Chapter Ten

The firewood gathered by Lionel Hix for that night's campsite was moist from the snow, of course. But with a little coaxing from Faye's fire magic, it burned well enough for the team to warm their bones. Iorveth gladly allowed the flames' heat to saturate his cold, wet gloves while he reflected on the events of the night.

The climb to the summit had been treacherous, and not without drawbacks. Lark now sat with her head hung low, having barely spoken since the remains of her mare were offered to sate the appetites of trolls. Even her bickering with the Count had reached a standstill. Regardless, the climb had not been a fruitless effort. So long as Lark bore the jawbone trinket, they needn't fear aggression from other local mountain trolls. Also, if they had traversed the cave, Iorveth wouldn't have learned that the one called "Lily" was still somewhere ahead of them.

The rogue sorceress in bandit's clothing was an oddly-shaped puzzle piece whose place in the grand picture still eluded him. All mages had their own agenda—he was wary enough already of the day Faye of Ban Ard's deeper intentions were revealed. He could scantly guess at what motivated this unknown mage to crush an old she-troll under a fallen tree.

Nevertheless, after the team's tangle with the she-troll's son, these few hours of respite seemed their due. For a dark and silent hour, it appeared all was peaceful. That is, until the travelers were well warmed and began turning their thoughts to sleep.

"Lark, douse the fire," Iorveth ordered. Wordlessly, the half-elf Squirrel got up to smother the flames in dirt. She was halted, however, by a complaint from the humans' direction.

"Cor, it's colder'n a bruxa's tit out tonight," Lionel shivered, rubbing his hands together vigorously. He cast a meek glance at Iorveth. "Why can't we leave the fire burnin' until morning? Makes breakfast a mite easier, don't it?"

"Because…" The single word seemed to barely seep through the clench of the elf's teeth. "The firewood is damp, and damp wood gives smoke. We'd be alerting every monster, bandit and mage for miles to our location."

Lionel bit his tongue and said no more. Others weren't so compliant.

"You'll have to explain to me this…what I must assume is your own brand of elven logic," Tarn cut in, standing up to position himself between Lark and the fire, still eyeing Iorveth. His voice was nasal from the strips of cloth wedged in his nose to stop the bleeding from the troll's punch. "Isn't the very purpose of having a night watch to repel such intruders?"

Iorveth was starting to believe that teaching humans to survive the elements was more futile than teaching minnows to breathe air. "We place two men on watch throughout the night to alert the others if trouble finds us," he said. "It's another matter entirely to invite trouble while we rest."

"That was well and good in the fields below, but these are the mountains," Tarn protested. "I only have one woolen blanket on hand, and it's utterly wet from snow."

"Mine got holes in it from one of the harpies' talons," complained another human in Tarn's entourage, whose name Iorveth neither caught nor sought.

A downcast Lark looked up and opened her mouth. Perhaps she meant to scold the ignorant dh'oine on underestimating the very wilds they had once condemned the Aen Seidhe to. Instead she closed her mouth and lowered her gaze once more to the cinders.

"You must see that it won't do to travel with a party suffering from influenza," Tarn reasoned. "We just aren't accustomed to—"

"Your comfort is not our concern, Count, nor that of your people," sneered Iorveth. "Did you think the winds and snow would yield to your whims like the farmhands of your estate? We continue our camping practices as they have been: a fire at dusk and dawn, to be snuffed out all other times. Now stand aside or I will have you restrained."

"I will not be ordered about by thieving, cutthroat riff-raff," declared the Count, his hands on his hips and his stuffed nose pointed high. "You, your men and their arrows may have turned the tides on King Henselt, but that hardly reverses the horrors you've wrought on humankind for generations. Nor does it give you the right to issue commands to those you so readily hunted not one season past."

"No, it doesn't." Saskia's voice quenched the rising conflict as she strode forth to join the group. "I, however, do."

All eyes were drawn to her. Tarn blinked. "Milady?"

The waning firelight flickered on Saskia's face, creating exaggerated dark circles under her eyes. It was clear to Iorveth she had little patience or energy for this squabble, but as always she dispelled it with her commanding words.

"As we left Vergen, I tasked Iorveth with the protection of this convoy as we scale these peaks," she went on. "There are none within these ranks better suited for this than one who called the forests home for decades. You will defer to Iorveth in matters of survival. Heed his vast lifetime's worth of experience, as though his orders were coming from me directly. You have one mark of insubordination on your head already, Count Marco. Do not test me for another."

"…Anything you say, Lady. I know better than to question your authority," Tarn murmured, indignantly standing aside. With him no longer in the way, Lark set about extinguishing the fire.

"It's not all bad, Count," remarked Zoltan as the dark of night began to creep upon them, bringing with it a stinging cold. "If you get chilly or lonely tonight, you know just the lady to keep you warm."

Tarn looked where Zoltan indicated, only to find he meant none other than the supply cart mule. Some of the dwarves laughed.

"That's a he," an unamused Tarn replied, which only increased their laughter.

"No more of this now, gentlemen," Saskia bade them firmly. "Night watchmen, to your posts. The rest, to your tents. Good night."

The group began to disperse. Iorveth caught Saskia stifling a weary yawn as she retired to her tent. Before the tent flap had fully reclosed she had already untied her hair, letting it fall freely upon her neck and shoulders. Soon after came the sound of her many armor plates clanging onto the ground as they were shed one by one. At last, in total privacy she gave a long overdue yawn amplified by a groan, no doubt stretching her freshly unyoked figure. He found himself wishing if only for a moment to join in her reprieve from the burdens of leadership. But that was not a privilege he could yet allow himself.

"Listen, you hear that?" Zoltan spoke up from across the campsite. "Wolves."

Sure enough, there was a pack howling not too far in the distance.

"They may be hunting," Lark said. "We should see that they don't come after…the horses."

"We will stay up awhile longer," Iorveth declared, ever mindful of his priority as the party's protector. "If the howls grow faint, we'll know the pack has ventured on. If they grow louder, we'll ready the rest to defend against their fangs."

"Ye think just because us dwarves' ears are shorter, that we're any less able to hear that yowlin' racket?" Yarpen insisted. "We'll sit up for a spell, too. I'm not about to be taken by dreams when a good fight and a new fur pelt may be heading my way." Resolute, he sat down on a log and began to sharpen his axe head dramatically with a rock.

"Yarpen Zigrin. Trader, merchant…and now, fur collector?" mused Zoltan, leaning against a tree nearby. "Fancies himself a jack of all ploughin' trades, this one."

"You know as well as I that no sooner do we sit our arses down in the Cauldron back in Vergen than Skalen Bloody Burdon starts looking to squeeze us for new dice poker prizes," Yarpen retorted. "Couldn't call myself a man if I didn't bring back a trophy or two to put that old gleam in the lad's eye, could I?"

"Shh!" hissed Lark. "Do you two want to draw the wolves right to us with your voices?"

"Fret not, Lass," Zoltan assured her. "None of us have bathed in nigh a week now. Those beasts' noses will smell the drowner corpses from the riverbank on us before they hear a word we say."

Iorveth sat against the great uprooted tree under whose roots they camped. Unlike the ill-prepared humans, he was largely unaffected by the temperature. The multiple layers of armor he wore afforded enough warmth for a late autumn night, even one on a frost-laden mountain. Once Velen gave way to Saovine and the winter blizzards set in, he'd be as vulnerable to the elements as the next. But for now, he endured the climate just as he had endured sleeping on the cold stone slabs of the cave near Flotsam.

He listened intently to the wolves' howls, assessing their proximity to the camp. It seemed they were slowly but gradually moving away. He looked back to those who remained awake—his Scoia'tael on the right-hand side of the fire ashes, and the dwarves on the left. Growing drowsy as the night dragged on, he noted that the humans remained safely sleeping in their tents, while the nonhumans stayed up to guard them. Furthermore, it struck him as amusing that for once, they did this by choice.

(***)

He was unaware that sleep had claimed him until he woke in the morning to the instinctive feeling of being watched. With the reflexes honed by years of combat, he seized his sword hilt a fraction of a second before realizing the one who watched him was Faye. She sat cross-legged just beyond reach of him. When she saw the weapon being drawn, she gasped and brought up her crossed arms to hide her face.

"Stop cowering, daerienn," he grumbled, pointing the blade at her. "Killing you would be stupid, so long as you are our only means back to Vergen. But for your own sake, do not catch me by surprise like that again." He sheathed his sword and stood up with a stretch of his back.

Faye lowered her arms hesitantly. "I was only waiting for you to awake. I'd…I'd like to conduct my ritual there today." She gestured to the spot where he stood.

He looked around the immediate area dubiously. He saw nothing remarkable about the place, save for a few mushrooms peering out of the snow with icicles dripping from their caps. "Why here, specifically?" he asked.

"It's a fairy ring." She climbed to her feet, and with two pointed fingertips, she traced the circle created by the mushrooms, of which Iorveth was at the center. "This spot flows with the Power, like a gurgling mountain spring. Can't you sense it?"

He furrowed an eyebrow. "I sense nothing."

"I do." The sorceress closed her eyes and drew a breath. "I sense a prophecy was made or fulfilled long ago where you stand this morning," she breathed. "Or a mage once blessed this circle for protection with a spell so strong, it still binds its caster to this place so deeply that he aches to return if only in spirit."

"Return to this frozen patch? It's only a circle of mushrooms," he remarked sourly.

"Stand here." She gestured outside the ring of fungi. "Then you'll see."

He stepped outside the circle, and she edged cautiously around him on the way inside as if one wrong move would result in a knife to her chest. Once securely at the center of the ring, she gathered up her skirts in hand and knelt down on both knees. She emptied her pouch of its crystals and arranged them on the ground before her in the star shape mages favored so. She proceeded to mutter the incantation she may or may not have translated for Lionel the previous day. Her hands began to wave about in a seemingly haphazard fashion.

Just as Iorveth was about to ask why magic spells were always so needlessly elaborate, the mushrooms began to faintly glow. Their shimmer intensified with the volume of Faye's voice. A gesture from her hands, and the light streamed from the mushrooms to merge on the sorceress' kneeling figure. It swirled like a whirlwind around her, then finally flowed into the crystals on the ground.

Faye gathered up the crystals and proudly displayed them in her palms as though they were gold. Then she placed them back in her pouch, gathered her skirts to step over the fairy circle, and headed for her horse. On the way she bumped into Saskia emerging from her tent, clad in full armor suit once more and clasping her cloak. The sorceress uttered a greeting while flourishing her skirts in a curtsy. Saskia humored her and curtsied back with a fur-bound cloak edge.

"She's a right marvel, ain't she?" Lionel piped, standing a stone's throw away with his hand on a horse's reigns. Iorveth began to say 'marvel' was an understatement...until he realized the peasant meant Faye.

"What do you want?" The elf scowled. He wondered briefly what became of the days when even the lunatics amongst sorceresses and the fools amongst humans knew to keep their distance from the Scoia'tael. Perhaps they were quicker to forget the past than Saskia thought.

"I was looking to have a word with that lass in your charge," Lionel said.

Lark came up beside them. "With me?"

"Yes'm. I know it was rough on you, losin' that horse and all. So, if ye like…if I ain't too outta line in offering…well, you're welcome to this one here." He extended the reigns to her.

Lark blinked.

"Saskia said she don't mind, since I know I'm supposed to check with her on these things now," Lionel continued.

"I don't need the charity of dh'oine. I've managed without it all my life," the half-elf scoffed.

"Right you are, but this ain't charity, it's just teamwork," the peasant insisted, giving the reigns a wave towards her. "I only reckoned you'd have an easier time keepin' up with your fellowmen here if you didn't have to walk. My own two feet suit me fine. Ain't nothing to me to walk along the supply cart, especially now that Count Marco is being watched by the dwarves all day."

With that, she allowed the reigns to be places into her hands. "Well, I…thanks, but—"

"You still haven't repaired your boot," Iorveth observed, looking down at the shredded article of footwear that clung to Lionel's ankle. "Attend to that before we reach the next mountain peak."

"Right. Miss Faye already said she'd patch it up for me," the peasant grinned. "Sorceresses—nothing they can't do, am I right?" With that he ambled on over to the supply cart.

The party was on their way again.

(***)

There were blessedly few surprises heading down the incline of the first mountain. The cold relented even more, and the further down they ventured the more their surroundings reflected the late autumn season rather than the perpetual winter of the mountaintops. As their path leveled, the trees gave way from evergreens to bare trunks with only a scattering of auburn leaves still dangling from the branches. They'd come to a sizable valley nestled between the peaks.

Saskia turned from the front of the convoy and faced the Scoia'tael. "Do you know this area, Lark?" she asked.

Lark, now astride the horse Lionel had given her, surveyed the scenery. "There's a main road running across the peaks on the northern end of this dale," she said, pointing on ahead. "It leads to the Kaedweni town of Daevon, just due east."

"Yes, the map says as much, but what of the dale itself?" Saskia pressed.

"Not much to tell," Lark shrugged. "Kaedweni fur trappers sometimes found their way here from the road, setting their snares on the wildlife that roams these parts. Though the ones with more balls on 'em always steered north of the road. Colder climates mean thicker furs to sell in Ard Carraigh, must be their reasoning."

"Did Sverren's commando ever conflict with these Kaedwenis?"

A laugh. "As much as skewering them with arrows and taking back the bounty they stole can be called 'conflict,'" Lark said with a hint of pride. "Of course, now that Sverren's death is old news, it wouldn't surprise me if the trappers were back in droves."

"In that case, we can expect hostilities if there are any here to see you now," Saskia concluded. "Iorveth, have your men hang back, and allow us a five-minute head start so we can confirm the way is clear."

"We'll have our eyes on you from afar," he agreed.

"Elves aside, it won't be a much prettier sight if the Kaedweni pricks get it in their heads to avenge their kingdom's pride we bruised in Vergen," Yarpen predicted.

"…That is true," she admitted. Iorveth noticed that distant, pensive look come over her as she pondered what to do next. "Count Marco," she finally continued. "It seems you may have an outlet for your emissary skills. Do you feel confident you can barter passage with the Kaedweni fur trappers we may chance to meet?"

"If you like, Lady, I'll have the fools begging to hand over their best animal pelts to you," he beamed, moving to the edge of the procession.

"No need. Just see to it that they don't attack or set the Kaedweni army on us," she commanded.

"Ever as you wish."

The proud Aedirnian noble took the lead and the party moved onward again. Only Iorveth lingered behind with his brethren as Saskia ordered. A wary feeling clawed at him as the gap between the Scoia'tael and the team widened. What possible reason could Saskia have for sending Tarn to the forefront? That arrogant ponce's single contribution to their journey had been the horses they rode. Since then, he had unabashedly committed treason, whined without cease and nearly spurred a troll's rage. If anyone could turn a negotiation with Kaedweni fur trappers into a disaster, it was Count Tarn Marco.

He understood why Saskia had him stay behind, but did she realize that now when the Count did steer them into trouble, the Scoia'tael would be unable to respond quickly, even with arrows? What was in the Virgin's head?

When the elves were far enough behind not to be noticed up ahead, Iorveth ushered them on. As the minutes yielded to hours, the trees thinned until they merely dotted the grassy expanse of the valley. Iorveth could make out the semblance of the others ahead, but could scarcely tell who was who amongst them from this distance. They had come to a small, brown tent and were no longer moving. He squinted, ever diligent of signs of trouble.

There was a snarl just off the trail beside him. It seemed that trouble had spared Tarn the effort and found them. Iorveth looked in time to see a rustling in some nearby shrubs, then out emerged two Rotfiends.

Lark drew her swords just as one of them threw itself upon her horse's flank. She gave an impassioned bellow and buried her sword in its head.

"Not this one, d'yaebl!" she hollered. As though the fiend was the notorious Milan Raupenneck himself, she stabbed again and again furiously until it released her mount and fell on the ground. Catching her breath, she trotted on ahead and left the corpse to combust where it lay.

In a bout of yells and sword clashes, the other two Scoia'tael tended to the remaining Rotfiend with efficiency. Iorveth gave them a nod of approval, then turned to Lark. "Is your mount fit to continue?" he asked.

"I've let this one come to no harm," she assured him.

"Are these monsters common here?"

"No." She shook her head. "Not unless there are fresh dead to feed on."

He looked ahead again to the advance team. They were still at the lone tent, but there was a stirring of dust all around them. It told him Saskia's plan hadn't gone peacefully. "On to the others!" he commanded, and the Scoia'tael hurried to rejoin their contemporaries.

From afar, Iorveth couldn't tell if the struggle was against men, monsters or both. As they drew nearer, he noted that the assailants faced by Saskia's team were too rotted and feral to be the camp's original inhabitants. It was unclear whether the Rotfiends killed the campers or merely took advantage of an already festering feast. He only knew there were several of them engaging the group, including—by his count—at least two of the larger warrior variety. Once within range, he took up his bow and motioned for the others to do the same. He aimed at one of the Greater Rotfiends.

The walking carcass was set to strike at Faye, who stood alone in the chaos chanting an incantation. The beast lunged for her quicker than Iorveth's arrow could fly, intercepted instead by Yarpen's axe. It recoiled and shuddered.

"Move yer ploughin' arse, witch!" he heard the dwarf warn as he sprinted away, but Faye's concentration broke a moment too late. She looked up just as the fiend exploded. The rancid chunks of its splintered corpse hit her with such force that she toppled. She squirmed on the ground, looking as though it took all her will not to vomit.

In seconds, Saskia was standing over her with sword raised. "Back!" she barked, facing the other monsters like a she-bear guarding her cub. She swung ferociously when one dared approach.

A feeling of unrest reared in Iorveth's stomach watching this. Even when Saskia had dragged Prince Stennis from the spectral battlefield, she remained the image of grace under pressure. Why such passionate devotion to protecting Faye? It wasn't as though Yarpen and the other dwarves couldn't cover the sorceress. Unless…

"Are we shooting them or not?" Lark's voice reclaimed his attention. Without missing another beat, he sent an arrow sailing and ordered the others to do the same. A volley of arrows made their marks on the decaying hides of the Rotfiends. Some burst on impact, others recoiled just long enough to be met by dwarven steel.

He recalled Saskia's strange decision to send Tarn to the front of the caravan. Could it be that decision wasn't truly hers?

The Scoia'tael drew nearer to the fray. He could see now that there were remains of humans littering the camp, as well as a dead wolf. He didn't dwell on this long before some of the smaller monsters that clung to the edge turned their aggression on his forces. They soon perished by the blade as the first two had. With all of the monsters fallen, Saskia knelt at Faye's side and checked her ailment.

Iorveth remember the ritual Faye had conducted right before him this morning. The first person she interacted with afterward was Saskia.

"Ye gods! Is she alright?" Lionel asked, eyes on Faye.

"The dead…" Faye murmured. "The dead have become me…I have become the dead…"

"She's delirious," Tarn said. "Ranting."

"Fuck, that's hardly new," Yarpen remarked. "I've seen this sort of thing before. I say we make room for her on the supply cart, let her lay down and rest, and we bugger out of here before any more of them shiteaters show up to finish the meal."

"Yes. Shift the tent rolls so she can lie down," Saskia ordered, draping Faye's arm over her shoulder to help her up. She looked briefly over to see the Scoia'tael had rejoined them, but seemed to disregard the elves as she helped Faye onto the cart. "Yarpen, stay close to her," she went on. "If she asks for anything—herbs, water—accommodate her."

"Aye," the dwarf agreed.

Iorveth watched on in silence. There was no lingering to question the fate of the campers, no examining the site for clue of what happened as there had been on the mountain crossroad. Instead, Saskia repositioned herself in her saddle and moved on hastily, the rest behind.

If our Faye proves to be but another Eilhart, you'll know what to do, Saskia had said back in Vergen when she entrusted the spellbook to him. In truth, his options seemed limited. Though he could freely talk to Saskia now (a privilege he lacked in the time that Philippa controlled her) he was still unable to voice his suspicions about Faye to her. If they turned out to be true, she would only disbelieve them…maybe even turn against him.

Nor could he kill Faye. He would have enjoyed spilling Philippa's blood in Loc Muinne, and he would readily spill Faye's if necessary. But he knew it would accomplish nothing. When he had entertained the thought of Philippa's death on the trek to Loc Muinne, Gwynbleidd had warned him that not many curses could be broken just by killing the caster. The vatt'ghern had even told of cases from his own experience where the caster's death was what enacted the curse. In all likeliness, if Faye perished leaving Saskia spellbound, the dragoness may simply commit herself to carrying on Faye's legacy.

Not to mention they would be stranded in the mountains without the witch.

As they rode on, his attention never strayed far from Saskia, watching for signs of a woman possessed of magic hex. He needed to find out with certainty if she answered to the whims of Faye. His best course was to talk to her once they stopped.

(***)

There were cheers of delight that evening when the convoy arrived at a small, mountain stream. Tarn practically hurtled into the water, splashing his face and removing his plume hat to rinse away the stink of his hair. Others also took the opportunity to wash and drink. While it was too shallow for fish, it seemed as ideal a place as any they'd find to spend the night.

Iorveth opted to stand the first night watch shift, along with Yarpen. The elf found a rock by the stream to sit on as he whiled away the dull hours, while the ever adverse Yarpen found a place on the opposite end of the camp. Just as well—this way they had both sides covered.

As the party retired to their tents, he called out to intercept the Dragonslayer.

"Saskia. A word."

"Of course; I've barely heard one from you all day." She crouched beside the rock where he sat. Both of them faced the trickling stream. "Is there a problem?"

He searched for a way to work Faye into conversation seamlessly, so he could judge her response. "What happened at the ruined campsite when my men strayed behind?" he began.

"Not much beyond what you saw. The Count was to approach the tent and ensure the campers would not be hostile. He found the site littered with at least three dead men, though it was hard to get a precise count given their…disseminated state. There was also a wolf with a crossbow bolt in its skull."

"We heard a wolf pack's howls last night."

"And it appears that was the last thing those campers heard. We meant to leave the camp and move on, but then came the…necrophages."

"They're drawn by the scent of the dead, but they are well capable of attacking the living—"

"I know," she said, firmly and abruptly. She sounded almost defensive. Then, in a softer voice, "I know. So I had the unarmed take cover by the cargo wagon, and I had the dwarves meet the foe with steel while Faye was to assist them with magic. Then you rejoined us in a hail of arrows. There's nothing else to tell."

The unarmed. The dwarves. The only party member she called by name was Faye. "The witch took quite a fall when the creature burst upon her," Iorveth said detachedly. "Are we certain she is capable of continuing this journey?" He watched Saskia intently to gauge her reaction.

She waved a dismissive hand. "She'll manage. She's taken herbs and gone to rest."

He relaxed a little. She didn't respond harshly to his usage of the word "witch," nor did her expression show excessive worry about Faye's wellbeing. These were both good signs.

"In Murivel, Faye claimed to keep extra Power on hand in her crystals," Saskia went on. "So, if she must miss a day or two of her ritual due to her ailment, we shall adjust. At worst, we'll leave the mounts behind when we teleport from the Hengfors League."

Good signs, yes, but some of Saskia's behavior still didn't add up. Iorveth wondered again about her decision to trust Tarn in leading the team. "I commend your faith in Count Marco, if you believe he would allow his horses to be left in a strange town," he ventured.

"Ah," she leaned in and lowered her voice, "but it was in the name of good faith that I sent him to the front today. Surely you notice how the others ridicule him. His is not a breed that handles humiliation well. I must afford him some measure of faith, if I expect to keep his loyalty intact."

He nodded. "A wise approach. It's a shame, though, that the creatures you encountered required warriors' force, rather than the Count's words. And it's a shame Faye reaped the consequences rather than him."

Saskia's gaze lowered to the ground. Slowly, she broke into a knowing smile and eyed him with a bold look few others had dared to give him in his long and violent career. "I know what you are getting at," she declared.

He paused. How had she guessed?

"You think I erred in separating your archers from the company and letting Tarn take the lead…that I left us vulnerable to monsters. Am I correct?"

Of course. It made sense she assumed that. He wished to reply in earnest: he had always trusted her judgment and would follow her even if she led him through fire. But the commands she gave today—along with the strange circumstances that followed them—made him suspect that another was behind them.

And yet, he held his tongue. Until he was completely satisfied that Saskia still held her free will, he should not risk making her aware of his suspicions. "We responded as quickly as possible," he finally answered. "But if we had stayed near, we would have been able to spare what trouble the Rotfiends did cause."

She closed her eyes and gave a long, deep sigh. "Iorveth, hear me now," she began, opening her eyes to face him once more. "It was you who dubbed me 'Dragonslayer.' The foundation upon which the free PontarValley is built was laid by us both. And after what happened in Loc Muinne, know that there is no one I've come to trust more than you."

He let that sink in for a moment. If she were under the thumb of Faye's magic, would such a declaration of trust in someone else be possible for her to utter? "…All that you've entrusted to me is a trifle beside what the Aen Seidhe have placed in your hands," he assured her.

"Perhaps. But remember, though I trusted you to mind this team's survival on this journey, I took the team's unity and progress upon myself," she said. "You are free to doubt my decisions, and after all we've endured it would be foolish of me not to hear your doubts. But I will thank you to bring them to me before action is taken—never again after."

He refrained from telling her why before hadn't been an option, and simply replied, "A fair thing to ask, Dragonslayer."

"May I take that as an agreement?" she asked.

"You may."

"Good." She stood up and turned to leave. As she retreated, without looking back, she said, "If you see any more of those Rotfiends tonight, I'm counting on you to manage them."

(***)

Once or twice that night, a lone Rotfiend scuttled towards the camp. They were smaller, weaker ones not worth troubling the others over. The only activity Iorveth saw during his watch shift was to abruptly bring the snarling nuisances to an end with bow and swords, while those asleep in the tents never even stirred. The rest of the time was spent watching the stream gurgle on past.

He was glad to be released from the tedious duty when Yarpen retired to a tent and two more, freshly awakened dwarves shambled out to take over the night watch. One of them, Zoltan, approached Iorveth's spot by the stream.

"Gotta hand it to ye, Squirrel…ye sure know how to pick a watch point," the dwarf remarked, kicking a pebble into the stream. "Can't exactly fall asleep on shift if I have to piss constantly."

"If that's what it takes to ensure the monsters and wolves are kept at bay, then I leave you to it," the elf replied, standing up from the rock and starting in the direction of the camp.

"Hang on, there. Before you turn in, there's something that's got me curious," Zoltan said, leaning on the rock.

"Speak it, then."

"Yer a hard one to peg down," Zoltan continued. "Sitting out here alone, puttin' yerself between nature's wrath and a distinctly human-leanin' crew. When little over a month ago, ye just as soon would have gutted the lot of them for lack of a better pastime."

"A lot has happened in a month's time."

"That it has. I just find it a touch peculiar that the span of a bloody moon cycle is enough to change a course you've run the better part of a century."

Iorveth crossed his arms. "If we're to have this conversation, I may ask you something similar. Why didn't you join the Scoia'tael in Flotsam's forests when given the chance?"

"Shite, ye mean besides the gallows in the Flotsam town square, servin' as a daily reminder against it?"

"We elves value freedom before life. What about the dwarves?"

Zoltan chortled. "Still fancy yerself a martyr, eh? Well, as Yarpen would be quick to point out, we dwarves saw the dusk falling on us even before the elves did. Dwarves like me, Yarpen and all our mates, we've reconciled that it's either with the humans, or forgotten in the past."

Iorveth nodded. "That is what it has come to, no matter how much we may wish otherwise. Saskia understands, and that is why I follow her now."

"Aye, I get all that," Zoltan said. "And I get you backing her in the Battle of Vergen—Hell, I even get you stoppin' that riot when they came after the royal prick Stennis. What I don't get is last night, puttin' out the fire. Or the way you helped the Count and Lionel out against that beast in Murivel. Ye watch over these humans like your own, even though you're likely the last thing some of their dads and granddads ever saw. That's what I can't place."

Iorveth uncrossed his arms. "They could join those families you speak of tomorrow and it would be nothing to me. I simply guard them because it's what she wanted," he said.

Zoltan, still leaned against the rock, pivoted to face the stream. "Figures," he grunted.

Iorveth determined their discussion was done, so he turned to leave.

He thought he heard Zoltan murmur, "I ploughing knew it. Only has one eye and it's on her all day." He chose not to acknowledge this.