposed neck. Rhisiart spun, lashing out with his sword, sending two bandits sprawling, never to get up again. Finally he drove the blade up to the hilt into the last bandit's gut.

Lightly, he ran up to Malurion, bending briefly to regain his knife. Immediately he got the short blade to work on his brother's bounds.

"Rhi..." as the black-haired elf turned towards the faint cry he bit back a gasp. The dragonstalker was completely drenched in sweat and his body trembled in fits and starts. On his bare arm was a shallow cut, no more than a scratch really. However, it was oozing a mixture of blood and pus and the wound itself had turned black.

"'Ssassin dagger musta clipped it," Malurion's speech was thick and mumbled, each syllable strained, "Poison."

"We will get you to Lledr. He'll know what to do," Rhisiart's eyes were wide as he supported the other elf on a staggered journey to the bandit's horses, "Come on, just a bit-" he stopped his sentence midflow.

Surrounding the campfire was a thick mass of bandits, all with drawn swords.