6th Day of Harvester, 565 CY
Barony of Littleberg, Furyondy
(About 130 miles WSW of Chendl)
"Garoidil."
The Rolexian warrior looked over at the ranger riding beside him on his right. Elrohir's horse maintained a steady trot, matching his own destrier's pace.
"Daylight's fading. We should make camp soon. When's the next thorp or inn?"
"They're not as prevalent here as they are on the Royal Highway," Garoidil replied. He frowned, searching his memory, then pointed north up the road. "I think the next one's about five leagues further on."
Elrohir considered this and then turned around in his saddle as much as his plate mail would allow to face the three people riding behind him and Garoidil. "We'll go another league and then stop for the night."
Aslan merely nodded in acknowledgement, but Caroline Bigfellow gave a wide smile.
"Another night in the great outdoors. Beats those flea traps we stayed at. Right, love?"
Argo eyed his wife but no quips, witty or otherwise, came to mind. The big ranger smiled back, but the grin stopped far short of his eyes.
Bigfellow couldn't keep his anxiety, and his frustration, under wraps forever.
Not, he wryly reflected, that he'd been doing such a great job of it up to this point.
It had not yet been an hour since Aslan's return to the Brass Dragon that Argo had thrown open the door of his cabin and headed resolutely at a brisk pace towards the inn, ignoring the barking Grock at his heels.
The ranger burst through the doors and stomped towards the Tall Tales Room, ignoring all the looks thrown his way from servants and dinner patrons.
Argo literally kicked the door open.
Sir Menn and Sitdale were present, but Bigfellow didn't even glance at their startled faces. The ranger had strode right up to Monsrek, who was sitting in one of the armchairs and bent down until his face was a mere two feet from the cleric's.
"Monsrek," said Argo in a low and steely tone. "Why won't my wife touch me?"
This of course was not true in the literal sense. Caroline had hugged her husband so tightly the instant she saw him that the big ranger thought his ribs might crack. There were tears. He had expected that. There was the agonizing and halting recollection of her terrifying dream. Argo had expected that as well and held her close and tried with every fiber of his being to comfort her. And eventually, she had composed herself again.
And yet it had always been the habit of the Bigfellows that their reunions were always followed by a passionate bout of lovemaking. As much therapy as passion; as much a cure for loneliness as an expression of their desire for each other, it had never failed to make their return to each other's arms that much more meaningful.
But now Caroline couldn't even bring herself to kiss him.
She kept apologizing; the tears flowing again as if they'd never stop. Argo kept trying to console her, saying he didn't give a damn whether they made love or not (not entirely true). He simply wanted to help rid Caroline of whatever seemed to be still hurting her (entirely true).
It was just the dream, she had said. It kept popping back up in her mind's eye when she least expected it. Still apologizing and hugging him all the tighter, she begged him just to give her time to heal.
Heal. Argo's keen eyes had seen the dried remnants of bloodstains on the floor stones by their bed. Someone had made a good attempt to remove them, but when blood was spilled, you could never get rid of that entirely.
Argo knew that.
And he knew his loving wife enough to know that there was something that she wasn't telling him.
Monsrek, he thought. Monsrek had been the first to reach Caroline after she had woken from her dream. And hadn't Sir Dorbin himself been so keen that Monsrek be the one to explain this whole horrid business to them?
The priest of Trithereon took a deep breath and lay his mug of ale on the end table beside him before looking straight back into the ranger's questioning eyes.
"Argo," Monsrek said quietly. "Since I have known you, you have impressed upon me with your independence; your desire for the freedom of the individual and the right to make one's own decisions for yourself. I trust also that you have observed those same qualities in me." He fingered the silver holy symbol of the rune of pursuit that hung around his neck. "Kind of goes with the job," he added with a momentary smile.
"Now," the cleric continued, "unless you are about to throw all your morals and values away simply because you think someone is hiding something from you, I implore you to turn around and head back to your cabin, because your wife needs you, Argo Bigfellow. She desperately needs you to be there for her. Trust in her and respect her wishes as you have always demanded others respect yours."
Argo hesitated. His next question did not come out nearly as forcefully as he had intended it to.
"How can I help her if she won't confide in me?"
Monsrek's face remained neutral, but his eyes crinkled in what seemed to Bigfellow to be a kindly manner.
"Time, and her love for you, Argo, will give you what you seek."
And so Argo had returned to Caroline and tried to say as much as he could with his hands and his eyes rather than with words, and although his wife still said nothing further about the dream, he could see that she was at least starting to relax.
To help her along, or at least distract her, Argo related in a very cursory fashion their adventures down in The Pomarj. At turns fascinated, horrified, entranced and amazed, Caroline demanded to know more and more details.
Before they knew it, they had talked through the entire night.
Argo watched his wife in profile as Caroline seemed to stare eastward right through the stone walls of their cabin, as if she could see the sun rising above the horizon.
Then she turned back to look at her husband.
"Did you believe Elrohir when he said he wouldn't kill Talat? What about Cygnus?"
He shrugged. "I don't know, love. I suspect they're not sure themselves."
"And everyone else is going?" she asked.
Argo's eyes narrowed as he nodded. "Yes, but if you think for one minute that I'm going to leave you now and go off-"
But Caroline interrupted her with the gentlest of caresses. One slim fingertip upon his lips. The ranger had to fight the sudden impulse to pull that fingertip into his suddenly aching mouth.
"I know," Caroline smiled weakly. "I don't want you to leave me either, love," she said as she stood up and began rummaging through their wardrobe and pulling on clothes.
"No need to get up this early," Argo reminded her.
"On the contrary," she replied, her voice more firm than Argo had heard it since his return, "we need to get moving. You have to be ready when Aslan gets up this morning."
"Why?" Argo asked, genuinely confused.
His wife turned to face him. Her smile no longer looked quite so weak.
"To tell him he has to take us both back to Chendl. I'm not going to leave my friends behind anymore, Argo. And since we both want to be together…" she shrugged.
Bigfellow gaped as Caroline pulled her longsword from its scabbard and made a few practice swings through the air with it.
Argo had acquiesced, but his concern for his wife's safety seemed to be tying the ranger's stomach into knots. After what he'd been through the past few weeks, the outside world suddenly seemed like a lot more dangerous place to Bigfellow, and for him that was truly saying something. Leather armor for his wife just wasn't going to cut it anymore.
Well, that had set off a row. Caroline pointed out that she was comfortable fighting in light armor and had in fact never trained any other way beyond the most cursory.
In an odd way, Caroline's newfound confidence was an encouraging sign, but Argo had hoped it wouldn't have been directed first against him.
After returning to Chendl and visiting the armorsmith's, the argument had continued, with voices raised on both sides. Eventually, Argo had almost literally had to stuff his wife into a chain shirt, which she had grudgingly accepted as "workable, but still uncomfortable."
She'd had her revenge, however. When Argo had been finished with his purchase- a new but thoroughly unexciting suit of plate mail- Caroline had left the shop. She'd returned moments later from the nearby clothier where she'd gone.
Argo stared. Caroline had retaliated for the chain shirt by wearing only a leather skirt underneath it that didn't make it halfway down her knees. The big ranger ogled his wife's legs all the way from the skirt's hemline to her leather, low-heeled boots.
"Love," the big ranger had finally managed to splutter. "No one enjoys looking at your legs more than I do, but they won't look nearly as attractive covered with bleeding gashes."
"Mobility will save me from those," Caroline replied, crossing her arms defiantly. "And I need all I can get now."
Argo decided to choose his battles. He'd given in on this matter, but only after insisting that Caroline now carry a shield. That had started off another row, but Argo had spied a buckler hanging on the wall, and after a few minutes of Caroline doing some more practice swings with her sword and notching arrows on her longbow, all with the small shield strapped onto her forearm, she'd pronounced herself satisfied, if not thrilled.
Satisfied, but not thrilled, Argo thought as his recollections ended and he tried on another smile at his wife riding alongside him.
That kind of summed up all his feelings right about now.
Aslan hadn't even realized he'd been staring at the Bigfellows until Argo, with that sixth sense that all rangers seemed to him to possess, had suddenly glanced over his way.
The paladin looked away hastily, mentally reprimanding himself for daydreaming. Not keeping his mind where it belonged. On important things.
But what, his mind seemed to ask him of its own accord, are the important things?
Aslan grunted as the warhorse stumbled slightly beneath him. The steed recovered quickly; it hadn't been anything more than its hoof stepping in a rare hole between the stones, but it was enough to send the paladin's mind reeling back to other subjects, whether he considered them important or not.
Perlial, he thought. She was important.
The horse's dark eyes seemed to shine somehow of their own accord as Aslan had finished telling her of his adventures. Condensing the last month into ten minutes or so seemed like a crime to Aslan, but it couldn't be helped. The paladin needed to get some sleep and more importantly, some mindrest. Tomorrow, he would return to Chendl and the party was going to head out yet again to frontiers unknown.
Yet he didn't want to leave Perlial. The paladin's hand continued stroking the animal's grey forehead. He listened to her slow breathing as she seemed to consider all that he had said.
"I'm sorry," he said at last, mostly to break the silence. "Once again we're off on a long trek and once again I can't ride you as I once did."
"Do not be sorry," Perlial said in her unique accent that Aslan so liked to hear. "You do what you must. You would not be who you are if you did not."
Aslan was still trying to sort that one out when Perlial spoke again.
"It is one of the things I love about you."
He buried his face in the horse's flank. He did not weep as Talass had, although an aching sadness seemed to be weighing down upon his shoulders.
"I'm sorry." Aslan seemed to feel the need to keep repeating this; as if he couldn't shake the feeling he was betraying his faithful steed. "I've never been to the Vesve, so I can't teleport there. And in any case, there's so many of us going, we'd hardly save any time anyway. I want to keep Sir Dorbin here as much as possible now that-"
His voice failed. Man and animal looked at each other as Aslan raised his head again.
"I understand, Aslan," said Perlial in as much as a horse whisper as she could manage. The steed's eyes turned to her left and the paladin's gaze followed suit.
White Lightning was standing some ten feet off. The brown horse faced away from them, yet Aslan could still see that her breathing seemed louder and more irregular than that of her fellow equine.
Aslan walked over and around to White Lightning. He was not surprised to see the twin streams of water leaking from the animal's eyes. Embarrassed, she tried to look away but the paladin caught her head between his hands and in between drying her tears, spoke to the horse.
"I'm sorry Elrohir can't be here in person, White Lightning. There just wasn't time. I know it must hurt."
But White Lightning slowly shook her long head.
"Not for me, Aslan," she said softly, and the paladin knew she was referring to her tears. "For my master. His mate gone." She whickered sadly. "How he must hurt, and I am not there to comfort him."
Aslan stroked her shiny coat for a little while longer but could think of nothing to say.
The paladin had similarly been rendered speechless by Argo and Caroline's decision to return with him the following morning to Chendl, although it undeniably gladdened him. After purchasing new plate mail for himself, he had linked up with the Bigfellows, Elrohir, Tojo and Nesco at the bowyer's.
All but Caroline were buying new bows. Better than the ones they had previously, these were to be composite longbows, Carved from laminated ipt wood and curved for extra strength and durability, they allowed far greater penetrating power for the deadly missiles they launched.
Aslan watched from the side as the bowyer worked with Lady Cynewine, the last of the five to be fitted for a new bow. The bowyer, an elderly man with great white tufts of white hair growing more from his ears than on his head, whistled as he fitted a stick, notched at both ends between the inside of the bow and the string that Nesco was currently pulling on. The bowmaker's whistling stopped as he eyed his measuring instrument.
"Ninety pounds of draw weight, Lady Cynewine! Most impressive, indeed! Well, I think that is the bow strength we will go with, then. Oh," he added, looking over at Nesco, "you may relax now." He then bustled off towards the rear of his shop.
Nesco breathed a sigh of relief as she stopped. She'd been pulling on one bowstring or another for so long, she had started trembling rather seriously. The ranger rubbed her fingers for a moment before looking over at the others with what seemed to be to Aslan a proud smile.
Ninety pounds, thought Aslan. That was the same draw weight that Elrohir had been measured at. Only Argo and Tojo's had been higher.
Aslan himself had been unable to exceed seventy-five pounds.
Of course, as Grock the ogre, Aslan could have probably snapped any bow he might have been fitted for, but that wasn't the same. That was a trick, like using a spell to magically increase one's strength.
It wasn't a true measure of one's own strength. One's own worth.
She's stronger than I thought she was, Aslan thought, and the paladin's mind suddenly flashed back to a vision of Nesco Cynewine sitting across a campfire from him that very first night in The Pomarj, eating the meal that she herself had caught and cooked for them.
"The heart is my favorite part," she had said.
Stronger, Aslan thought, in so many ways.
"This'll do," Elrohir announced, reining in his horse to a stop and motioning for the others to do the same.
The ranger certainly didn't mind camping outside tonight. He was very grateful for the coaching inns and small taverns that were spaced frequently along the well-travelled Royal Highway, but more for the food and feed they provided than for the shelter. The latter was never more than a communal floor, and one that always seemed to be both considerably more crowded and less clean than the one The Brass Dragon provided for its guests. After the first few nights, they had unanimously decided to eat indoors but sleep outdoors whenever possible. A brief evening thunderstorm two nights ago had forced their only exception since.
Elrohir's mind, like that of his companions, was elsewhere while his body went through the mechanical motions of pulling out the tents and all other gear they needed from their saddlebags and starting the process of setting up camp. Elrohir had been doing this since childhood. He had done it so many times in his sleep that he had once remarked to Talass he could probably manage it one more time even if he were dead.
Talass.
The ranger forced that thought away. He would let his mind wander anywhere but there.
He thought instead of the conversation he had had with the guards outside Chendl's western gate as the party, eleven strong, had prepared to head out.
"Oh, I remember, all right," the serjant had grimaced, looking over at his men, who bore similar expressions of recollection. "It was," his brow furrowed with the effort to remember, or perhaps just to count, "six days ago, I think. The 25th of Goodmonth."
"Yeah. It was," another guardsman agreed.
"You see all kinds come through here sooner or later, but you don't forget a blue giant like that. Pleasant enough though, he was," yet another guard added.
"Was he alone?" Elrohir asked.
The serjant shook his head. "No. Had three men with him. Armed like infantry, but I don't think they were." The officer's face assumed a sneer. "Mercenaries, I'd wager."
Aslan had looked over at Saxmund.
"I'd say Agarth found his protection."
"This might complicate things," Aelfbi sighed.
This in truth had seemed only a minor matter to Elrohir, especially in light of the momentous decision he had made not one hour later.
It was hardly a new observation to Elrohir that everyone was riding their newly purchased warhorses at a slightly different gait. Everyone had their own skill level as riders. Different horses were carrying different loads- not only in passenger weight, but in gear as well.
And of course, everyone had to slow down to the slowest rider there.
It was Argo Bigfellow, with his usual lack of tact combined with his obvious reluctance to be here in the first place, who had stated what his fellow ranger was already thinking.
"We'll never catch them, Elrohir," he scowled. "Even if Agarth is no faster than a man, he's got too much of a lead on us."
Elrohir had glanced over at Nesco Cynewine, their resident expert in this area.
She nodded glumly. "I'm afraid Argo is right, Elrohir," she sighed. "Ironstead is about eighty leagues from here as the road winds. It'll take us at least a week to get there. If he doesn't encounter any obstacles, Agarth should be reaching the edge of the Vesve by tonight. He and his men will probably make it to Ironstead in four days time from now."
Elrohir abruptly halted.
"Then," the ranger announced in a voice very close to a shout. "We split the party!"
An argument lasting a full half-hour had erupted from that statement but Elrohir held firm, pointing out, as he felt compelled to do anytime other words failed him, that he was the leader here.
It was still far from a sure thing. Lady Cynewine had cautioned Elrohir that at best, her group might catch up to the mysterious mercane and his guards just as they reached the forest hamlet of Ironstead. More likely, they'd still be at least a day behind.
"Then ride hard!" Elrohir had snapped at her.
"We're mounted, Elrohir," she had replied, her face serious. "Pushing horses like that hurts them more than it does people. You know that as well as I do."
"Aelfbi's with you!" The team leader gestured curtly at the half-elf. "He can heal them!"
But the priest of Hanali Celanil had trotted over to the team leader and glared at him with a hard expression that he had never seen there before.
"So," Gemblossom said quietly, "injuring and tormenting animals is acceptable to you as long as they're healed afterwards?"
He shook his head sadly at the ranger.
"Does White Lightning know how you feel about this, Elrohir?"
Elrohir felt like he had just been slapped. There was a long pause during which he stared at the back of his warhorse's head. He knew that everyone was looking at him.
"Do what you can," he said finally.
And so Nesco, Tojo, Cygnus, Saxmund, Aelfbi and Zantac had all spurred their horses into a gallop and raced down the Royal Highway until they were out of sight. Zantac's curses and groans of despair as he clung desperately to the back of his steed reached their ears for a minute or so longer, and they too were gone.
Trying to redeem himself for what he still considered inadequate leadership, Elrohir had then taken to questioning every eastbound traveler they encountered as to whether they'd passed a blue giant heading west on the Highway at any point. He thought this might give them a rough idea as to whether Agarth was making the time they expected of him or was going significantly faster or slower.
There was certainly no shortage of people to ask. Merchants in all types and numbers, patrols, Mail Riders, coaches, farmers, even a halfling caravan; there had been nothing, however.
Until last night.
"Yeah, three days ago." The merchant had viewed Elrohir's initial request with some suspicion, as if it might be a dangerous topic that he would be better off avoiding. The ranger's generosity at paying for the man's drinks had eventually loosened his tongue, however.
That put the mercane about on schedule, Elrohir thought now as he lay in his bedroll inside the small tent he shared with Aslan. The paladin's snoring made sleep difficult, but Elrohir hadn't felt much like sleeping anyway. He just lay there staring up at the tent roof and kept his mind moving from one topic to another. All concerning their journey.
All safe topics.
Logistics. Food, water and shelter. Weapons kept sharp; armor kept clean. Daily combat drills. Skills needed honing. Minds needed exercise as well as their bodies. Once this task was finished, they would return to The Brass Dragon. Sir Dorbin had already promised his party would discover whatever information they could to aid them. They'd no longer be blind. No longer be ignorant. Kar-Vermin would never return. Elrohir and his friends would make sure of that. They'd foil the Hierarchs' ritual- make sure it could never happen. With faith in themselves, they could never be defeated. Even the dreaded Slave Lords had fallen before them, outnumbered and out-equipped as they had been. With faith, they could accomplish anything.
Faith. Elrohir felt his eyes blinking. Faith…
He was running through the woods in the dark, chasing Talass.
He had to catch her. Tell her it would be all right. Tell her that nothing could break that bond between them. They had love; they had faith. What could prevail against that?
The ranger caught glimpses of Talass' white nightgown as the priestess darted among the trees, trying to evade her husband. He worried that she might catch cold. Would she still be able to heal herself?
"Talass!" he called out. "Dearest, please don't run!"
"I'm sorry!" he panted as he continued to lumber after his wife, who looked further away every time he caught a glimpse of her. "I'm sorry I hurt you back at Chendl! I was hurt, too- I wasn't thinking! Whatever you say! I know it'll be all right now! I know now! Please stop!"
But now Elrohir couldn't see her at all.
"Dearest!" he shrieked, turning around wildly. The light from Gokasillion's blade wasn't enough. He didn't know what direction she had gone. In desperation he had looked down.
Tracks! Yes, of course. The imprint of her naked feet upon the soft loam of the forest floor. He began to run as fast as he could while still following the tracks. It was still difficult. He had to stay within the confines of his light source, and she would still be moving faster than he could. Should he peel off his plate mail? No, that would take too long. There was no one here to help him do it. He had to keep going. He had to-
"Dearest."
Elrohir stopped and looked up. From behind a large tree about ten feet directly in front of him, Talass stepped forward and spoke to him.
He just stood and looked at her while trying to catch his breath. The cleric said nothing els, but was eyeing her husband with a look of utter serenity and peacefulness. He gown fluttered in the whisper of a light forest breeze.
Then Elrohir noticed Talass was carrying her warhammer in her hand.
He looked back at his wife's face for an explanation- and his breath caught in his throat.
Talass' blonde hair was turning black, an ebon starting from the roots and growing outwards. Her gown shimmered and transformed into chainmail. Her warhammer turned into a flail.
Talat stepped towards Elrohir, who couldn't move. He couldn't even breathe.
But the ranger's sister-in-law didn't attack him. She just walked right up him and gazed into his face. Her face was still calm, but there was a searching to it- a yearning.
A sadness.
"The gods have abandoned us both, Elrohir," Talat said, and her voice seemed to nest in every tree around them, so that faint echoes came back from all sides. "And not from sin, but by our own desire for them to do so."
A single tear rolled down her face.
"Now, we have only each other."
A cold wind suddenly picked up.
"Together in the Hell that awaits us both."
The ground disappeared beneath Elrohir, and she and Talat fell into darkness. His body twisted- he heard her scream; now there were other screams- they were surrounded by them; and then there was a laugh.
A cold, dead laugh.
Elrohir lay awake in his tent for the rest of the night.
There was no point in awakening Aslan or any of the others. There was nothing they could do. There was nothing anyone could do.