Chapter 3

Man, horse and Elf ghosted through the front entrance to the atrium a few minutes later. The sentries recognized Brown and let them pass without a word. Jorn led the mare toward the tent with the white-painted flaps. As he approached, he heard voices from inside.

"How about 'aaaaargh?'"

"You don't get any points for it. That's not a word."

"Okay, fine. I guess that means no 'gurgle aack' either."

"Right. Doesn't count."

"Let's see… How about 'What's that smell?'"

"Wha…? What kind of last words are those?"

"They were Nib's last words. Right before the abomination got him. You ought to remember. You were there."

"Oh. Right. But that only counts for one point - "

"Lord Raveloe!"

Can always tell the wizards from the bandits, Jorn thought as he carried the priest into the candle-lit interior. Bandits call me Chief, or Boss. 'S only the wizards call me Lord.

The Elf seemed to be without weight, light as a feather. Jorn bent and laid him carefully on one of the tent's cots. He straightened slowly, fighting dizziness again. Always forget how small they are. Must be a brave folk, going to war at all.

"Is that an Elf, Lord?" the rogue wizard Wright Berrythorn asked. The two apprentices bustled about lighting a brazier and pouring water, their game forgotten.

"Yeah. I think he's got a bum knee. Cut on his head, too. Probably from a gargoyle." The Elf's pale hair was matted with blood.

"I see." The wizard pulled up a stool and satdown to conduct a brief examination. "Yes, it looks as if he's been rather lucky. This cut isn't very deep, but you know how head wounds bleed, Lord."

"Not likely to forget," Jorn said. His own scalp was crisscrossed with scars under his brown hair.

Berrythorn flipped the hem of the priest's robe back, then peeled his leggings up to the knees. "Ah. Quite a lot of swelling here, but it feels as if it's not broken. Only time will tell if he's torn something important, I'm afraid."

The priest stirred as the wizard replaced his clothing.

"Hm. We'll clean him up, but the best thing would be if he could wake up and heal himself. He'll do better than anything we can do here. In fact…" The bearded man glanced up at Jorn. "If you could see your way clear to sitting here for a while, Lord, it would probably help. I have noticed that mana tends to rebuild faster in your presence. All of us have."

"Sure. If you could get one of your boys to bring me some water, once you've got what you need for the Elf, I'll wash some of the blood off me."

"Yes, of course. See to it, Mirtib."

The wizard got up and moved the stool to one side, out of the way. Jorn sat on it cautiously. It creaked in protest.

"Don't worry about it," Berrythorn waved a wrinkled hand. "I've been experimenting with spells of reinforcement. I think I've found a reliable one at last."

He thinks he's found one, Jorn repeated to himself silently. He's not gonna be the one with splinters in his bum if it doesn't work.

Jorn rubbed his forehead. Something seemed to be pounding on the inside of his skull.

"Are you all right, Lord?" asked the wizard's voice. Jorn opened his eyes reluctantly, squinting. The light from the brazier and candles seemed painfully bright.

"I think so. Got hit by a banshee, but I'm too stubborn to possess."

A murmur in an Elvish language drew his attention back to the cot. The Elf was looking at him, ignoring the apprentice who was trying to clean the blood from his hair.

"You are still under the curse," the priest said. His voice seemed weaker than before. "It will go with time, but you will not fight well until it does."

"How long?" Berrythorn asked, before Jorn could.

"Not long," the Elf said.He turned his face to the wall.

"It would be easier just to cut this off," the apprentice said after a moment.

"Then cut it," the priest said, without moving. "It does not matter."

Apprentice Mirtib brought a bowl of water and some clean rags, and Jorn cleaned his face and ears. This seemed to make his headache worse. He noticed as he wiped his fingers that the priest did not seem to be trying to heal himself.

"The one who died," Jorn said. "Good friend of yours?"

"He was my teacher," the priest said. "I have known him for my entire life."

"'M sorry," Jorn said.

"Who are you?" the Elf asked abruptly. "You wear no insignia."

"Jorn Raveloe," Jorn said. "You're in my camp. We're bandits."

"Extremely proficient bandits," Berrythorn put in, watching with a critical eye as his apprentice worked. "Careful, Birt, you're not making his scalp feel any better."

"It does not matter," the Elf said again.

"So what do we call you?" Jorn asked.

The Elf twitched his narrow shoulders. "Call me Priest. I will know who you mean."