25th Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY

Far side of the Aerie Lake, The Pomarj

Blackthorn's head rolled along the grass for what seemed like an inordinately long time and then stopped.

Nesco felt the ice rush back into her veins as the glow faded from the katana.

Her fingers tensed up, the sword falling to the ground. Slowly, the ranger's body began to double up. It felt like all the muscles in her body were shutting down.

That's all right, she thought to herself as her sight dimmed. At least the pain is gone, and I'm tired of pain. I'm tired of fighting and maybe, just maybe, I'm tired of living.

She was about to surrender to the encroaching darkness when Nesco heard a sound that did something she would have sworn by all the gods was impossible.

It was a sound that made her blood run even colder.

It was the sound of Blackthorn yelling.

Uncomprehending, Nesco stared at the severed head of the ogre mage, which was shouting and screaming in what Nesco presumed was Kura-Turan, but she couldn't understand a word of it. The tiny white pupils in the midst of the oni's eyes were more visible now than they ever had been and growing still larger. The ogre mage's head was upright, but it wobbled precariously from the creature's jaw opening and closing as it continuously yelled.

Nesco began to back off away from it and as she did, something lumbered into her field of vision.

Blackthorn's headless body was crawling around on its hands and knees. Every few feet it would stop and sweep its hands around, as if feeling for something.

Something, Nesco realized with a sickening shock, like its head.

No, she cried to herself. Please, let someone else finish this. I can't. I'm too cold and I'm too hurt. I just want to lie down and go to sleep. Please, someone else do this.

Nesco was so cold, she couldn't even turn her neck. She thought she heard approaching footsteps behind her, but all she could do was stare at that hideous shrieking head and the body that was slowly but surely coming closer and closer to it.

And then she was sixteen again.

The whole of the flower beds of the Cynewine estate were bare with the advent of Ready'reat. Small patches of frost dotted the packed brown earth. The weather was cold and clear. It was, as her eldest brother Sir Helgin had assured Nesco, perfect conditions for a game of Kick. Helgin's eyes, green with a hint of hazel- the same as his sister- sparkled down at her as he smiled. Nesco, just happy to be in his company, watched the steam come from his mouth in puffs as he spoke.

"It's simple enough, Nessie," Helgin had explained while pointing to one end of the field where two wooden posts had been set upright about five feet apart. "You and Miles try to kick the ball between those posts, while Joseph and I try to do the same at the other end of the field. Remember, though- you can't touch the ball with your hands!"

Nesco frowned at the far goal. "They're awfully close together."

Helgin reached out and tousled his sister's hair. "Nothing good is easy, Nessie."

She rolled her eyes. "You sound like Father," but then realized she had to say a few things. A few important things.

"Helgin," she mumbled, unable to quite look him in the eye, "thanks for putting Joseph on your team and not mine."

"You won't be thanking me after the two of us wipe up the field with you and Miles."

"Just try it!" she laughed shakily, but before Sir Helgin turned away to rejoin his younger brother, Nesco caught his eye again.

He gave her an inquisitive look. "Yes?"

Nesco swallowed. Sir Helgin had just returned from his first patrol as a full-fledged Knight of the Hart. He had been in the Vesve. He had seen combat.

Nesco couldn't stop worrying about him.

"I heard," she asked, trying very hard not to let her voice choke up on her. "I heard that orcs play this game using the severed heads of their victims. Is that true?"

Sir Helgin looked intently at his younger sister for a moment, and then smiled a thin smile.

"You hear a lot of things about orcs, Nessie. Come on, let's get ready."

He ran off, but his voice had been just a bit too casual.

And now Nesco was running again. She was going to play Kick.

She didn't run straight at first. Nesco needed to get the proper angle for her kick because she knew she'd only get one chance. Her legs screaming protests at the ranger for her still daring to utilize them, Nesco came out of her circular jog and came at her quarry.

The head shrieked something, and Blackthorn's body lunged at her.

A blue fist nearly as big as Nesco's head came at her, but she ducked underneath it. The other hand grabbed hold of her, but she spun around, twisted and broke free.

Just a few more feet.

The ogre's body made a diving tackle to try and cover its head, but it was a second too late. Nesco's foot connected solidly. The ranger shouted out in fresh pain. She'd probably broken yet another bone, this time in her big toe, but the ball; the head, sailed serenely up and away in a big beautiful arc.

It landed about thirty feet away with a splash in the lake.

"Goal," whispered Nesco.

The oni's head shouted. It screamed, it roared, its jaw stretching impossibly, obscenely wide- but then the dark waters flooded into the creature's mouth and it sank beneath the surface and was quickly lost to sight.

And the headless body, which had begun to rise back to its knees, suddenly slumped forward face down on the grass. It twitched once and did not move again.

Blood began to pour from the stump. The dark fluid washed over Nesco's feet.

Nesco Cynewine took several steps backwards. Everything in front of her, and all the sounds around her, seemed to recede rapidly. The world began to spin, and the ground began to rise, and she knew that her legs were giving out.

Her last thought was of Tojo, but it left her before she even hit the grass.

"Lady Cynewine?"

A hand, rough and yet tender, on her cheek.

"No," she moaned, eyes still unable to open. Cold and pain were starting to come back and she didn't want that. Her right side, her chest, the back of her head, her nose, her foot; she wouldn't be able to stand it.

A cry of pain escaped her lips as she felt a finger touch the bloody wreck of what had once been her nose.

But then the pain eased, and a small shiver of warmth came back to her body. It was enough to trigger her body's own defense mechanism of shivering, and she began shaking violently. The person who was kneeling over her pressed his body against hers.

She could feel a beard pressing against her cheek. Without even thinking, she wrapped her arms around the person's shoulders and held on.

Then a voice.

"Take what heat you can from my body, Lady Cynewine. I've only given you the barest healing, enough to stabilize you. I don't have a lot to go around, and I must check out all the others. Breathe in through your nose if you can."

The voice was fuzzy; indistinct. Nesco couldn't quite recognize it, although she felt that she should.

Aslan?

The thought sent her body into even more violent paroxysms of shivering. The man held on. Hugging her now.

Is this Aslan? Has he regained his paladin's grace? Was I unconscious that long, or has he somehow managed to remove the collar?

Her spasms began to subside. The person released her and Nesco knew he was getting ready to move on.

She opened her eyes.

The face above her was not that of Aslan.

Hazel eyes regarded her from a tanned and heavily-lined face. He sported a thick and bushy beard, which was still somewhat flattened from pressing against Nesco's cheek. The high forehead was caked and matted with dried blood, like almost every face Nesco had looked at since this day began. Dirty and unraveling braids hung from the back of the man's hair and over his shoulders.

He was not smiling, but there was still something reassuring, if intimidating, about the intensity of his gaze as he peered at Nesco analytically.

Then there was recognition; and then there was joy.

"My god," breathed Nesco. "Wainold?"

"Right the second time, Lady Cynewine," the druid responded, getting back to his feet and wiping the muddy grass off his already dirt-covered robes. "We'll play catch-up later. There are still others I need to check on. Rest here for the moment but be prepared to move. We can't stay here indefinitely."

He spared her a quick glance as he moved off.

"By the way, nice kick."

"Wainold!" she cried out after him. "What about-"

But the druid was already moving towards the Water Dragon.

Nesco looked around. Arwald was sitting up in the grass nearby, his head bent low and his hands hanging limply in his lap. Aside from soft, somewhat ragged breathing, he was not moving at all. Further back, Tojo still lay where he had fallen.

Nesco began to crawl towards him.

Aslan, having returned to Cygnus, had just hoisted the mage into a standing position as the druid arrived. Wainold reached out without a word and touched the side of the mage's face.

Some of the magic-user's burns faded from an angry red to a pale pink. New strands of hair shot out from his scalp, replacing some of those which had been burned away.

It was clear from the expression on the druid's face that this was not the time for pleasantries, so Aslan got straight to business. "How are the others?" he asked through chattering teeth.

"Arwald and Nesco were among the worst, but I've stabilized them," Wainold replied, taking an unfamiliar, waxy brown leaf from his belt pouch and rubbing it over Cygnus' skin. The wizard winced but said nothing.

"Sir Menn and Sitdale are ambulatory, though not much beyond that," Wainold continued. "Thorimund's fair, but I don't think he can walk far on his own. He looks like he's been poisoned, and I can't do anything about that right now. He," and here the druid hesitated, taking a deep breath, "told me about Hengist."

"I'm sorry, Wainold," said Aslan quietly.

The druid made a perfunctory attempt at a shrug. "I saw Talass' body in the boat back there," he said after a moment. "Damn gods and their visions. Here." He shoved the leaf into Cygnus' hands. "That's musk muddle. Crush it between your hands; you should be able to get a few drops of oil. Rub it on the worst of your burns. I've got to see the others."

And he was off again.

Zantac propped Unru up against the hull of the Water Dragon and sank down to sit on the pier beside him.

"I saw you," the illusionist wheezed with the effort at speech, one hand clutching his stomach. "Ketta and then Lamonsten. I never knew you were such a killing machine, Zantac."

The Willip wizard looked away before replying. "Neither did I," he said softly.

Zantac felt Unru tap his shoulder and point. He looked over and was astounded to see Wainold approaching them.

The druid held up a staying hand. "If it's not related to injuries, save it until later," he said curtly as he knelt down beside the two wizards and examined them closely. "By The Shalm," he exclaimed in a low voice as his hand moved up and down Zantac's face. "Is any of this blood yours, Zantac?"

"My shoulder," he replied dully, looking away as he felt Wainold examine it. Then, surprisingly, some of the pain went away.

"It's only an orison," Wainold answered his questioning look as the druid rose back to his feet. "I don't have much left, and I don't know where it might be most needed."

"Those bats," Zantac queried, something he had seen now leaping back to mind. "The ones that drove off the guardsmen. From you?"

Wainold nodded. "I was late arriving at this little to-do of yours. After I summoned the swarm, I saw that Arwald and Lady Cynewine seemed to be having the roughest time of it, so I went down there to help as I could."

Unru opened his mouth to speak, but the druid was already walking down the length of the hull. The two arcanists saw him grab hold of the ship's rope ladder and begin climbing.

Argo Bigfellow Junior looked up at the approaching druid, but the big ranger's face betrayed no expression at all. It was almost as if he had been waiting for him all along.

Wainold's mouth was set in a thin line as the druid knelt down to where Argo was cradling Elrohir's head in his lap. Without looking at Argo, he extended a finger to Elrohir's stomach and pressed it against the dagger wound.

After a moment he looked up at Bigfellow.

"He's still alive, you know."

"I know," said Argo, his auburn eyes looking tired and dull, "but I can't wake him up."

Wainold eyed the ranger's still form intently. "Poisoned," he said after a moment.

"Can you help him?"

Wainold glanced over at Argo. Never had he seen the big ranger looking so tired and shrunken. He resisted the urge to comment on this however and was about to say something else when he noticed the gaping wound in Bigfellow's own stomach. He extended a hand towards it but Argo grabbed his wrist.

"Elrohir," Argo repeated, his voice still sounding tired but now more insistent. "Can you help him or not?"

"Not with you holding my arm, I can't."

Argo let go of the druid's wrist.

"To answer your impertinent question, not with the poison," Wainold said, flexing his wrist, "but I don't think that's the real issue here. If the venom was designed to be lethal, he'd be gone by now. Alias once told me about these so-called "svartalf" and their poison. Designed to render opponents unconscious, especially their surface cousins who can't be taken by sleep spells." He shrugged and his frown deepened. "The very real danger is that Elrohir will slip away from internal injury and blood loss before we can have more healing available."

Argo closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath, then winced from the pain that caused him. "Can you do anything?"

"We need to get away from here," replied Wainold. "The volcanic gas is coming over the lake and although it seems to be dispersing as it covers more ground, I don't want to take that chance; not with so many of us in such poor shape. I've got one more healing orison, but right now you need it more than him."

"Give it to Elrohir," Argo said, his tone flat.

The druid scowled at the big ranger. "You may think you're being noble, Bigfellow, but you're actually just being stupid. You certainly don't have brains to offer, so we're going to need your brawn to help carry those of us who are worst off."

"Give it to Elrohir," Argo repeated.

There was a slight pause and then Wainold sighed and gave his last small portion of healing to the unconscious ranger. Then he stood up and rubbed at his forehead, which Argo now saw spotted a sizeable welt that looked like it had been bleeding not long ago.

"You and I will get Elrohir off this ship," the druid said slowly. "We'll all gather together and then we'll set out-"

He was interrupted by a terrifying scream.

The druid and ranger spun around. The cry had come from no more than twenty feet away and although it had been terrible enough to chill both men to the bone, it had cut off as quickly as if its utterer had been disintegrated.

There was no doubt as to its source. After a moment's hesitation, Wainold rushed over to where a body still lay on the deck. Argo, still unable to do more than crawl, slowly followed.

"John," murmured Argo, his face pale as he and Wainold bent down.

The pirate was a ghastly sight. His skin had turned a sickly grey in color and had seemed to contract over his bones, even cracking in some places. Scurvy's open and unseeing eyes had been drained of all color, his black irises now the same putrid grey.

But even worse was the expression now frozen on his face.

Argo Bigfellow, who would have wagered his own life that he would never have felt sorry for Scurvy John, had to stand up and look away. He felt like he was going to be sick.

"It's like he was attacked by a wraith or specter," he heard Wainold mutter. "His very life essence drained away."

Bigfellow turned back as the druid straightened up beside him. Wainold's own face looked clammy, with cold beads of sweat forcing their way through the dried blood on his forehead.

"Any idea how or why this might have happened?" he asked.

Argo started to shake his head and then stopped.

I might be going to Hell, but Hell is coming for you.

Scurvy John's pronouncement rung in his ears, and for a moment Argo thought his heart had stopped beating.

One way, Bigfellow? Are you sure?

Argo started to shiver violently, despite his best efforts to stop it. Wainold eyed him, frowning. The druid clasped the ranger's arm to try and steady it.

"What is it?"

Bigfellow couldn't think of how to phrase it. He didn't even know how to think it; how to give a voice to the unborn dread that was trying to coalesce in his brain.

"Later," was all he could manage to mutter. He cast his mind about for something else to say, but the words of the late pirate captain spawned a new fear.

"Wayne," he said suddenly.

The druid started to scowl at Argo but stopped when he saw the earnest expression on Bigfellow's face.

"Wayne," the ranger repeated, only half aware of what he was saying, "did we," he swallowed, "lose anyone?"

Wainold dropped his eyes to the deck for a moment. The druid took a deep breath and was about to reply when he was cut off but yet another scream.

This one was from much further away, but it seemed just as loud to the two men as the last one had been. This scream did not suddenly cut off moreover, but lingered, transforming even as they listened to a keening wail that sounded to Argo as terrible and yet as sad as the sound of a banshee.

It seemed to rise upon the wind, settling over and through the two men, weighing them down with an inexpressible force of sorrow.

Argo continued to listen to that sound, unaware of Wainold standing by him or anything of the outside world for that matter. The wail dissolved into mixed cries and sobs and still Argo stood there, transfixed, while the ranger's mind slowly opened to the waves of grief that were coming from the young woman whose voice he now recognized as Nesco Cynewine.