26th Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY
Near the far side of the Aerie Lake, The Pomarj
Cygnus took another deep sigh, dipped the quill in the ink bottle again, and began the process for what very well might have been the thousandth time.
With painstaking deliberation, the wizard began to transcribe an arcane rune from Lamonsten's spellbook into his own. It was not an exact duplication, yet the differences were both subtle and not wholly under Cygnus' conscious command.
The language of arcana was a means of communication discovered, not created, and every single wizard "spoke" it slightly differently. These differences might be easily surmounted, but they could just as easily remain maddeningly complex and indecipherable.
Cygnus had been at this task since the moment Zantac had been able to memorize a shelterdome and set it up for his fellow mage to utilize so he could work undisturbed. That had been sometime in the middle of last night, and it had to be close to sunset now.
It was hard to tell, though. Although the shelterdome was transparent to its lone occupant, it was currently covered with a fine but opaque layer of volcanic ash.
Of course, the mere fact that he was here, alive, clothed and fed and able even to attempt this task spoke of their good fortune. It had been a joy; although not an unexpected one, to discover all their equipment on board the Water Dragon, but Cygnus made a mental note to thank Argo for insisting that they search the ship before they departed the scene, much to Wainold's annoyance.
In retrospect, there was no reason to doubt that the Slave Lords would not have just the treasures of Cygnus and the others with them, but their own as well. It was lucky indeed that the containers they had uncovered in the hold had not been magically trapped, but in retrospect Cygnus guessed that there simply hadn't been time for that in the Nine's sudden flight from Suderham. Sir Murtano, with a guilty smile that spoke volumes of his early life, had picked the locks on the chests with ease.
They had uncovered not only Lamonsten's travelling spellbook among the items, but numerous sets of spare clothes as well. Lamonsten hadn't been nearly as tall as Cygnus, so the green robes he had on now looked ridiculously short, but they were warm.
And so here he was, attempting to copy into his own spellbook a spell designed to remove curses; a spell that would hopefully allow Aslan to be free of the collar that was suppressing his Talent. Then, they could all go home.
Lord, how Cygnus wanted to go home.
Of course, there's a good chance this may not work at all, Cygnus thought to himself for might very well have been the thousandth time.
The shelterdome sat near the edge of a clearing approximately forty feet wide that been cleared of underbrush by the party, and where they were now all ensconced and waiting for the Aardian wizard to emerge and announce the successful completion of his task.
Hopefully.
The winds of fortune had at least turned fair in the most literal sense, as a northerly breeze had blown up that kept the poisonous yellow gas from the eruption out over the lake. Thus, the group had not had to move far before setting up camp for the night, although the druid warned everyone repeatedly to be ready to move at a moment's warning.
Argo, Nesco, Wainold and Arwald had taken the lead in constructing lean-tos and temporary shelters. These, along with the tree canopy overhead, helped to keep the worst of the ash fallout off of everyone's head. Still, what looked like grey snow continued to fall silently all around them.
The normal animal sounds of the forest were completely absent. Only the occasional creak of a tree in the wind could be heard.
The party was located perhaps a third of a mile from the main trail leading northwards. Wainold was adamant about staying away from any type of road, pointing out that any travelers they might encounter would be more likely than not to be more sympathetic to the Slave Lords than to their killers. They might well even be humanoids; orcs or worse.
The largest shelter, in the center of the campsite, housed the twelve Suderham citizens they had rescued. Argo had been ready to run Slimebucket through; or at least exiling him, for abandoning his charges, but the former Slave Lord officer had pointed out that someone needed to stay behind and guard Talass' body. This had been accepted as a pretty poor excuse all around, but in the end it was decided to let him stay, and now he sat huddled with the others, looking thoroughly miserable.
Next to them, a small ditch had been dug and lined with several pieces of the Water Dragon's mainsail.
Two bodies lay in this ditch, swaddled in bloodstained sheets.
Wainold walked among the inhabitants of the clearing, silently handing out blackberries to everyone. He came over to where Argo Bigfellow and Unru were sitting on a fallen log and joined them, handing each of them a berry.
Unru looked at the blackberry in his hand and grimaced at the druid.
"I'm grateful for the nutritional value your magic gives these, but they still don't feel very satisfying going down."
"If you don't want yours, I'm sure anyone else here would gladly take it," Wainold growled at the illusionist. "It also heals the body like a curing orison, although I'd be hard-pressed to think of anyone who deserves it less than you do. I trust the water I created for you to drink is up to your standards?" he finished with a sneer.
Unru smiled. "Like my goodberry- I mean my good buddy- Argo here always says, you work with what you've got," he quipped before popping the berry into his mouth and washing it down with a swig from a waterskin.
The druid shook his head. "Hard to believe any of you survived," he muttered, then jerked a thumb over his shoulder at another log where Sir Menn, Sitdale, and Thorimund were all seated, having a subdued discussion. "They were just telling me how Theg Narlot fled when Blackthorn went down, even though he'd been holding his own in melee. Guess he saw which way the winds were blowing."
"So what about you, Wayne?" Argo asked.
"Don't call me that."
Argo shrugged. "Sure thing, Wayne. Now as I was saying, what happened to you anyway?"
Wainold glared in exasperation at the Bigfellow for a moment, but then sighed and recounted his tale. After checking out the road to the brothels, the druid had decided for one quick reconnaissance flight in bird-form around Drachen Keep. Just as he had closed in on the stone fortress however, everything had suddenly gone had awoken in his human form, chained down onto a table. Before he could make out clearly the nature of his surroundings or his captors, a piece of parchment had been shoved in front of his eyes and a voice he in retrospect guessed was a suggestion spell ordered him to read it.
"I had barely started reading it when there was a bang and a puff of brown smoke and then," he shrugged, "well, the next thing I knew the chamber was empty and the walls were starting to crumble all around me."
"A snake sigil," murmured Unru thoughtfully. The phrase meant nothing to Argo.
"I managed to break the chains and escape," Wainold continued, "and then I saw how bad things really were. I turned back into a bird and flew around looking in vain for you people. Seeing that the Aerie was doomed, I turned into a fish and swam for it. When I reached the far bank, I saw a battle going on about a quarter of the way around the lake."
The druid fell silent, further continuation being unnecessary.
"I wonder why they didn't put you down in the caverns with us," Argo mused after a few moments of silence.
Wainold snorted. "I doubt they'd have been able to suppress my ability to wild shape as easily as they did with Aslan."
Without meaning to, Bigfellow's eyes drifted off to his right.
Not catching his companion's glance, Aslan was sitting somewhat uncomfortably on the ground, keeping company with a figure lying on a bedroll and covered with a coarse woolen blanket up to his neck.
"How are you feeling, Elrohir?" the paladin asked.
His team leader looked up at his long-time friend with an expression that was half bemusement and half exasperation.
"Still cold and fatigued, Aslan, but cognizant enough to realize that's the fifth time you've asked me that in the last hour. For the last time, I'm fine." The ranger's head turned towards the other side of his blanket. "You tell him, Nesco."
"You only just regained consciousness a little over an hour ago, Elrohir," Lady Cynewine said softly. "We had every right to be afraid. Even with all the healing from Wainold and Sitdale we've had in the past twenty-four hours, there was still the possibility that you- you…"
Nesco blinked rapidly and looked away from both Elrohir and Aslan. She was determined that she would not cry and after a few seconds and a few deep breaths, the danger of that subsided. Still, she could not shake off the grief.
Or the guilt that she could have done better.
"Tell me again about the sword," she heard Elrohir say, and she knew her team leader was making an attempt to distract her from those same pointless cycles of recriminations and what-if thoughts that he knew Nesco was experiencing.
No doubt, she thought, because he was experiencing those very same thoughts. She turned back to him with a weak smile, and saw his deep blue eyes fastened on Icar's katana which, along with his wakizashi, she now wore on her hip.
"Well," she said cautiously, choosing her words with care because she did not want to make assumptions about things she still did not know, "I suspect it's some kind of oni-slaying sword. We know that Icar was loyal to Markessa, and since she didn't trust Blackthorn, it's a fair guess that Icar didn't, either. And considering the weapon Icar carried, it's no surprise that Blackthorn disliked the samurai as much as he did. That's why he didn't join the fight in the kitchen earlier; he was waiting for us to take care of Icar for him."
"But then why not simply dispose of the daisho once we had fled and he had the chance?" Aslan wondered, frowning.
"I've been thinking about that," replied Nesco, "and I can't assume to know the answer. I could postulate that perhaps Icar's weapons are like Gokasillion, at least as in regards to the type of creature they were designed to slay. Perhaps he couldn't even touch them and didn't trust anyone else enough to see to their destruction, so he decided to keep them as close to hand as possible and actually wear them. I suspect," she finished, "that it gave him a feeling of superiority as well; a reminder that he had triumphed over his most dangerous foe."
"Too bad for him," Elrohir said slowly, still looking intently at his fellow ranger, "that he didn't realize that you were his most dangerous foe, Lady Cynewine."
Nesco felt her cheeks turn slightly pink, but she shook her head. "No, Elrohir," she responded, turning her head to look at the two unmoving figures wrapped like mummies lying nearby. "Tojo was."
"Only until he decided to transfer that title to you, Nesco."
She looked over at Aslan, and the two looked into each other faces for a short time. Then, the paladin shook his head and gave that small, bewildered smile that so captivated Lady Cynewine every time she saw it, this time not excepted.
"I wonder though," Aslan mused, "how in name of Asgard did Tojo know all this? Not to mention knowing the command phrase that activated the sword's special abilities."
Nesco make a gesture of surrender. "There, I haven't a clue." She looked over again at the samurai's body and could not fight off the sorrow that settled over her. "Tojo kept many things to himself."
Aslan nodded. "As we know all too well. But remember this, Nesco. Tojo lived his life according to the code he called bushido; a rigorous way not only of living, but even of thinking. If he kept secrets from us, it was because he felt it was what he had to do, not because he didn't trust us. He as much as told us that."
Nesco nodded, wishing again she could have been at the Brass Dragon with the others when the whole story of Tojo's secret dishonor had been laid bare for all to see. She wished she could have been there to comfort him.
""What's all this talk about Tojo in the past tense?"
Elrohir, Aslan and Nesco watched as Arwald, still clad in his damaged armor, eased his way slowly down to the ground beside him, wincing with pain several times as he did so.
"You'll get him raised along with your wife, Elrohir, once you return to Chendl," Wainold's cohort said. "The Noble Council sponsored this mission. They'll have to pay the Valorous Church to do it."
There was a brief and uncomfortable silence. None of the other three wanted to return to the subject that festered in all their minds like an incurable wound.
It was with a little start that Nesco realized that Aslan and Elrohir were both looking at her, and she realized that she alone had the experience that made her uniquely qualified to answer Arwald, although she dearly did not want to.
Her voice trembling, Lady Cynewine spoke, her eyes wandering the ash-coated trees as she did so.
"Only a willing soul can be raised, Arwald."
"So?" scoffed the fighter. "Why would he not want to come back? You came back; who wouldn't want to come back? I know that-"
Arwald's breath abruptly caught in his throat. Instinctively understanding, Elrohir withdrew his right hand from underneath the blanket and reached out to touch Arwald's knee, the only part of him he could reach from his position.
"I'm sorry, Arwald," Elrohir said quietly. "I'm sorry I couldn't save Hengist."
Arwald bit his lip. Nesco recognized all too well the expression of someone fighting off tears. After a moment, he gave a wan smile down at the ranger.
"Talking to Wainold got me thinking, Elrohir," he said, his words coming faster now as if he suspected that slowing down might choke them off forever. "I realized that even if I had been in command, it would have turned out the same way. Hengist would still have insisted upon making the attempt to reach those glow-fungi, and I'd have been forced to realize that he was right. The brutal truth is that he was the most inexperienced fighter amongst us, and he knew his death would have the least effect on our chances of survival, as long as he could get us that light. And he did."
"But I couldn't figure out a way to get his body across that chasm," Elrohir responded, unable to hide the bitterness in his voice. "I couldn't even give his soul the option of deciding whether to return or not."
There was another brief silence, and then, with more small grunts of pain, Arwald stood back up again. His face as he looked down at Elrohir was not unkind, but it was stern.
"You were doing exactly what you were supposed to be doing, Elrohir," he said curtly. "Attending to the living; the people under your command. The people you were responsible for."
Arwald turned away and slowly walked off, his last words trailing behind him.
"The dead don't need leaders."
They watched him go in silence. Arwald strode off to a tree and leaned up against it, his back to them.
Nesco had opened her mouth before she knew what she was going to say; she only wanted to break that terrible silence when another voice did it for her, carrying across the clearing.
"Excuse me! Could I have everyone's attention, please?"
Nineteen heads turned towards Sir Selzen Murtano.
The knight was still standing near the jumbled pile of weapons, jewelry and assorted items that the party had stripped from the bodies of Lamonsten, Slippery Ketta and Scurvy John before they had fled from the battle scene. It was intended that they would cast detect magic on the pile as soon as feasible, to facilitate the inevitable distribution of swag when the time came.
But yet, even though that particular divination now rested in the mind of several spellcasters now, no one had bothered to cast it yet.
No one cared about treasure or magic items. It didn't feel right.
So Sir Murtano had self-appointed himself the unofficial guardian of the pile and kept close to it all times. But now the knight was turning his head from one end of the clearing to another, his gaze passing from one set of eyes to the next before he asked his question.
"When was the last time anyone saw Zantac?"
The waters of the lake lapped against the rocky shore.
Zantac, currently sitting coiled up as tightly as he could atop a flat boulder barely large enough for the purpose, stared at the water as if hypnotized.
Like some form of grey algae, the dark waters were now completely covered by the volcanic ash that continued to fall unceasingly. Only the slight movement of the waves betrayed the surface's liquidity. Ahead at an indeterminate distance, the cloud of gas mingled with the ash fall to comprise an impenetrable fog that still hid the Aerie from view.
Every so often, a dull rumble, like a great muffled roar, came drifting across from the mist. Zantac didn't know if it was the Earth Dragon or Mount Flamenblut, and he saw no point in wondering about it, so he did not.
In fact, Zantac did not want to think about anything. That was why he had slipped away from the others to return to the lakeside.
The Willip wizard looked around. The ash was covering everything. It occurred to him that although he was probably no more than a half-mile at most from the clearing, there was a very real chance that he would not be able to find his way back to it now.
He turned back to his examination of the waters. He didn't care. All he knew was that at some point back in that clearing, in the midst of studying his spellbook, a horrible searing pain had suddenly shot through his chest.
I don't care what else happens… I am going to save this woman.
But he hadn't. He hadn't saved her. Zantac had let her die.
Tears came of their own accord, but they only made the wizard angry. He didn't deserve tears. He hadn't earned the right to self-pity.
He wiped them off furiously, ignoring the cloud of fine ash particles that flew off from his hair in all directions as he did so.
"You know, barbers carry shampoos for dandruff like that."
Zantac whirled around to stare at the figure that had just emerged from the forest's edge.
"Get out of here, Unru," he snarled.
The illusionist continued to walk forward however, until he stood just behind Zantac, who glared at him fiercely, trembling.
"I said get out of here!" Zantac shouted after a moment when his fellow mage had made no move. "I'm not Torlina, Unru! I don't want your words of consolation, and I certainly don't want your stinking arms around me! And if dare to glamour yourself," he seethed, staring at the dust-coated chapeau on top of Unru's head. "I will personally hurl you into the lake and summon every damn lacedon I can!"
Unru tilted his head, his dark eyes peering into Zantac's own. The Yatian mage's expression was carefully neutral.
"Very well then, Zantac," he said slowly. "You… are… a… fool." He paced the words out deliberately for effect. "I trust you don't find those words consoling?"
Zantac shook with anger, but deep down he knew his rage was not meant for Unru, but for himself.
"They're also unnecessary," he replied at last, turning back to stare off into the fog. "I happen to be very aware of that fact."
"Fools don't know enough to hurt when they should. Where then does your pain come from?"
Zantac was about to turn and shout out a retort when he felt himself suddenly deflate. He rubbed his face and his hair again, still not looking behind him, and tried to tell himself that there was no pain, only foolishness.
Eventually, the words came out, if only in a harsh whisper.
"She was just a whore, Unru. Just a whore."
"Really?" The illusionist's voice sounded casual. "I thought she was the one who led us to the Slave Lords. Without that information, we would have wandered around blindly until The Nine struck first and obliterated us. Sounds like a bit more than the average prostitute dishes out."
Zantac waved a dismissing hand. "We got the same information out of your girl. Patrice, or whatever her name was."
"True indeed," Unru replied. "And for that reason and no other will I mourn her loss. Yet that expression I saw on the face of Lord Andrew told me that your young woman was something more. Perhaps something much more."
The Willip wizard turned and looked at Unru, who was still gazing intently at him.
"But you, Zantac, are now the only person who knows for sure whether that is true or not," Unru said quietly. "It seems to me a selfish act indeed to let that knowledge die along with her, just to spare yourself the heartache."
The illusionist took a deep breath. "Argo tracked you here. He's standing just inside the trees, waiting for us. Shall we go back together, or do you want him to come out here and use that renowned Bigfellow tact?"
A small chuckle leaked out of Zantac despite himself.
"Just give me a moment. I'll be along."
Unru nodded and walked back towards the forest.
Slowly, Zantac stood up.
He took several deep breaths, turning Unru's words over in his mind.
Slowly, almost of its own accord, his hand dipped into his belt pouch and fished out two Suderham gold pieces.
He stared at the two small circles lying in his palm.
That's all she had cost. Two gold coins.
He didn't know what he was looking for, or why he was staring at these coins. It seemed as if his mind had secretly handed control over his body to his heart.
Like most coins, the faces were crude, pressed from rough molds. An imperfection ran through one of the gold pieces, so that the chains which surrounded and imprisoned the small figure in the center were broken.
The figure was free.
Zantac hurled that coin away as hard as he could. He watched it spin end-over-end until it landed with a tiny, almost dainty splash in the water and was gone.
"Goodbye, Beryl," he whispered.
He placed the other coin; the one with the prisoner, back into his belt pouch and headed back to rejoin the others.
No one spoke on the way back, and no one spoke when the trio re-entered the clearing.
Zantac was glad that all the faces he saw showed only relief and not curiosity. Even Elrohir, whom Zantac was glad to see had regained consciousness since he had left, looked from the body of his wife whom he was kneeling over, and smiled encouragingly.
The Zantac noticed that the shelterdome was gone.
Cygnus was standing in the center of the clearing. Directly across from him stood Aslan.
The tall magic-user turned and gaze Zantac a look that he understand instantly. It was a look that said I'm sorry, Zantac. I wanted to go and comfort you, but I couldn't stop until I was done.
Zantac gave his friend a smile that showed he understood, and the return smile he received told him his silent reply had been understood as well.
Cygnus turned back to Aslan. "I'm ready now, Aslan, but please remember, this may not work. I can give you a dozen reasons why it might not."
"I understand, Cygnus," replied Aslan quietly, "and you have my same appreciation whether it does or not. Cast, please."
Cygnus incanted, his arm describing small circular motions that were interspaced with what like the tracing of arcane symbols in the air. He stepped up to Aslan as the last of the arcane vocalizations left his lips, and then he touched the metal circlet encircling the paladin's neck.
There was a very faint click.
No one moved. No one spoke.
With what seemed like an agonizing slowness to those watching, Aslan slowly reached up to his neck and twisted. A catch that had not existed before slid open, and now he was holding the open collar in his hand.
One look at the paladin's face told everyone that his Talent was still there, and ready to be used.
The clearing exploded. Everyone, even the Suderham citizens, was now surrounding the two individuals; Cygnus and Aslan. Clapping them on the back, shouting words of encouragement and gratitude.
Aslan suddenly held up his hand for silence and gestured for those people surrounding him to back off. Puzzled, they did so.
His expression grim, Aslan laid the circlet down on one of the fallen logs.
The paladin stared at it for a moment, and then suddenly his sword was drawn.
"Aslan, no!" shouted Elrohir.
But it was too late. Aslan's sword came down on the collar, not only cleaving the cursed item in half, but the log underneath it as well.
There was a shocked silence, during which the paladin's light blue eyes, which contained a definite anger, sought out those of his team leader.
Elrohir bit his lip as he stared at the destroyed collar, and then raised his gaze to meet that of Aslan.
"That might have been a potent weapon against Nodyath."
Aslan's eyes closed as he realized that fact.
"I suspect Nodyath will not allow us to take him alive," he muttered at length, although it seemed an obvious effort to save face.
"What now?" asked Sir Murtano quietly, the knight's voice carrying a clear desire to get things back on track.
Aslan looked back at Elrohir. Soon, everyone was staring at the ranger.
He couldn't believe it was over.
It had seemed like many lifetimes ago when Sir Hallian of the Royal Court had barged into the Brass Dragon and read off a list of names that King Belvor had summoned for him to meet.
They had fought like they never had before, and they had suffered like they never had before.
And they had lost like they never had before.
Elrohir glanced again at the two figures lying still in the ditch and wanted this adventure to end. End with the triumph of life over death.
And Elrohir could scarcely believe that only earlier this year, he had become disenchanted with retirement.
Feeling like an old, old man, Elrohir walked over to Aslan and put his hands on his friend's shoulders.
"Take us home, Aslan," he said.
And he knew he spoke for all of them.
"Take us home."