Chapter 11

Wandering Strangers

The bells were still ringing, and he smiled. Completely self-assured, completely confident, he leant back against the bar watching the milling crowd with amusement. And there was Feldo, beside him, still looking a bit dazed. "Fair enough," he conceded. "You've escaped into idiocy."

Feldo scowled slightly, though not with real feeling. Not with real anger. "Isn't it about time that you grew up a little? The ideas were fun, but this is what the world is like."

"Sugar lane," he agreed, using the term they'd coined to describe the rest of the world. The rest of the unthinking world, at least.

"Ah," Feldo said, laughing now. He slapped him on the shoulder. "I should have known that not even my wedding could change your mind! Well, there it is why should it? Maybe a little distance from this argument will work miracles for your structure. Hah!"

He shook his head, still amused. "Is it worth giving it up?"

But Feldo didn't hear him. She had appeared, swaying out of the crowd, finding them with unerring purpose. "Fel!" And there Feldo was, grinning like an idiot, squeaking back at her. And they fell back into their familiar giggling. He searched himself for a moment, trying to determine what it was he felt. Envy? Or just requisite sadness? He turned his gaze to the bar, admiring the polished wood. "She loves you as much as she can," he said softly, to himself. "But nobody can really love."

Sweating, Jellik jerked upwards out of his bedroll, his favorite knife already stabbed into the earth where the intruder's hand should have been. There was no intruder. His breath came raggedly. Bloody dreams. He staggered upright out of the bedroll, not trusting himself to go back to sleep just yet. No intruder yet, well it might have been a premonition. He could have heard a passing footfall. The apparent absence of danger was not the same thing as absence.

Disappointingly, the night was warm with still air. His skin remained sweat-drenched, and he jumped at even the most ordinary shadows. Shit. If an enemy could successfully manage to imitate the shadow a falling leaf made, well Jellik was already dead then. He was good, but not that good. After a moment, he smiled. Nobody was that good. Nothing to worry about then.

His hands were still shaky, and he didn't want to go back to bed. He didn't want to go back to the dream. It wasn't the images he resented so much as it was the happiness. Love died hard. Even where there is no love. It had been a long time since he'd remembered Feldo that vividly. Remembered his fucking wedding. I did the right thing. I told you what I had learned... "Bloody idiot," he hissed, reprising the long dead conversation. "You let yourself become that drawn into Sugar Lane that you..." Well. No good in that. Jellik had done the best that he could. It had been the woman's fault anyway. And he did not care to recall Feldo.

Love died hard, after all. After a moment in which he glanced doubtfully back at his bedroll, Jellik decided that he would not go back to sleep. He could not ignore any possibility of an attempt on his life, no matter how small it might be. And what was more likely to have disturbed his sleep than some unusual sound? Mayhaps an enemy lurked in the camp, waiting for a moment, any moment when Jellik's guard was lowered. Caution was so much sweeter than death.

Spinning his knife around in his nonetheless firm grip, Jellik quietly prowled through the camp trying to calm himself and to rid himself of some of the sweat. The night was still and it was disappointingly warm, but it was certainly nonetheless colder than his bedroll had been. A cursory inspection showed nothing out of the ordinary, but then, Jellik hadn't truly expected that it would. He started his inspection from the beginning again, moving stealthily about on the balls of his feet, keeping a stationary grip on his knife this time.

Still, even he couldn't pretend that prowling around such a small camp was truly satisfying for a man of his talents. He took another step forward, absently noting that Clovis was deep in sleep, and he heard the sound of a crunching leaf. Jellik spun, his knife flashing in the dark. He didn't see anything, but his posture remained locked in a combat position. He had not imagined that. And any threat that he had not imagined must be eliminated. Jellik knew what to do with threats.

He paused, glancing warily back at the camp, weighing his options, considering his possibilities. There were two immediate questions before him. The first one, of course, being whether or not the sound he had heard was actually a danger. All it could signify was that one of the men had gone off to take a shit. And that was not an unlikely possibility; if Jellik couldn't sleep, then there was no reason to suppose that anyone else could. The other possibility, however, was that somebody was out there moving with stealthy intent.

And this was why he had joined the Captain originally, and the work for which Forsyth had retained his services: assassination. Jellik had spent four miserable years learning the business properly and he couldn't deny that he was feeling frustrated by his inability to kill anybody yet on this mission. An intruder would give his talents a chance for a little exercise, assuming, of course, that he didn't practice them on anyone else in the team.

He remained, standing still as a statue, straining his ears to hear anything else that could be useful. There were more sounds, but, they seemed further off. Of course, that first crackle he had heard could have seemed louder, closer, because it had broken in on his concentration. Did he wait, or seek the interloper out? On the one hand, seeking his prey had the distinct disadvantage of uncertainty. He'd have to move out amongst the trees, and if he did that, there was no certainty that he wouldn't inadvertently offer his back to his opponent. That was a serious risk. Jellik knew without boasting that he was harder to kill than most assassins, but even the best were vulnerable to carelessness.

He slashed uncertainly at the air, shooting a quick glance at the still form of Clovis. The dour swordsman was nothing more than an out and out traitor, and thus wholly dishonorable, but Jellik enjoyed his company all the same. At some point, he would of course be obliged to assassinate the man, because treason, even when the treason was against an enemy, demanded retribution. And there was also the matter of the beastman commander that they had taken out; Clovis had actually struck the crippling blow, and Jellik had been forced to share the task of breaking the wounded beast as well. That was the sort of thing that one could never forgive. Permit rudeness, and insolence soon followed. And eventually, even opposition would arise. An intolerable chain of events.

He shook his head free of the reverie. Perhaps a mage is befuddling the air? But the thought was nothing more than rote. Jellik was always careful to drink magic deadening potions, precisely to avoid that kind of problem. Only a fool invited chances of defeat. Still, he hesitated, glancing again at Clovis. Perhaps it would be most prudent to stalk about the camp fully, ensure that everyone was in their bedroll and properly sleeping. His eye roved over to the far northern side of the camp where Forsyth had installed himself for the night. The northerner always claimed the privilege of command to set up his appointed space a bit further from the main group. It was shrewd, of course, in that he was easily close enough to the rest of them to rouse them to help him should he require it, but still gaining more autonomy by virtue of that increase in distance. Jellik had not yet paced over that way.

After a moment more, he slipped off to weave between the trees, his thoughts all of murder. There was the simple reason not to check the bedrolls, and that was that if he was being observed, it would be inevitable that he'd turn his back to the danger. Jellik was confident that that wouldn't matter against most opponents, but only a fool gave an enemy a chance to score victory. And the far more compelling reason was, of course, that if Forsyth had indeed risen in the night, then this might be an opportunity for Jellik to kill him and have an excuse for it.

Jellik hated Forsyth. The queer, cold northerner was the undisputed master of this group, but that didn't stop Jellik from hating him. He had trained for those four miserable years to be an assassin, and on the completion of his training, he had joined a mercenary group. There weren't many in Grans, but a few could always be found. Most Granserians considered mercenaries to have no honor, of course, but those were only the contemptuous claims of men who did not understand how such groups operated. The Captain, Jellik's previous commander for a year and a half, had been killed by Forsyth who had specifically sought out a mercenary unit to complete a contract on behalf of a Gransi client.

Jellik might well have refused to take any part in the scheme had it not been for two things. He was not asked to raise arms against any fellow Yeeli, and, much more significantly, Forsyth had killed the Captain. Jellik still didn't understand how he had done that. The Captain had been so vital, so commanding, so right. Truly, the Captain had been a god or near enough, no matter. How could he not owe loyalty to a leader who had the strength to slay a god? Forsyth was dishonorable, and his strength was false, but until Jellik managed to discover the truth of this strength, until he managed to kill Forsyth when the northerner was not prepared for such a probability, Jellik was bound to do him service. It was an intolerable situation, but he swallowed his rage as best he could and focused on what Forsyth could offer him: wounding both the Galamani and the Gransi.

He flattened himself against a tree, edged his head around the right side of it and then the left. It was, he realized with a flash of fatalism, impossible for him to find an enemy bent on stealth in these trees, in these shadows. This was one of the oldest forests in all of Grans. The prospect made him smile. Having heightened the prospect of his own death was intoxicating. It wasn't because Jellik sought death, or even that he believed that he would be slain, but because it gave him the heady realization of all of his own powers. He was an even ground here with anyone good enough to kill him, be it by skill, which was unlikely, or by luck, which was very unlikely.

He spun around to the left side of the tree, keeping his back firmly planted against it, his smile widening. This was better than sleep. Much better. It was only a shame that he couldn't be certain of finding a foe, or, failing that, some creature out here to truly use his skills against. He had been most disappointed when Forsyth had decreed that the beastman would be left to die of exposure. Jellik was a claimer of deaths.

He prowled in similar fashion from tree to tree, never satisfied with the apparent emptiness of the forest. He had heard something, and he meant to slake his thirst for blood. It would put the dream far behind him. Half jumping, half running to the next tree, he came to a halt, his eye lingering on a fire pit. He stood perfectly still where he was, his eye roving over the scenery. After several minutes of stationary contemplation, he satisfied himself that he was not being observed and he strode over to the fire pit. He dropped to his knees, and then lay flat on his stomach, his nose mere inches from the ash. The campsite was a day or two old, he judged, perhaps three. He rose to his feet and walked around the pit, looking at the scuffed grass, the faint impressions of indentations. Perhaps somebody had been using a walking stick. He filed the thought away. Jellik liked knowing things.

His eye caught the flash of movement, and his attention jerked toward it without moving his head. A squirrel was poking its head around a tree, a few feet away from the campsite. Its eyes glowed, and it hopped forward. Jellik's smile stretched all across his face. The behavior was unmistakable; the squirrel must have been fed by whoever had last passed through. Why else would it approach him? He reversed grips so that his right hand was inching slowly into place. The squirrel took another hop forward, and the knife flashed out of his hand in a blur.

The squirrel's shriek broke the silent contemplation of the trees. Jellik smiled, admiring his aim; the squirrel's right paw was pinned perfectly to the ground. He strolled over to it, his thoughts of looking for another person put to the side. The pathetic beast was whimpering. Jellik whistled as he stood there, watching it twist and shriek desperately. It was almost a shame that the throw had been so clean; the beast would probably die, but it was possible that it could get along as a cripple. To insure death, it would have needed to be a messier wound. Jellik didn't deny that its helplessness was gratifying, but he hated it when he had to take a second action, it implied weakness upon the first. His smile faded a bit as he considered the best action to take, quite ignoring the desperate mewling noises that the creature was giving vent to. Yes, no help for it. He'd have to make the most of it, and punish the beast for the necessity. He was getting a tad rusty perhaps.

He slid another knife free from his boot, and squatted down, running the edge lightly down the squirrel's tail. An expert slice would be good at about... He heard the sound of a footfall, and his concentration slipped. Glancing up and around quickly, he didn't see anybody. He paused for a moment, trying to listen, but the stupid beast's whining was most distracting. Cheated of his sport, he stabbed it through the chest with the second dagger, wiped it off on the squirrel's tail, and slid it back into his boot. He removed the first one, wiped it against the grass, and crouched, listening.

He could hear footfalls alright, though they were faint. But not coming from the direction of the camp. His interest deepened. With a swift, graceful movement he stood upright, and moved with light stealth, following the noise. He could not allow any passersby to encounter the camp. This was part of the job he'd always done for the Captain, and he was damned if he didn't do it for Forsyth as well.

He crept off, noting that the first hints of dawn were in the sky. He must have spent more time testing himself against the trees than he'd realized. The light of the day disquieted him, however. It seemed that the trees, in such illumination were looking at him, murmuring to themselves. He found himself reflecting on Feldo again, and the realization of it shamed him. He had never meant for that situation to grow so dire, but Feldo's bloody wife... She should not have insulted him. Twice over. Both things that he could not stand.

He found that his hands were sweating. The realization chilled him. It was as though all his training was slipping away in an onslaught of memories; little things he hadn't thought of in years. His work hardened mother, who'd died when he was twelve. He'd never known his father; he was said to have died in the wars, before Jellik had been born. But it was Feldo he thought of most of all. Feldo who had understood the ideas, the theories. Feldo who had understood Sugar Lane. Feldo who had ultimately betrayed him, and married that bitch.

"I imagine," Feldo said, "that he was not altogether bad."

Jellik shivered. That had been a lie. That had never happened. But Feldo had been with him in all things growing up, and if it wasn't the one memory, it was another. Particularly the last one. It was never the knife that I wanted to put in you. Fucking happiness. It was the memory of the old happiness that cut.

Jellik was almost entirely gone into his own timeline when the robed man stepped out from behind another tree. Instinct kicked in and the knife went flashing even as a burst of flame went flaring at Jellik. It hit him, and bounced back, but he cursed loudly in pain. Jellik stared incredulously at his arm. The spell had... burned him. His gaze was fixed on the sore. For a spell to do that despite his precautions... He switched his attention to the man before him.

He'd been distracted or this man, a mage he supposed, would have a knife in the throat right now. As it was, he had pierced the stranger in the left arm. The mage was cradling his wounded arm, shaking uncontrollably, staring at it. "M-my arm. Y-y-y-yo-you s-stabbed me." His stuttering voice was full of horror. "I-I'm b-b-bl-b-bleeding."

"What a night," Jellik murmured to himself, his smile returning. Now this was an interesting turn of events.

---

The edge of the pain never dulled. Sharper than a knife, that pain. And he couldn't even eat it. Inch by agonizing inch, Gerhalt had at turns crawled, and dragged himself from the cave he'd been kept in. It had been the cold that had finally roused him from his stupor. He couldn't remember anymore when the visitations had stopped, but after a while his mind had grown clearer. It had coincided with the lack of another person, but he didn't want to put too much stock in that. It could have been a deliberate betrayal, but in that case, why had he not been finished off at the time? Surely that would have been neater, had it been a betrayal. No, perhaps the surviving soldier had been slain whilst foraging for food. A hunting accident wasn't out of the question. Or perhaps there had been more assassins. But then why wasn't he also slain?

Gerhalt dragged himself further along, his claws scrabbling for purchase in the sod. He burned. He wasn't certain if it was the rain (when had it started raining?), or if it was just the same old pain. Flashes of shadow caught his eye, as he dragged himself along, the pain searing his soul. He ignored them, having no way of being sure whether he truly saw shadow or was just remembering the cave. The cold stone. The sense of weakness that hurt, worse than mere exhaustion. The echoing voice. "I love... love... love so much. I love."

Shaking (or perhaps that was just the pain again) he shouted, "No!" At least he tried to shout. The sound grated and sawed, rasped and emotionalized. His chest felt as though it vibrated to his voice. "No!" The word was torn from him again, arcing outward in a heavenly trajectory. "Noooo!" The blue eyes. The dour dark shadow. The voices. Jellik... and Clovis. Traitors. He knew. Drugged, he realized. They must have kept him sedated, so that he would remain confused. But he knew. That voice had not been Jellik's. Those eyes had not been Clovis's. He was awake now.

"No!" His claws dug into the ground, and he could feel himself shrinking, feel the wetness at his eyes. "They thought... No!" All this time, they had thought him just a Parmecian to be slain? Just a beastman? One of Bowie's... "No!" Bowie...

He fell face first into the ground again, sorrow striking at him. Bowie... Bowie had assigned him this mission. He had known where Gerhalt was to go. He had assigned him the men of Granseal. He had even expressly refused to give such an honor to Jaha or Chester. Because they... nor, expendable.

"No!" The word tore from his throat again, burning, but his hatred failed him. And he wept, the sobbing tearing from his throat, his chest, from deep within his center. A sword in the back… a sword for him. Treason against him. Who but Bowie could have arranged it? Who but a Granserian would be twisted enough to command the slaying of a friend? How could Gerhalt but weep?

Aching, agonized, weeping, Gerhalt dug his claws further into the sod, dragging himself forward. His strength failed him, and he fell, halfway through. The effort was too great. He was too weak. The world was killing him.

"Bowie," he rasped, the name clumsy upon his tongue. The boy Bowie had been when he had come to Polca… young. Idealistic. Noble beyond the heart of savagery. Then why? Why the betrayal? Why was the world so bloody cold?

And Gerhalt wept. The grass swirled into a sickening single vortex before him. He searched through the corridors of his mind, the secret hallways of his soul… and he himself was not there. His voice was divorced from his own mind. From his own soul. Within him… was nothing. Just a voice that seemed to sound like him… and yet not be of him?

"Betrayed…" the voice murmured.

"No!" Forms swirled before him, shadows took shape. The land stretched before him, wasted and wounded. Everywhere his non-realized gaze turned, war took shape. Intentions clashed. Battles were pitched, all as an argument. An extension of belief. Battle was merely the form of argument, conviction. Realization.

Gerhalt shook harder than ever with the sobbing even as the rain burned him. Burned.

"Yes," the voice murmured. "Love… only love burns. Betrayal at the hand of a friend…"

"No!" The word was hard, strangled rasp in Gerhalt's voice. Bowie… the grief swept through him. And the rage. Left to die. With a sword in his back, with whatever had happened at the cave… "No," he mumbled. "Not… right. Betrayal. Don't know… can't. Won't." The voice was trying to incite him to act out these visions before him, but he couldn't. A bearded face, ancient and lined leant down in front of him, surveying him with weary eyes.

"What of justice?" the voice murmured in that same echoing, metaphysical way.

"No…" Gerhalt could feel the rage sweeping through him again, despite his efforts. "I could fucking break you," he growled, weakly managing to lift one clawed hand. "Break you! Not… justice."

"Shhhh," whispered the bearded face. "Looks like you could, if you wanted to. Better if we get you out of the rain, eh?"

Gerhalt frowned out of the surrounding haze, suddenly intensely aware of the raining, stormy sky and the face leaning down towards him. He could feel hands on his body. More physical than the voice still echoing… He gave in to the darkness. Fighting was just too much.

---

Clatt hopped nimbly from tree to tree, hugging the various trunks, slinking forward, feeling the sharp and powerful wind of the night as strongly as a slap in the face. The gods alone knew that he should have been more focused, more worried, more… more calculating, but to be alive on a night like this!

He realized that he was grinning like a drunken fool, and sternly he straightened his mouth. No, it wouldn't do to be too drunk on the moment. He did have a purpose, after all. He was Clatt. Clatt always had a purpose.

But to realize the sheer forces of the world, the raw gusting, buffeting waves of power in the world… that was intoxicating. To stand before the very epitome of nature and to feel the wind growing in his robes, to feel the dampness of the grass, to feel all of these forces that had ground mountains down, that had dried rivers and made the marshes themselves depression back into the water was to stand before all the power of the world and realize that he, and others like him, were the only answer to such power.

Whether or not he was equal to it, well that was a different question. But what could be in answer to these most ancient of powers if not the arcane studies of darkness? The followers of light believed in a harmonizing principle whereby such a question became useless, because the goal was no longer sought in the striving. Those who bowed to darkness were wiser. What could bite bit, what could tear tore, what force could meet another force would meet it. And in that struggle, that single essential point of existence itself, was the only life worth living.

To confront, and be confronted… was it any wonder that Mishalea herself had fought for this? To have the freedom to meet true power the only way that such powers could truly meet… was a worthy goal, Clatt realized now. He'd never quite grasped that before. Pao had taught him that talent demanded application, and that insults could not be forborne. High Commander Eiku had taught him that power was the only concept with practical application. The Shining Force had taught him that even darkness was not surety against light.

And the long months of fleeing from city to city, drunk more often than not, cursed and mocked for his stammer… that had reminded him why it was sometimes necessary for even the servant of a god to practice circumspection.

And so Clatt stood there for a long moment, his arms outstretched, truly meeting this night. One moment of eternity was all that he asked. One moment of realization. One moment of being more.

And then his eyes snapped open, and a little wonder seemed to flee the world. Was it any wonder that men fought with such great cruelty against each other? They were trying to prosecute power, in the limited ways that they had. Clatt sympathized with that, but he could clearly see the futility of it. What could answer the ancient forces of life if not magic? And what practitioners of magic were willing to recognize that truth but the ones of darkness? It is a matter of protection.

He began walking again, almost mechanically now, the sheer exuberant joy of his step having faded from the world. Protection was at the heart of the matter. Mishalea, Zeon… even Warderer, in his own way, they had all sought to protect the order of things. Light wanted an unnatural hegemony of force in the world. Darkness sought merely the natural process. The people of the world were the children of that process. And so, indeed, they had to be protected. That was the argument, the disputation. And if Clatt could find a way to allow the masses to understand the issue in such terms then perhaps he, where the other leaders of darkness had failed…

But of course, though he was a strong man in his own right, he certainly did not have the resources that even Death Woldol had possessed, and he had been an entirely minor power after he had been killed initially.

And that brought him back to Grans. To Lord Minister Graig. Because, he also now grasped another fundamental truth; Mishalea and Zeon had never lacked confidence in their powers. They had been avatars of most of the force that darkness cared to muster. Clatt was a strong man, for he was Clatt. That was simply a truth to be acknowledged. But they had never had to build themselves up. They had never been… unworthy of notice. They had been assured in their respective destinies, and so had taken outright war, both ideological and physical, to Rune. Now that had been arrogance.

How better to assure that fools like Max of Guardiana would array themselves in opposition? No, far better for Clatt to work through other means. More mundane means. Far better to let a man like Graig wield the power in public. Or if not Graig, then another man of worldly power. Now that Clatt himself served a god, he had the strength to crush recalcitrance or betrayal on the part of a mere politician.

How foolish his fears had been back at the ship! He had not been wrong to burn it, of course, given what Guardiana had proven at Skull Castle. His god's exhortations to preserve the ship were a minor difficulty, but Clatt imagined that refloating what was left of the carcass of the ship would not be sufficiently troublesome to that end. So long as Graig honored Clatt's service to him, there would be plenty of men at Clatt's disposal. He'd assign the task to some of them and then kill them. It was a small point.

But that brought him back to the forest. Back to his purpose. Lemon, once the finest sword of Galam.

Despite having to keep an eye on the grim faced soldier, Clatt had made good time over the past two days and, in his estimation, Granseal couldn't be more than another day's travel away. No more than a day and a half at the very most. The fact that that meant getting some answers as well as dispensing with the tiring problem of Lemon made him eager to get there.

His reflective reverie falling away from him, Clatt cursed petulantly. If only he hadn't misplaced the bloody former Red Baron. Chewing on his lip, Clatt cursed the night under his breath. Better light would have been useful for tracking Lemon, and he wasn't easy in his mind using a blaze spell to get that light. No, there was no telling exactly how the powers he had been granted from his god worked and Clatt wanted a decent store of magic should he need to defend himself. The fires he had called upon to burn the ship had been truly glorious to behold, but they had also been quite draining. He could not afford to be drained.

And Lemon, curse him, had just had to go and make the whole thing more complicated. He recalled that after having gotten over his shock, he had started to appreciate having the man around. Yes, he had even respected Lemon. Clatt had probed the man a number of times, but Lemon had done no more than stare at him with dead eyes. Clatt admired that kind of obdurate hardness.

Only now the man had made a bloody slip of things, and Clatt did not care to contemplate returning to Graig empty-handed. He didn't have any other prospects in Granseal after all, and if his destiny was to return darkness to its proper glory from the shadows he could hardly be seen by any general populace in a proactive role. Although, now that he served a god, perhaps a religious role could be useful to him. If he made no obvious overtures to purposes of darkness then he would not be curtailed, and-

A shriek rent the air, and Clatt jumped. In another moment the horror he'd felt the night of the storm, the night before the god had made its presence known to him, returned. These trees were dark and full of horrors, and if a swordsman made their way upon Clatt, he wouldn't be much good in a fight. Not unless he was a proper distance away, but where would the dratted opponent come from? It was infuriating that these small, but very real, dangers continued to affront a man of his strength and dignity. Clatt had worked to get where he was today, and even if he had to make a new beginning of sorts, he still should be accorded the proper respect due to his accomplishments. He was proof of the dominance of the so called odd and mediocre, after all. He'd heard the words often enough.

He hurried forward, glancing back around his shoulder when he heard a crackling step in front of him. Spinning about, he shrieked and a burst of fire started to answer him… He shrieked again at the sharp pain in his arm. Stumbling back, Clatt stared at the dagger protruding from him, and then the well proportioned man staring back at him. "M-my arm. Y-y-y-yo-you s-stabbed me." His voice was full of half gasping tears. "I-I'm b-b-bl-b-bleeding."

The man muttered something, took a step forward and Clatt's mind went blank. He couldn't remember a spell to save his life, and he'd- the man seized his hand, none too gently and pulled him upright. Ripping the dagger out of Clatt's arm hard enough to move him to another scream, the man slipped it up by Clatt's throat. "Back to the camp with you."

---

His eyes flicked open, but it took several moments before consciousness seeped back through. "It hurts," he gasped, but the sound was closer to a whisper, a growl in the back of the throat, an ephemeral thought than it was to the expression of pain. His chest. The right half of his fucking chest. Felt as though a ton of lead had broken through it and just stayed there. Breathe. Can't breathe.

He flailed, whimpering at the agony in his chest. He couldn't move, he could barely breathe… there was a clattering sound as his hand encountered resistance and objects fell to a… floor? He whimpered again, confusion heightening the panic. He did not remember a floor… but oh this burning! This deadly heart-aching burning! That he remembered.

"Eh?" Measured steps. Gasping in agony he stared upwards as the figure became clearer, moving towards Gerhalt. "Awake, I see, wulfling." Gerhalt tried to move away, but he was hopelessly tangled in… sheets? He was in a bed and at rest?

"Now then," the man said, and though his voice was nasal and uneducated, he radiated friendliness. "Just lie back there, and we'll take a closer look at your wounds. Been in a battle I suppose?"

Gerhalt started to open his mouth, and gasped at the sudden blaze of pain in his chest. The voice that was him and yet not of him murmured, "Jellik and Clovis waited on you as well."

No! His arms splayed for a moment, and then his claws sank deep into the wood of the table beside him. Sorrow jolted his mind, and memories of sadness played across his vision. He stared balefully at the bearded old man, moved more than he cared to admit by his air of nobility and solidity.

The old man merely smiled. "Don't want to talk about it, I suppose." He stroked his beard and Gerhalt's eyes lighted on a scar puckering the skin of his knuckles. Big, worn hands they were. Sensing more than hearing the voice he wondered how easily those hands might be turned against him. As Bowie… the agony in his chest increased tenfold and he gasped again.

The man, in the meanwhile, had paced out of the room and back into it with a bowl of wine. "This'll help do some of the work for you," he began to explain. "Get you to sleep and-"

A growl rose in Gerhalt's throat, and his claws flailed out again, striking the bowl from the man's hands. Jellik had tried to keep him asleep as he recalled. Sleeping draughts were part of the fate that had been prepared for him. Was this old man merely an added insurance that he be taken care of?

The man knelt to the floor, retrieved the bowl, and stood there for a long moment surveying Gerhalt with a dispassionate eye. Then he shrugged. "When you want something, call out, knock on the wood, whatever. It'll take my attention, wulfling." He turned on his heel and went out the door again, not closing it.

Gerhalt lay there, endeavoring to breathe as gently as he could. Was it possible? Had he stumbled upon a refuge at last? Gerhalt did not want to believe it, but he remembered his painful progress across the plains of Grans, after dragging himself out of that cave. That bearded face had come upon him then, and had not slain him, but set him in a proper bed… But, blast it all, neither Jellik nor Clovis had done him overt harm either, and they had clearly collaborated against him.

It was Grans he was dealing with. Grans was not a land for trust, nor for a Parmecian so far from home. A worse thought came to him. What of the others in Bowie's entourage? If Bowie had maneuvered this against him, then what outrage would he perpetrate against his other non Gransi friends? It was enough to make Gerhalt weep again.

The voice murmured at him, whispering of justice. Justice, it insisted was nothing more than a piece of paper. When that paper had holes put into it, air leaking into it, it was the duty to protect the tatters and write a new parchment in blood. Justice…

"No," Gerhalt croaked. Justice, the voice prodded at him.

Somewhere in the midst of these agonizing considerations, of the harshness of his breathing, of all these dark thoughts, somewhere amidst it all, Gerhalt slid off into the realms of sleep.