Author's Note: I rarely write to music since I prefer to listen to the voices in my head (that way I know when they tell me what to do, mwahaha). However some madness had me crank up Steppenwolf and Golden Earring this morning (sequentially, not simultaneously—I'm not that whacked…yet) and, well, this chapter is the result. It shouldn't be here, it wasn't planned but…here it is. Please accept my apologies in advance for any incoherence, LOL.

Chapter 18…The Shaman's Price

"No," Ammon said firmly and I didn't try to argue with him. He was right, of course. Even with his skeleton minion to help, there was no time to build a pyre, let alone gather up the bodies of the villagers. Zhjaeve was still unconscious; Casavir's arm was badly broken and he didn't dare take a healing potion until the bones were set straight. Neither Ammon nor I knew how to do so. And we had to get out of the Claimed Lands before what little strength any of us had left drained away.

So I didn't argue. Truth be told, I didn't have the energy. Instead I bound Casavir's arm into a sling as best I could. I tried not to hurt him but his arm was a mess. It made me feel a little sick to look at it and by the time I was done with the sling, he had turned white to the lips. He swayed on his feet and stumbled into me. I braced myself to take his weight, but he managed to steady himself by grabbing my shoulder. Ammon and I then placed Zhjaeve as gently as possible in the skeleton's arms and we trudged back to the Illefarn ruins.

I don't know how long the return trip took. It seemed forever. My boots felt like lead and I ached all over despite the healing potion I slugged down. How Casavir endured the pain of his injuries, I have no idea. If he had fallen, I'm not sure how I would have gotten him back on his feet so I stayed close by his side, ready to catch him. Ammon kept an eye out for the undead but nothing attacked us.

I don't know what we would have done if the portal had closed but Zhjaeve had somehow spelled it to remain open for us. Two of the Greycloaks were waiting on the other side. I brushed away their exclamations and questions and followed them back to camp. Night had fallen while we were in the Claimed Lands. I cast a light so we wouldn't trip on the steep trail.

The Greycloaks had set up our tents but they were so cramped that it would be difficult to tend anyone inside. I dragged her bedroll out onto the grass and the skeleton placed Zhjaeve on top. The side of her head was swollen and half of her hair hung in sticky bloody clumps.

"What do we do?" I asked Casavir. One of our Greycloaks, Oloven, had been a horse trader before he joined us. He had some skill at healing beast and man. I had hoped he could set Casavir's arm but the nervous look he gave me when I asked him to look at it was not at all reassuring.

"I will try to heal her," Casavir said, but he had hesitated long enough that I knew he wasn't sure he could.

"No," I said. Surely a man who could scarcely stand was incapable of complex healing spells. "We need to get you fixed up first. Ammon. Ride to the orc camp and bring me their shaman."

He took this curt order without a blink and I knew he wouldn't return without Ilrah, not being one to take no for an answer. While we waited, the Greycloaks brought me and Casavir hot sweet tea. I hadn't realized how thirsty I was until I took the first swallow. They also brought me a rag and a bucket of lukewarm water and I cleaned Zhjaeve's wound as best I could. I doubted she would be happy to have her veil removed but it couldn't be helped.

I stared down at her face, slack in unconsciousness, the bright fires of her curiosity and compassion gone to wherever they go when the body's furnace is banked. We had traveled together and eaten together enough that I knew her veil covered no scar or disfigurement. I had often wondered why she wore it but now I had a thought. For, looking at her alien features, I did not see the Zhjaeve I had come to know. The knowing of her was in her eyes—eyes that had seen so much and had cared so much. With those calm eyes closed, her face was too much like the crazed githyanki who had tried to kill me again and again.

Not long after I had cleaned her up, Ammon returned. With him were Ilrah Broken-Ribs and a gray-haired orc woman I didn't know. She carried a large rush basket. Ammon must have explained the situation because the woman immediately went to Casavir and plopped her basket down in front of him. I saw splints, bandages and a jar that probably held salve. I hoped it wasn't poisonous to humans.

She motioned for Casavir to lie down. He exchanged a dubious look with me but did as she wanted. Her hands were big and rough and her odor was…at least as strong as mine at the moment. She seemed sure of what she was doing though. I could only hope that her competence was real and not assumed. And I hoped that orc physiology was close enough to human that she wouldn't set the arm wrong.

Meanwhile, Ilrah crouched beside Zhjaeve. It didn't seem probable that he had ever seen a githzerai before but he showed no shock at her appearance, at least none that I could decipher. He peeled back her eyelids, listened to her breathing and probed at the swelling on her head. He rocked back on his heels and looked up at me.

"She will die tonight," he said.

I went blank for a moment. Then I knelt down beside him.

"She needs healing." He just looked at me. There was an air of expectation to him that I did not quite understand. I certainly couldn't read much expression off his face, so like a wild beast to my eyes.

"She is a healer herself," I said. "If she can be brought to consciousness…"

"It is too late."

"But…can't you heal her?" His eyes, black and lustrous like an animal, squinted in my mage light.

"Gruumsh One-Eye gives me power to heal orcs." Casavir's muffled scream caught my attention and I whipped my head around. Oloven was holding Casavir's elbow while the woman manipulated his arm. Suddenly his whole body went limp. It looked like Casavir had finally fainted. Ilrah grunted. "Good."

"Can you heal her?" I asked. His unblinking black stare disconcerted me.

"One-Eye demands his price. You won't want to pay."

"Name it."

"Blood. One-Eye always wants blood." A chill ran down my back. Ilrah's tongue actually lolled out for a moment, like a dog laughing.

"Well, I've spilled my share of blood. How much?" I asked. "A drop of blood, a cup of blood? A bucket full? Does anything have to die or is the blood enough?"

"There is power in death."

"We will hunt for you or…you can kill one of our horses." I'd gladly offer up Ammon's demonic steed, although he would throttle me for saying so. Ilrah shook his head.

"For this," he said, looking at the githzerai, "He will want something special—the blood of an enemy. An elf."

"Sorry, I'm fresh out of elves." For the first time, I was glad that Elanee wasn't with us.

"A dwarf then."

"No, I will not offer anyone's life. Take the horse. You can have two of them." His heavy brows dropped in a most alarming frown. "You…you can have them all."

He snorted but he didn't walk away. I realized then that we were negotiating.

"I said you would not pay."

"I can offer human blood." But what made blood special? What would appeal to a god of orcs? It occurred to me that Ammon, who claimed an infernal ancestry gave him his warlock powers, must have special blood indeed. I eyed him speculatively. But would he shed it for Zhjaeve? And what would I do if he refused? I couldn't order him to open a vein after all. Well, I could order him to do it but I couldn't enforce that order.

"My blood is special," I said with more confidence than I felt. "Look at my sword." I drew it slowly from its scabbard and Ilrah stared at its shimmering mystery, the patchwork of shards. "You can feel its power, yes? There is a piece of this sword in my heart and its magic runs all through my blood."

He held out his hand towards the sword but didn't touch it. He shook his head a little and shifted as if he was going to stand. And walk away.

"I am no enemy of yours, Ilrah," I said. "But the Eyegougers and the Bonegnashers have no cause to love me. They call me Orc-Slayer." That last was pretty much a lie but it sounded good. "I have killed many orcs—more than I can count or remember. I helped kill your chief's brother. Surely your god would find my blood to his liking."

As far as that argument went, Gruumsh might prefer Casavir's blood but I wasn't prepared to offer it up without his consent. And I was reasonably certain he would never consent to offer anything to an evil god, even something so basic and simple as a little blood. Even with Zhjaeve's life at stake. He would be unwilling to compromise and so the job fell to me. That was as it should be, I supposed. The gods knew I was no paladin.

Ilrah still didn't look convinced.

"Wait," I said. "I want to show you something." I ran into my tent and yanked my Neverwinter Nine tunic out of my saddlebag. I unrolled it and showed him the great staring eye that some poor seamstress had strained her own eyesight embroidering. I didn't know a lot about Gruumsh One-Eye but Grobnar had told me that an eye was his symbol. Ilrah's startled reaction made me hopeful.

"My king gave me this," I said, almost babbling. I was never a good negotiator. "It is very rare and special. You may have it." I thrust it into his hands, wondering what Nevalle would say if he saw me. "Heal her."

"I need a taste to see if One-Eye will accept your blood," he said.

Yes! Sold! I held out my hand but he was looking down, where blood still seeped from the cut on my hip. He leaned forward, dipped two fingers in my blood and brought them to his lips.

I hadn't realized he meant that literally. Ack. He smacked his lips as if savoring the taste and then gave me a slow, excessively toothy grin. He reached for my side again.

"What in the Nine Hells do you think you are doing?" Ammon asked from behind me. I almost jumped out of my skin.

"The shaman requires blood to heal Zhjaeve," I told him.

"Your blood? I think not." He looked from me to Ilrah and his face was hard.

"He says she will die." His eyes flicked to Zhjaeve and I could practically see him run the calculation. The sword was forged and in my hand; did we need her any further? But he was smart enough to keep his thoughts to himself.

"It would be best if the Greycloaks didn't see this," I added, not that I was exactly sure how the shaman was going to take my blood. But really, what good way was there? And I was profoundly thankful that Casavir was out of it. "Could you…?" And I flapped my hand vaguely towards them.

"I will take care of it," he snapped. He stalked over to Oloven and the others, his back stiff with protest or irritation. Whatever he said had them all craning their necks in my direction. He strode back and growled something infernal-sounding. A roiling cloud of darkness formed behind him, obscuring us from the soldiers' view.

"Proceed," he said. He stood over us disapprovingly as Ilrah gestured for me to lie on the ground. The shaman knelt beside me and pulled my robe up out of the way, baring my belly and the cut on my hip. I'm not sure what I would have done if he had tried to pull my pants down but instead he grasped the torn edges of the fabric and ripped them further apart. The wound had almost stopped bleeding. I thought he might tear it open with his claws like he had torn my pants, but instead he closed his eyes. He cut me with a spell, with cold and guttural words.

I screamed.

I've been cut with knives and swords and it hurts. I've been shot with arrows and bashed with fists, sticks, rocks and big pieces of metal. They all hurt. I've been burned with magical and mundane flame, dragon fire and acid. I thought I knew a lot about pain but Ilrah taught me something new. His power, or the power of his god, ripped through me like a knife, like fire, like a bludgeoning weapon all at once and it hurt, hurt, hurt. My back arched and my hips came off the ground as agony seized me.

My skin split and blood poured out, down my side and onto the thirsty ground.

Ilrah leaned over me. He wore a necklace of carved bone beads which clicked when it fell across my chest. His breath was on my face, hot and stinking like a dog. He laughed at my expression and then pulled back. Suddenly his face was pressed against my side and his tusks grazed my skin. I felt his tongue in my wound as he lapped my blood like the beast he was. I screamed again. He raised his face and it was wet with my blood. His hands were wet too. Something monstrous moved in his eyes and I knew I had the attention of his god. I didn't want it. I really, really didn't want it. Gruumsh's dark power pressed against me and I trembled.

"Get on with it," Ammon said harshly. "Heal the gith."

Zhjaeve lay close beside us. Ilrah crawled over to her and took her face in his bloody hands. I pressed my hand hard to my side to try to slow the bleeding. I could feel when he called his god's power for it slid sickeningly across my skin like the embrace of a huge serpent. My heart raced and my blood poured between my fingers. Zhjaeve took one deep sobbing breath but her eyes did not open and she did not wake.

"It is done," Ilrah said.

I levered myself up on one elbow. I felt my blood run down my thigh, soaking into my pants.

"She doesn't look any better."

"Listen. She sleeps now."

I listened. Did her breathing indeed sound more natural or was that just my wishful thinking?

"Heal Jess," Ammon said. "She bleeds." Ilrah stretched to his full height. He was not large for an orc but he was taller than Ammon and much broader. His tongue came out in another of his wolfish grins.

"The blood will stop when One-Eye is sated," he said.

Ammon's eyes flashed and his hot iron smell crowded out the scent of my own blood. His voice was a threatening growl.

"You will stop this bleeding or I shall wreak such vengeance upon you and your people…"

Alarmed, I sat up and grabbed for my sword hilt. Ilrah ignored me. He held out his hand to calm Ammon.

"Women are made to bleed," he said. "Your woman will not die from it. She is strong." He gave Ammon a knowing leer and I realized that he, unlike the orc women, had not fallen into the error of thinking Ammon was my father. "She will live to bear mighty sons one day." And then he laughed. "If you should live so long, they might be yours."

"You know, it's sweet that you're so protective," I told Ammon. "Really."

He gave me a sour look. We'd finally sent the orcs home, arranged Zhjaeve to rest in one tent and Casavir in another, and got the Greycloaks settled down from their agitation at hearing my screeching.

"But surely it occurred to you that this is not the best of all possible times to antagonize the orcs."

"Orcs cannot be appeased. They only respect superior force."

"And we have that?" I asked a little doubtfully.

"We do."

Well, he seemed confident enough. I guessed that was good. The Greycloaks had offered me one of their tents but I told them I would crawl in with Zhjaeve later. I was exhausted but doubted I could sleep yet. I was almost afraid to try, for fear of nightmares. I had the feeling that Gruumsh's great malevolent eye was planning to ambush me in my dreams. I was glad Ilrah had taken my Nine tunic away with him for I never wanted to see it again.

The never-tired Ammon planned on staying up, against the chance that the orcs chose to attack. If they were going to do so, it would be at night. It would be nice if we could move on in the morning but it didn't seem at all likely that either Casavir or Zhjaeve would be able to ride and we had no wagon.

I was still in my torn robe, fragrantly fouled with mud and blood, but there seemed little point in ruining another set of clothes. Until the gash in my side closed, I was stuck with my filth. What I really wanted was a nice hot bath. Unfortunately the nearest inn was days away. Bathing in the ice cold river just wasn't the same.

"I wish you could teleport us out of here," I said. It was an idle comment but Ammon gave me a rather searching look.

"So do I." He had his back against the tree where we were sitting. I nestled in closer so I could lean on him. His arm went around my back and he passed me the water skin by his hand. I took several long swallows and let my head sink against his chest. As always, he was toasty warm.

He lifted the thick pad on my hip for a peek and then pressed it back in place. I couldn't see much of anything in the darkness but his eyes were better than mine. It was a hellishly awkward place to bandage so for now I just used the loose wad of cloth. Perhaps in the morning, when Zhjaeve woke up, she'd have a better idea. Or maybe she'd be well enough to heal it herself. The healing potions I had downed had not stopped the bleeding although it had slowed to little more than an annoying seepage.

"You haven't called me an idiot yet," I murmured. "You are being remiss in your duties."

"Why waste my breath?" he murmured back. His hand rubbed across my robe, tracing a line up my breastbone, ending with a light caress along my throat. I wondered if there was still a mark from where the shadow reaver had jabbed his staff into me, but I felt no bruise. The healing potions hadn't been totally wasted.

"Your power feels different now," Ammon said.

"A lot of things will be different now," I said, looking down at the sheathed sword on the ground by my side. He looked at it too.

"Yes."

"Will it be enough?"

We had pinned such hopes upon the sword and the Ritual powers. And they had both turned out to be different than I could possibly have anticipated. I remembered my elation when the blade forged itself and my despair when the Ritual power failed me. Dared I even voice the thought that I was shocked and maybe…disappointed?

His long fingers curved around the nape of my neck, giving me a pleasant shiver. Perhaps my power had changed but his was the same. I could almost taste it, thick and potent like sack mead.

"Are you looking for answers or reassurance?"

"I'll take whatever you can give me." I raised my face and his lips brushed mine. He smoothed the hair away from my face and kissed me again.

"It will be enough," he said.

I sighed and settled back against his chest. My eyelids drooped closed as his arms encircled me.