Professional Documents
Culture Documents
the Hunter
A Neverwinter Nights 2 fanfiction
by
JC Martin
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Disclaimer:
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Chapter 1 – The Betrayal
"My debt to you is over, Knight-Captain, and the strange thing is, I’m a
little sorry about it," says Bishop, as he steps out from the shadows.
She stands at the head of the group of adventurers, her short, reddish-
brown hair framing her face, her expression a mixture of surprise,
anger and hurt. He wills himself to maintain his casual demeanour,
when deep down he is feeling anything but calm.
"For what it's worth, I almost kept going for you, right there until the
end. But your Uncle...some things are too hard to get past. Even…”
and here his words fail, if only for a moment. “...even with everything
else."
Gods, he hasn’t meant for that to have come out sounding so…sincere.
All the time he had been part of her little adventuring company, all the
chances he had then to be open with her, he had been aloof and
apathetic. And now, at the worst time of all, here he is getting all
soppy…
“Don’t do this, Bishop,” she says quietly, shaking her head slowly. Was
that a flash of neediness in her eyes? Or is he kidding himself again,
like he had so many times before with her?
"I can't help it," He tries to sound his usual self. "Getting tied
down...even to a feeling for someone, just isn't my style." He forces a
sneer, which (he hopes) looks convincing enough. "The most
frustrating thing about it? When I met you, I was thinking it would be
as easy to hate you as I did Duncan. But I don't...at all."
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There, that is as emotional as he will allow himself to get. But what he
really wants to do is to scream at her, let it all out. Don’t think I didn’t
see you and the paladin here right before the siege! And to think,
before that, I would have fought for you!
But no, that’s not his style either, is it? Instead, "But see, that's the
reason it's going to end like this. I'm not going to be tied to anyone or
anything again..."
Especially not if his own feelings could get so close to scaring him at
times.
Hey, it’s not like the secret’s going to hurt my chances with her
anymore…
* * *
When he has finished telling his story, the looks on everyone else’s
faces say it all; shock, horror, disgust…well, what was he expecting,
admiration and acceptance? After all, he has just admitted to
butchering an entire village – his home village. Heartlessly herding
them to a fiery death, like sheep in a corral. In a way, he is enjoying
watching their expressions, amused that they all deem themselves fit
to judge him; a paladin who broke his oath, a dwarf who picks fights for
the hells of it, a spoilt, arrogant sorceress who wouldn’t think twice
about setting anyone, let alone anything, on fire, a tiefling…
But the look on her face…it seems different from those of the rest. Is
that…disappointment? Sadness? And why is he feeling a tug of guilt
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just looking at her? Not guilty for what he had done, but guilty for
letting her down…
“So…just because Duncan saved your life, you’re going to take mine?”
“Bishop…” she whispers. Gods, why does he always feel this way
whenever she speaks his name? It’s like silk brushing against his skin.
“Sometimes two people caring for each other can be a strength, not a
weakness.”
Two people…? No, it cannot be. He will not let himself be led on again,
especially not now, no matter how sincere she tries to sound. He
pictures her up on the battlements of Crossroads Keep, her arms
around the paladin...how they strolled, hand in hand, to her Captain’s
suite. Would you do that if you really cared about me? he thought. No,
you’re a liar. A good liar, but a liar nonetheless.
“Say what you will…it doesn’t matter in the end,” he looks away.
Bishop is just turning to give Garius another dark glare, when he sees
her slightly pointed ears twitch, ever so slightly. In a subtly teasing
tone, she asked, “Was that an order I heard, Bishop?”
“You watch it!” he shouts despite himself, knowing full well that she is
baiting him. Damn, she knows him well. “I’m not anyone’s lackey, not
anym-”
Slowly, purposefully, Bishop turns to face Garius. “Is that so?” he said,
his voice laced with menace. “Well, in that case, you can fight the
Shard-Bearer on your own. After all, you really don’t need me, do you?
I think it might be better if you stopped having people stand between
you and the Knight-Captain here – Torio, Lorne, your Reaver friends…
I’m not going to fight your battle.”
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"You will die here if you leave, Bishop,” Garius warns, “I will come for
you when I am done here."
“Cap’n…”
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Chapter 2 – The Strength of Friendship
And what was he talking about? Feelings? For her?? She never thought
Bishop capable of caring for anyone else save himself, and she oddly
feels a little flattered. Still, he had some odd way of showing his
affection, didn’t he? Snide comments and rude remarks are hardly
romantic…
“You were never a true leader, even with the rituals and the Sword of
Gith at your side.” Garius’ dark voice sounds confident again, after his
brief hesitation and speechlessness at Bishop’s departure. “Do you
think all your companions who follow you, would follow you to death? I
think not.”
“We are all here, are we not?” Elanee chimes in, stepping forward. “I
think you underestimate us, Garius."
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“Why would we leave?” asks Grobnar in his usual innocent way. “I say,
for a minion of evil, this Garius fellow doesn’t seem to be very
insightful when it comes to our friendship.”
Khelgar moves in front of her, battle axe raised. “From the Weeping
Willow Inn to here, I’ve followed, followed gladly, and there’s no way in
the hells I’m backing down now.” He looks as if he is ready to shield
her from all the undead in Faerun.
“In this one who leads us, I have seen the strength I lacked so long
ago,” Ammon adds, surprising Alya with his support. “And as for you,
Garius, I do not see Lorne or Torio standing with you.”
“Know that the choice is a simple one, Garius,” Zhjaeve intones in her
calm voice. “If you fight us, you fight us all.”
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“You monster!” Alya whispers through clenched teeth. She doesn’t
know much about binding spells, but she knows enough to realize that
Neeshka is now bound – painfully - to Garius.
“You’ll see the hells soon enough, Garius, I promise.” Neeshka said
weakly.
No, she thinks. Not Neeshka. I can’t fight her! Yet, can she bring herself
to convince Neeshka to stay on her side, knowing full well that the thief
could be doomed to a horrible fate if she disobeys Garius?
“I need you, Neeshka, please don’t do this.” She hates the desperate,
pleading squeak in her own voice.
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His empty eye sockets stop at the moon elf wizard, who has been
uncharacteristically quiet.
Sand regards Garius in the same disinterested way one would regard
an annoying merchant with nothing worth buying. “Yes, well, as
tempting as becoming one of the many Shadow Reavers we’ve already
slain is…I shall have to pass. Not much future, you see – for you or
them.” Alya couldn’t help smiling at the sarcasm in his voice, and is
mildly surprised when the wizard turns to her, and she sees more
kindness and warmth in his eyes than most people ever thought Sand
was capable of having. “Besides,” he adds, “the little girl here…she
needs minding, else…well, else bad things could happen to us all. And I
will not allow that to happen.”
Their eyes meet, and Alya mouths the words “thank you”. Trust Sand
to make her feel like a naïve little fledgling, no matter how many
reavers she has slain.
“Ah, and then comes the matter of restraint.” As if to hide his failure,
Garius moves swiftly on, barely acknowledging Sand’s barbed
rejection. “I can feel your indignation, Qara – your power rolls off as
your anger grows, as those weaker than you claim to understand you,
when all they want to do is drag you down.”
Qara steps up beside Alya, and she is about to express her gratitude
for the sorceress’ loyalty when she realizes that Qara has carried out
walking, straight to Garius’ side!
“Even if Sand wasn’t against you, I’d still join you,” she tells the
Reaver. “I’m tired of her, and all the rest, telling me what to do, and
how…when I’m the one with true power!”
No, no, no, no, no…she has always known Qara to be impulsive,
immature, overconfident…but downright stupid?
“The girl has become a child,” Sand says, sounding only mildly
surprised. “And now, Qara, you are our enemy.”
Alya shakes her head sadly. She knows that she must soon do the
unthinkable.
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But Garius isn’t finished.
“And Ammon Jerro,” he says with renewed confidence, now that he has
won Qara over. “Ammon, the infernal contracts, the hordes of
githyanki…both can be easily broken with the power of Illefarn behind
you.” He sounds almost empathetic as he continues. “And even your
dear Shandra can be returned to you, the life that you missed
replaced; in time, you could know of her again.”
Alya tenses, waiting for Ammon to respond. She has already lost
Bishop, and Qara. What can she expect from this mysterious,
unpredictable warlock? She remembers when they found Ammon
standing over Shandra’s lifeless body. It took both Khelgar and Casavir
to restrain her, keep her from tearing into him. Needless to say, she
has never really grown close to the old man – will she finally have to
fight against him now?
In that split-second of calm before the battle, Alya sees Khelgar and
Ammon, weapons drawn, ready to pounce at her command. Neeshka,
appearing stronger now, unsheathes her twin daggers. And Casavir,
dear Casavir, stands close beside her. His deep blue eyes seem to say
“I am with you till the end, my lady.”
Suddenly, Alya realizes that all eyes are turned on her. They are all
waiting for her to give the command, the command that would
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probably send them all to their deaths. As Alya looks back at their
earnest faces, she has to force back an upwelling of emotion. This
gang of misfits, they have come so far. She believes she has grown to
love each of them in a special way – well, perhaps not Ammon Jerro.
Still, it pains her to be the one to give the order. But they all knew as
they stepped through the portal that this was a quest they would
probably not return from. And yet these people willingly followed her,
despite the fact that they were not the ones with some githyanki shard
lodged in their chests, not the ones who need to bear the burden…
Her eyes are moist, but her voice is steely with resolve. “Let’s get this
over with.”
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Chapter 3 – You Can’t Run From Your Own Shadow
Well, it’s too, too late now, isn’t it? He’s made his decision, and there’s
no turning back. He remembers with bitterness the night he saw her
and Casavir up on the battlements. They were speaking, possibly
flirting. He recalls his blood boiling when they moved to embrace each
other, and in the light of the moon he saw their lips meet. By the time
they were making their way to her room, arm in arm, he had seen
enough. Sneaking out of Crossroads Keep, he had approached Garius’
camp to offer his services. At that moment, all he had wanted to do
was to hurt her, cause her as much pain as she had caused him.
Well, he has done that, hasn’t he? Yet he doubts that his betrayal
mattered much. Whether he had stayed on her side or not, he has a
feeling that this battle against the King of Shadows would be her last –
it would probably be his, too, had he stayed. Why else had he not once,
but twice, offered to take her away from all this? To spirit her away into
the forests, where they could lie low for a couple of years, until this
whole thing blows over? But no, she’s much too righteous for that, isn’t
she? A selfless, noble hero to the end. What was that stupid saying she
had quoted?
One of the many silly idioms she seems to follow as a disciple of The
Way. Frankly, it seems no different to all that Wendersnaven rubbish
that idiot gnome bard spewed. But it still struck a chord in him. As he
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runs through the dim, torch-lit hallways of the fortress, he sees his
shadows bouncing crazily over the walls, ceilings and floor. For a spell,
he sees fleeting images reflected in them: a burning village…a crying
baby…his own father, clothes burning, pleading for mercy…a flash of
raven hair…a glimpse of silvery-grey eyes…a curved dagger on a
downward arc…
No, he has not managed to run away from his shadows, however much
he tries to convince himself that he has.
Trying his best to ignore the heaviness in the air, he trudges towards
the woods. The sky is overcast and grey. In the distance, he can hear
the roll of thunder. Pulling the hood of his cloak up, he ducks into the
cover of a copse of trees, and starts to move swiftly and silently
through the undergrowth, the dark, imposing fortress falling further
and further behind him. It is not long before the path inclined upwards,
and as Bishop reaches the top of the hill, he looks out across the vast
expanse of the Mere of Dead Men. It is a bleak sight; the sky has
started to spit down rain, and all he sees are different shades of grey
everywhere – even the trees seem to have lost their colour. Eerily, no
creatures could be seen or heard. Not a single rustle, no birdsong…the
Vale is silent as death.
Though the climb was not overly difficult, the oppressive atmosphere
had made it seem twice as hard. Bishop shrugs off his backpack,
rummaging for his water canteen…and stops. From his bag, he pulls
out a crumpled strip of soft satin, stained with dried blood. His thirst
and fatigue, and the fact that the rain is starting to come down harder,
are all forgotten, as he stares at the piece of rag, the memory
associated with it flooding painfully back…
* * *
It was right after the githyanki attack on the Sunken Flagon. He was in
a foul mood. Shandra had been abducted, and Duncan had called his
debt due. He had no choice but to act as tracker for his niece and her
companions. He did so grudgingly, not speaking with anyone as he led
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the way. They were passing through that village, Ember, the one
whose villagers the Luskans later tried to accuse Alya of slaughtering.
He had noticed that the place was suspiciously quiet, and everyone
was on their guard. Sure enough, there was an ambush, and it was a
difficult fight. At some point, he took a githyanki blade in his shoulder,
but the party was short on healing supplies, and what little they had
were predominantly spent on Qara, if not to save her life, then at least
to stop her whining and complaining about the pain, and how no one
rushed to help her when she got overwhelmed, that she could have
easily blasted all the giths in one go had they not gotten in her way...
“That’s quite a nasty nick you got there, Bishop,” she had said. From
the start, she had called him by name, not just an impersonal “ranger”
or “tracker” like all the others.
His mood fouler now that he was injured, he had ignored her, and
started splashing water over the still-bleeding wound, gritting his teeth
against the biting pain. He resented her for being the reason he was
forced to be there, and he was determined not to ask for assistance of
any kind from her or any of her friends.
She knelt down beside him and tried to take his arm. With a growl, he
had a shoved her hands away. “I got it, monk,” he had grunted, putting
as much venom and scorn into the last word as he could muster, the
cold water stinging the deep cut. It still bled profusely, and he upended
his backpack, strewing the contents on the ground, scrabbling clumsily
for a bandage. He found a short length of cotton, and proceeded to
wrap it around his shoulder with one hand and his teeth. The thin,
haphazardly tied on gauze was soaked through with blood almost
instantly.
All the time, she had stood there, with a mildly amused look on her
face. “You know, that wound needs more than just a strip of cloth,” she
suggested in an innocent voice.
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“That I have.” She appeared unfazed by his hostility, and once again
knelt down beside him. “But I think I can still help.”
“And I’m not one, but…” she picks up a skinning knife that he dumped
out of his pack, and started sawing at the hem of her robe.
“These are magical runes,” she explained, as she tore off the last bit of
the strip that still clung to the rest of her robe. The strange symbols
ran along the entire length of the strip, “It confers a slight regenerative
power to the robe. It may take a while, but if I tied it onto your wound,
it would start to heal it.”
She was partly wrong; the healing effect was almost instantaneous. By
the time she had wrapped the strip around his shoulder, tying it on
with a neat knot, the sharp, tugging pain had been reduced to a dull
throb. He looked at her robe, the hem now ragged. Having lost the part
of it that was magical, the garment was no longer protective in any
way.
“Yeah?” she said, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “How very
observant of you.” He couldn’t help smiling slightly at the retort. She
fingered the torn edges of the tunic and sighed. “It’s an old thing,
anyway…it’s probably being put to better use this way.” She stands
up, her demeanour serious now. “We need to find Shandra, and we
can’t do that with a wounded tracker.” As she turns to go, she added,
“Put your clothes back on, won’t you, before you catch a cold?”
* * *
Ignoring the rain that is seeping through his clothes, and taking off one
of his gloves, Bishop rubs the satin between his fingers. Still soft,
despite his dried blood encrusted on it. The runes on it look as foreign
to him as ever. Alya said that the robe was an old thing, but it wasn’t
any old robe, was it? It had meant something special to her.
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So why did she ruin it? Could saving Shandra have been so important
to her, that she had wanted to ensure that the only person who could
lead them to her be in top condition?
Bishop shuts his eyes. He can still feel her fingers dancing on his skin
as she deftly bandaged his arm. Once it even brushed his bare chest.
At the time, he felt a perverse pleasure having a pretty girl touching
him while he was topless. Now, the memory of her touch sends little
shivers up and down his spine, leaving him hungry for more.
This is exactly the feeling I don’t want to have – this helpless feeling of
being tied to someone.
He exhales loudly. After all that has happened with the Luskans, his
village…a flash of raven hair, a glimpse of silvery-grey eyes…freedom
is the most important thing in his life – it should be the most important
thing in his life.
Yes, this is freedom. No one around to judge him, no one to tie him
down. Is this the freedom he wants? To walk through this bleak, dreary,
dead world…alone?
He stands, still gripping the satin strip, and turns around, looking back
the way he came. The fortress is a small, dark silhouette at the bottom
of the valley. He tries to push away the crazy idea that pops into his
head, but it refuses to be ignored, and it start to call, louder and
louder, until his mind is wracked by a cacophony of indecision.
Amongst the chaos, the vision of the red-headed, half-elven monk
shines like a beacon, but underneath it all, his nightmares still stir…
When was the last time tears came to him? Too long ago…
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Gathering his chaotic thoughts, he flexes his aching fist, then, having
mentally made his decision, he draws his twin swords, and runs…back
the way he came.
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Chapter 4 – Awaiting the King
“Watch out!”
Alya dives out of the way of another fireball, rolling on the ground a
little before jumping back up. She reaches Sand’s side and tosses him
the healing potion. Gratefully, the wizard swigs it down, and relief
starts to show on his face as he continues exchanging magic with
Qara. All the other minions and shadows lie dead, their bodies
scattered about the room. The only ones left are Garius himself…and
Qara.
Khelgar is battling the Reaver, his face splattered with blood, little of
which is his own. Grobnar’s Construct swings away at Garius, with the
bard not far behind, singing songs of encouragement. Elanee is
assisting by tossing a few summoned creatures into the fray. Casavir is
tending to a gaping wound in Zhajeve’s side, and Ammon lies
wounded, conscious but unable to move, watching helplessly. Poor
Neeshka, the binding spell apparently too strong, has passed out from
some unknowable pain.
Just then, a bolt of lightning shoots from Qara’s fingertips. It hits the
ground at Sand’s feet, and the elf curses as he loses his spell, his
concentration broken. Alya sees Qara forming another fireball aimed at
Sand, now momentarily vulnerable, utter glee in her eyes.
She runs at Qara, praying she would get there before the sorceress
could unleash her fireball. In the girl’s hands, it is growing bigger and
brighter than she has ever seen before. She’s making this one count…
Alya is not going to get to Qara in time, unless…
With a great leap, she covers the last few yards between herself and
Qara in the air faster than she could have done on the ground. She
sticks out a foot, and her entire weight and momentum crashes into
Qara’s side. As the sorceress falls, the glowing orb she was conjuring
floats momentarily in mid-air, then dissipates harmlessly with a sizzle.
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Alya lands on all fours, and in one swift motion, catches Qara’s head
between her legs before the sorceress could try and get up. “Let go of
me!” she shrieks, struggling uselessly, then she actually starts
chanting again, lying down, her palms blazing.
“She’s calling forth a firestorm, Alya! Stop her!” Sand stands there
helplessly, unable to cast any spell that would not hit the monk as well.
“Qara!” she tries again, praying she could reach the girl. They are not
exactly close friends, but they have been together for months now.
She used to trust Qara with her life, always certain that she would
always be well-covered in a fight by Qara’s spells, and never once had
she ever complained that some of her fire attacks got a little too close
for comfort, singeing hair and eyebrows.
There has been too many deaths as it is, she thought, and I have been
the cause for most of them. I don’t want to be responsible for your
death as well.
“Please…”
Gritting her teeth, Alya shuts her eyes, takes a deep breath, and
scissors her legs, quickly and fluidly.
Crack! One of the most sickening sounds in the world. As she releases
Qara, the girl’s body falls limply onto the ground, her neck snapped,
her head tilted at an impossible angle, her blue-grey eyes locked in a
surprised stare. Whatever fiery spell she was conjuring disappears in a
puff of smoke.
Alya sits beside her body, shaking her head. “I’m sorry, Qara…” she
whispers.
“Erm, girl, as much as I would like to join you in your minute of silence
for our fallen ‘comrade’,” Sand’s last word drips with sarcasm, “we
have more pressing matters at hand.”
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As if on cue, a blast of supernatural energy from Garius sends Khelgar
and the Construct flying backwards. Khelgar hits a stone wall with a
grunt, and the blade golem nearly flattens Grobnar.
With one final, remorseful look at Qara’s lifeless body, Alya joins Sand,
and rushes across the room. She helps Khelgar back to his feet. “By
the hells!” he sputters, shaking her off before throwing himself back
into the melee. As Sand starts to recite a spell, standing at a safe
distance away, she enters the fray.
* * *
Khelgar’s axe finally hits home, embedding itself in Garius’ neck. With
a sickening gurgle, the Shadow Reaver falls to his knees…and finally
dies. They have had to fight Garius so many times, she almost doesn’t
believe he is really dead. Only when his body crumbles into black wisps
of shadow does she finally let out a sigh of relief.
“Know that the King of Shadows will be here soon,” Zhjaeve says, still
clutching her wounded side. “We must be ready to meet him.”
Casavir and Elanee set to work reviving their fallen comrades, and Alya
helps as best she could with her rudimentary skills with a healing kit.
Her mind wanders as she works. The time is finally here. This is the
culmination of everything we’ve been fighting for. Surprisingly, she
neither feels dread nor fear, at least not anymore. She’s had many
previous opportunities to doubt herself, and now that they have come
this far, all she feels is acceptance of her fate.
She remembers the questions tumbling through her head the first time
she learned of her destiny, when they encountered the githyanki that
held Shandra captive. By some foul magic, Zeeaire had seized her,
leaving her suspended in thin air, as she extracted all the shards in
Alya’s possession. She remembers the sharp pain in her chest, as if the
gith was trying to tear her heart out as well. The brief, perturbed look
on Zeeaire’s face showed that she was not expecting that to have
happened, either.
Those were the words that sealed her fate. Yes, all that she had been
through up till then, she had treated as a long errand Daeghun has
sent her on. But at that moment, the realization of the implications hit
her harder than any weapon ever had. In the days following Shandra’s
rescue, she had sat in her room in the Sunken Flagon, speaking to no
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one, turning the same thoughts over and over again in her head. Why
didn’t Daeghun tell me? What does this all mean?
Why me??
Then Sir Nevalle came, bearing news of the massacre at Ember. She
was accused of the crime, and Luskan wants her dead. It was all just
too much. She ran.
Yes, she ran. Out of Neverwinter and into the nearby woods, not
stopping until she felt that her lungs would burst if she didn’t pause for
air. But that is what she does whenever she feels like her problems are
becoming too big, too difficult. Ever since a child, she has done that,
pretending to run away from her troubles, only to come back after the
exertion and clear air have cleared her thoughts, and she realizes that
the only way to deal with her problems is to face it. After all, you can’t
run away from your own shadows.
When she ran off that time, her companions had tracked her down with
the help of the newest addition to her company, Bishop. They found
her sitting on a stump beside a stream, her knees hugged tightly
against her chest. Casavir, Khelgar, Elanee, Neeshka, Grobnar…they
had surrounded her, consoled her, promised her that she would not be
alone in her journey. She was nearly moved to tears. She allowed them
to take her home.
Then there was Shandra. Dear Shandra, who came to her the night she
was meant to spend alone in the Solace Glade, part of some silly rite to
become a squire, a noble of Neverwinter, in such that she would at
least get a fair trial. “All my troubles seem so small compared to
yours,” she had said. “If you can bear your burden so well, I can
definitely bear mind.”
She had laughed. “Does this look like I’m taking it well?”
“Better than anyone else would in your position.” Shandra took her
hand. “You are so, so strong, and I wish I had just half of the strength
you have. If anyone can pull through this, it’s you.”
That was a shock coming from someone she hardly knew at the time,
someone whose farm and livelihood she was partly responsible of
destroying beyond repair. Why would people have so much faith in me,
when I have so little in myself? And it was then that she remembered
the words of her mentor:
“It is the spectator that sees everything the clearest, not the ones
involved.”
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And sweet, innocent Shandra was just that, a spectator, who had
watched her do great things, things she herself thought nothing of,
because she was too immersed in her own self-pity. She saw things
clearer then than she has ever seen, and she accepted her destiny.
Until the Luskan assassins attacked them, they had spent the rest of
the night like a pair of teenaged girls, huddled around a fire, gossiping
and laughing like good friends.
And then, in her grandfather’s Haven, Shandra had embraced her own
destiny willingly, so that Alya would survive to fulfill hers.
Dear, dear Shandra, you had as much strength in you as I, if not more.
A humming sound from the portal snaps Alya back to the present. Rays
of light shoot out, and the ground beneath her starts to shudder.
It is time.
Before she knows it, she is surrounded by her allies. Their expressions
are grim.
“Go,” she tells them, “It’s not too late. You don’t have to fight my
battle.”
Everyone understands what she really means. You don’t have to die
for me.
“Have you forgotten, little one, that I hold one of the Rituals of
Purification we need?” says Ammon. “I’m in this as deep as you are.”
“Know that I have not come this far just to walk away now,” adds
Zhjaeve. Her side wound appears to have mostly healed.
Alya feels a brush on her shoulder. She turns to find Neeshka stealing a
dagger out of her backpack. Her binding seems to have been dispelled
by Garius’ death. “I may no longer be bound to this fortress, but I am
bound to you,” she says solemnly, then, with a naughty wink, “you’re
not getting rid of me that easily.”
23
“My place is no longer within the Mere,” Elanee chimes in, “for I no
longer know it. Now, my place is with you.”
“Even if I could run off now,” Grobnar begins in his logical way, “I
wouldn’t stand a chance getting through the Mere in the state that it is
at the moment. That life-sapping magic would get to me in no time!”
Casavir is the last to speak. He clutches her hand in his, and his gaze is
as piercing as it was that night on the battlements. Alya’s heart does
an involuntary flip.
“I do hope that you know by now, my lady, that my heart, and my life,
is yours. I cannot walk away.”
And so one by one, they choose to stay. Alya doesn’t know whether to
rejoice in their true friendship and loyalty, or to grieve for them.
She doesn’t have time to decide. A deafening roar and a blinding flash
fill the chamber. Alya is nearly knocked off her feet as the ground
lurches. As the glare fades, the darkness seem to become more
oppressive. As their eyes adjust, a figure materializes in front of the
portal.
24
Chapter 5 – The Final Battle
He hears the thunderous sound that signified the arrival of the King of
Shadows as he approaches the fortress. The ground shakes violently,
and the foundations of the fortress itself sway dangerously. This is a
very old keep. Would it hold up if these vibrations continue?
Thankfully, the shaking stops, but as Bishop enters the keep through
the secret entrance, he sees dust raining down from the ceiling. Small
bits of stone litter the floor. Who knows how badly the rest of the
fortress has been damaged? The tunnels appear dimmer, yet the
torches that line them remain lit. It’s as if a veil of shadow has
descended upon everything. He could hardly see anything beyond a
few feet.
His heart lurches at the possibility that he may already be too late.
He runs so fast, he very nearly collides with the rockslide before him.
25
He entertains the notion only fleetingly, and he is disgusted with
himself. Grabbing a torch from one of the wall brackets, he begins to
make his way deeper into the fortress.
* * *
“Grobnar!” she screams as the bard is knocked back by the force the
spell thrown at him. She runs to his side, but the gnome is dead where
he fell. “No…”
Forcing herself into action, she practically throws herself bodily at the
last Statue of Purification. The Rituals of Purification had seemed to
work, but each time they felled him, the King of Shadows seemed to
return, stronger than before. It took them a while before they realized
that he was drawing his strength from the statues around him. Now, as
she watches the last one crumble, she feels a surge of triumph as the
King of Shadows lets out a screech of agony. Falling to his knees, he
disappears into a mist of shadows.
No…
Out steps the King of Shadows again, looming larger than before.
“How many times must we kill this thing?” gasps Sand, as a torrent of
flames drives him backwards.
He cannot be unbeatable! Alya thinks. Not after all we’ve gone through
to defeat him! A spell lifts her off her feet, and she is flung across the
chamber, landing painfully beside Zhjaeve’s broken body. Her empty
eyes stare back lifelessly at Alya. As she gets up, she sees Khelgar
attacking the Shadow with everything he has. Casavir fights alongside
him, with Neeshka firing with her crossbow, while Ammon, Elanee and
Sand fling spell after spell. Nothing seems to be hurting him.
Since the last of the statues fell, the King of Shadows has never
ventured far from the magical gateway…
“The portal!” Alya’s own shout spurs her into action. “Destroy it!” With
Khelgar distracting the King of Shadows, everyone else starts to
pummel the portal. To their dismay, it seems indestructible.
26
“It’s not workin-“ Sand starts, but his words are cut off as a bolt of
lightning hits him. His body spasms as the electricity courses through
him, the agony on his face painful to see.
“Sand!” Alya catches him as he collapses. She scrabbles in her pack for
a healing kit, but he stops her with a surprisingly strong grip.
“Sand, hang on, I can help-“ his hand squeezing her wrist stops her in
mid-sentence.
“The sword…” he points weakly at the Sword of Gith by her side, then
his hand falls limp, and he too is gone.
In her grief, Alya has trouble understanding what Sand had meant. The
sword? What about it? She looks at where it hangs on her belt…
The Sword of Gith, the lines where the individual shards were reforged
still visible, is glowing – no, it is positively blazing. Puzzled, she
unhooks it from her belt. It has never done that before…
Perhaps it is the shard in her chest, but something pulls her attention
to the portal. As she steps closer to it, the blade she holds grows even
brighter, and she feels the slightest tug, as if the sword is attracted to
the gateway. Even her heart appears to start humming.
“Aye, easier said than done,” sighs Khelgar, who has yet again been
thrown around like a rag doll.
The King of Shadows turns, and tries to protect his portal. He swipes at
Alya, but she sidesteps his attack. His claws gouge the stone floor.
With a cry of rage, he brings his arm down again…
27
Turning back to the portal, she attacks it with all her might, long,
sweeping strokes of the Sword of Gith chopping chunks off the frame
of the gateway. Come on, break already! With a final cleave, the portal
shudders, rays of light blasting forth. At the same time, the King of
Shadows wails piteously, and he flinches as Casavir’s hammer slams
into his gut. All of a sudden, the Shadow seems mortal, beatable.
An explosion from the portal behind her throws her off balance. Seizing
his chance, the Shadow swings, catching her on the side of her head.
She lands awkwardly, a burst of stars clouding her vision. Something
warm and sticky drips down the side of her face.
Thunk! Something is driven deep into the side of the King of Shadow’s
neck, and he steps backwards, shrieking in surprise and anguish.
Grateful for the diversion, Alya jumps to her feet – and pauses. Sticking
out from the Shadow’s neck is the shaft of an arrow.
Bishop.
Why has he come back? Her mind spirals with conflicting emotions.
Which side is he on this time? And why do I feel so glad to see him?
And falls onto the Blade of Gith, which she had just enough time to
draw before he landed on her.
The King of Shadows is close enough that she could smell the stench of
undeath. The Sword of Gith has been driven right through him, and it
28
glows steadily. Suddenly, emitting a cry so long and terrible she has to
shield her ears, the King of Shadows begins to melt before her eyes,
vaporizing into tendrils of shadow.
His dying scream echoes long after the last of the wisps of shadow has
gone.
29
Chapter 6 – Escape
“Is he…finally dead?” Neeshka asks warily, as Casavir helps Alya to her
feet.
“I no longer feel the evil,” offers Casavir, as he wipes the blood from
Alya’s head wound.
“We did it, then,” she whispers, hardly believing herself, feeling a
surge of triumph.
“We have to get out of here!” Elanee says urgently. “This whole place
is collapsing!”
Another blast. One of the exits cave in, buried in a mountain of rocks. A
boulder crashes down just inches from Neeshka, who lets out an
involuntary squeal.
“This way!” With everything that is going on, they had forgotten about
the ranger. He stands at the mouth of what appears to be the last
accessible exit.
Alya makes a move towards him, but is held in place by a firm hand on
her shoulder. “No,” Casavir says, scowling, “it could be a trap.”
“Aye,” Khelgar agrees, “I don’t trust him any further than I can fling
him. Actually, I can fling him quite far, but…I just don’t trust him.”
30
“But…” Alya wrestles with indecision, “we don’t have any other
choice!”
Why didn’t he run back the way he came? Alya looks at the sealed exit.
Now he’s trapped here with us.
“The portal!” Ammon barks. “It still stands, but not for long! It’s our
only choice!”
“But what’s on the other side?” Neeshka asks. The look on the
warlock’s face makes it clear that he has no idea.
Before she could utter a sound, the stone slab crashes to the ground,
and the paladin disappears amidst a shower of rocks and dust. The
shock waves from the impact reverberates all the way up her spine
and into her heart.
“No…!” her cry sounds hoarse and helpless to her own ears. She runs
to the pile of debris, swiping away at the rocks. Elanee and Khelgar
rush to help her. She claws at the stones, barely noticing that her
fingernails were being ripped off.
No, this can’t be happening, her mind races. Not Casavir, please, not
Casavir!
“Casavir…” she gasps, reaching for him. Elanee and Ammon help
remove more debris from the paladin, but his legs are crushed beneath
a stone slab so large and heavy that not even their combined efforts
could budge it. He is bleeding profusely from a horrible head wound.
His armour is twisted and dented, mangled by the sheer weight of the
rocks. No doubt most of his bones underneath are broken as well. He is
unconscious, his face deathly pale. The sight of him breaks her heart.
31
“Oh, Casavir,” she says, her voice breaking with emotion. “You stupid,
stupid paladin. Why did you have to go and do that?”
Casavir coughs. His eyelids flutter, and he opens his eyes. She feels a
surge of hope. Cradling his head in her arms, she runs her fingers
through his dark hair. Her fingers come away stained in blood.
“Hang on, Casavir,” she pleads. “We still have some healing kits left.”
She grips his hand. “You’ll pull through this, you have to.”
“No!” she protests, as the tears start to stream down her face. “There
is time! I –“
“There isn’t time!” Ammon interjected roughly. “The portal will blow
any minute!”
Alya looks down at Casavir. She finds it so hard to see him looking so
weak. He has always been such a pillar of strength. And now…
Casavir gazes back at her. Those brilliant blue eyes, still bright as ever.
He says nothing, but the look in his eyes seems to plead with her,
begging her to go.
“You know as well as I do, we have no means of getting him out from
under that slab!” Ammon insists roughly. The logical part of Alya’s
mind hears him, and knows his words to be true – painful, but true.
Unfortunately, her rational mind is not currently in control.
“Ammon, Elanee, Khelgar, Neeshka,” she says, her voice steely. “Go.”
“Alya –“ Neeshka begins, but she is cut off as Ammon physically drags
her and Elanee towards the portal. Unceremoniously, he pushes each
of them through the gateway, where they disappear in a flash of light.
For once, Alya is grateful for Ammon’s no-nonsense, militaristic ways.
As soon as they have gone, Alya turns her full attention back to
Casavir. He lies on his back, his legs still trapped. Blood pools around
his head. Alya takes off her cloak, folding it up, and tucks it beneath
the paladin’s head to serve as a makeshift pillow. It stains red almost
immediately. Remarkably, Casavir remains conscious.
Alya turns, startled that Khelgar is still there. Didn’t he leave through
the portal with everyone else?
The dwarf moves over to Casavir’s side. As he looks down at the dying
man, the paladin’s pleading eyes seem to beg him to try and get Alya
out of here.
“Alya, I know this is very difficult for you, but there’s nothing more ye
can do here.” She shakes her head, as if not understanding. “Listen,
lass, it’s what Casavir wants as well. No point wasting yer life this
way.”
Khelgar shakes his head sadly. “Come to yer senses, Alya! There is no
chance!” He tugs at her arm, but she starts to struggle - fiercely. He
fears that he is losing her to irrationality. Another large slab of ceiling
slams into the ground dangerously close by.
“Listen to the dwarf, monk, the paladin’s a dead man.” They both turn
to see Bishop standing on the other side of Casavir’s body. He looks
down at the paladin. Casavir’s breathing has grown shallow, and his
face is twisted in terrible pain. “I say you save yourself.” A chunk of
rock smashes into the ground right next to him, but he hardly flinches.
“No…” Alya whispers. “He’s not dead –“ Before she could finish, Bishop
whips out a small dagger, bends down, and slashes Casavir’s neck.
Bright red blood spurts upwards, and the paladin gurgles as blood fills
his throat. Alya’s breath catches as she stands dumbstruck for a
33
moment, unable to believe – refusing to believe – what has just
happened.
Gratitude.
With a slight nod, the ranger steps through the portal. No sooner has
he disappeared across the threshold, the portal stops humming, then
disintegrates in one final explosion, and any parts of the crumbling
fortress still standing collapses with it.
34
Chapter 7 – A New World
It feels like they have been spinning forever in some weightless vortex.
The portal must have been very close to complete destruction. Just
when Bishop thinks that they may be stuck in this whirlpool limbo
forever, they are thrown rather carelessly onto solid ground.
Bishop is the first to get up, brushing himself off. Khelgar lies in the
dirt, groaning about their rather turbulent ride. “Ooh…I think I’m going
to be sick…”
Ignoring the dwarf, the ranger surveys their new surroundings. It looks
like they could be in some sort of desert; the landscape is dusty with
rock outcroppings. The sky glows an unnatural blood red, yet he
cannot see the sun. He sniffs the air. The smell is unpleasant,
unfamiliar…
“Ranger, where are we?” Khelgar asks, getting unsteadily to his feet.
Alya is on her knees, her expression dazed. The expression on her tear-
streaked face, so lost and confused, chips away at Bishop’s heart. She
has barely uttered a sound since they stepped through the portal.
Incredibly, Bishop feels a surge of jealousy. The way she looked at the
paladin, the way she cradled him in her arms…such tenderness and
love…hells, how could he compete?
If it had been me lying there dying…would she have done the same?
At that moment, Alya’s blank, staring eyes focuses on him, and in their
fire he sees the answer to his question.
Hatred, pure hatred, burns in her emerald eyes. “You…” she hisses,
her eyes narrowing. Before he can react, she springs at him, fists
35
pounding. “You bastard!” she screams, as she pummels him. “You
filthy, cowardly bastard!”
He tries to grab her wrists, to stay her hands, but her monk’s training
is sound, and the punches – and elbows, ouch – keep coming. He backs
off under the barrage, and a well-placed kick in the gut sends him
stumbling to the ground, the wind knocked out of him.
Slowly, Bishop lowers his arms, spreading his hands. The steely look in
his eyes issues a challenge.
She is breathing heavily from her exertion. “You’re going to pay for
what you did to Casavir, you traitor.”
“What I did, monk, is put him out of his misery.” he rasps. He tastes
the coppery tang of his own blood on his lips.
Alya shakes her head, tears flowing anew. “No,” she sobs, gripping the
hilt of the knife so tightly he could see her knuckles growing white.
“No,” she says again, her voice taking on a hard edge. “You killed him,
in cold blood. And I’m going to slit your throat, like you slit his...”
“If that’s what you want…” Bishop holds his arms by his side, leaving
his chest unprotected. He tilts his head back to expose his neck. “Go
on, do it,” he says casually. He needs to see if she would. How wrong
can he be about her feelings for him? Is he really willing to wager his
life for the truth?
She seems surprised that he is daring her. She hesitates, the dagger
still held high, but the blade wavers slightly.
36
Bishop’s heart is thundering. “What, isn’t this what you want?” he
challenges.
“Go on then!” he goads, the sound of his own pulse resounding like
war drums in his head.
With a deep breath, Alya closes her eyes, raises the dagger, and
plunges it down towards his throat. Bishop shuts his eyes…
He snaps his eyes open, and in his prone position, lying face up on the
ground and looking over Alya’s shoulder, he sees a flash of red diving
down from the sky, and it is big.
“Watch out!” Khelgar yells, pulling Alya off Bishop, giving him just
enough time to roll out of the way as the screaming creature swoops
over them, gouging a chunk of earth out of where he was lying.
Bishop jumps to his feet, his hand already reaching for an arrow in his
quiver. What is that thing? Red and scaly, with huge leathery wings, it
has a long and sinuous body, like a dragon, with dagger-like claws and
razor-sharp teeth. Its eyes are yellow slits with black, bottomless
pupils. It hangs in the air for a moment, its great wings beating, before
sweeping down for another attack.
Bishop lets an arrow fly. The creature shrieks in pain as the arrow hits
its arm, but it keeps on coming.
Khelgar swings his battleaxe at it, but the monster flits easily out of
reach. It lunges at him, and he tries striking at it again, but again it
dodges, then drops back in, knocking the dwarf over.
“Hit its wings!” Alya shouts, as she reaches for her throwing stars. As
the monster dives towards her, she whirls away, at the same time
unleashing a couple of stars on its wings. One last arrow from Bishop,
and the beast falters, landing heavily on the ground, its wings
37
damaged and useless. Khelgar rushes forth, tearing at the creature
with his axe. Its screams are shrill and terrible as the dwarf hacks it to
death.
Warily, Bishop nudges the dead creature with his foot. “Anyone care to
tell me what this thing is?”
“But what?” Bishop asks impatiently. He wipes some blood off his face
with the back of his hand. His nose hurt. Definitely broken.
“It may be possible to try and find another portal,” Alya suggests.
The ranger snorts. Only moments ago, she was ready to die beside the
paladin, and now her will to survive kicks in? “And how do we go about
doing that?” he asks.
“I don’t know…”
“What is the alternative? To just sit here and rot?” Alya shoots back
vehemently. “Unless you have a better idea, ranger, I suggest you hold
that tongue of yours.”
38
Ranger. She practically spat that word. The first time she’s ever called
him that. Bishop feels oddly hurt. Normally, he wouldn’t let anyone talk
to him in that manner. This time, however, he holds up his hands in
mock surrender. “You’re the boss – lead on.”
“In case you forgot, dwarf,” Bishop’s voice is low, threatening. “I saved
your sorry hides back at the fortress. Besides,” he tries to sound more
confident than he is, “even if this isn’t woodland, a tracker could still
come in handy.”
She steps briskly pass Bishop. “As much as I hate to admit it, we’ll
need all the help we can get. Let’s go.” With a brief glance over her
shoulder, she adds, “Worse come to worst, he could make decent
demon fodder.”
Touché.
“I don’t like this, lass, but ye have a point there.” Khelgar runs past
him to catch up with Alya, stopping long enough to give Bishop a grim
warning. “Try anything funny, ranger, and I’ll hack ye in two.”
Still nursing his sore nose, Bishop brings up the rear, skulking, feeling
like an unwanted stray pathetically following people who are barely
tolerant of his presence. He watches her, striding briskly, never once
turning back to see if he is following.
He shakes his head, trying to will the thoughts away. His broken nose
is not the only thing hurting at the moment. He looks again at Alya.
She is walking, head bent, shoulders stooped, slightly shaking, as if she
is crying. He sees the dwarf beside her, a consoling hand on her arm.
Neither seems to acknowledge his presence.
39
This is going to be a long journey…
40
Chapter 8 – Company
With the absence of sunrise and sunset, they have no way of telling
how long they have been wandering, scurrying from one rocky outcrop
to another to keep from being detected by the creatures of this alien
realm. They have been spotted a few times, and the battle has always
been intense, their attackers always strange and terrible. Their supply
of food, water and medicine are starting to run low, and they could find
nothing here that they would dare try to eat or drink. Alya is fast losing
hope that they would ever find their way back to their own plane.
She thinks back to that awful moment in the fortress, amid the
crashing rocks, when Bishop had so calmly pulled Casavir’s head back
by his hair, and then slit his throat. He had done it with all the emotion
of someone slaughtering a pig or a cow. How could someone be so
cold?
The memory makes her blood boil and her eyes prickle, but no tears
come this time. She had cried so much through the first day and night
(though they were never sure when one starts and the other ends), she
probably has no more tears left to shed. Khelgar has been a solid rock
all this time; always there, always sympathetic, and more than once,
he had volunteered to rough the ranger up on her behalf. She had
been tempted to take him up on his offer, but Bishop had looked so
pitiful as he nursed his broken nose – and a black eye – alone, that
despite how much she hated him at the moment, she thought they
should at least wait till he has recovered from his earlier encounter
with her.
41
Khelgar gives an especially loud snort and rolls over. She smiles,
immensely glad for the dwarf’s company. The thought of being stuck in
this wasteland with just the ranger makes her skin crawl.
Alya says nothing, but just fixes him with a cold glare. The swelling on
his eye has largely subsided, and apart from a slight dent where she
broke it, his nose looks like it has pretty much healed.
Irritably, Alya moves away from him. She gets up, and tiptoeing over
Khelgar’s sleeping frame, steps out from under the cover of the rock.
She glances around cautiously, making sure there were no demons
about, then, nimbly, she bounders up the side of the rock. From the
top, she gains a better vantage point for her sentry duty.
Alya sits down cross-legged at the top of the rock. She unsheathes the
Sword of Gith, absent-mindedly turning it over in her hands. Before
they fought the King of Shadows, the blade had always radiated a
surreal light, shifting colours between blue, green and lilac, and it
seemed to hum with a life of its own. Ever since that battle, however,
the Sword has lost its gentle glow. Now it looks like any old,
unspectacular blade, the crack lines where the shards were reformed
standing out like fractures on a broken vase.
Alya surveys the land. The same rust-coloured earth and blood-red sky
they have been seeing all this time. The clouds overhead are a dark
orange. She looks towards the horizon. Apart from more rocky
outgrowths, nothing breaks the flatness of this world – no buildings, no
trees, no mountains…
Where are Ammon, Elanee and Neeshka? They had gone through the
portal just a few minutes before herself, Bishop and Khelgar. Yet there
is no sign of them anywhere here. The portal, though, was also used to
transport Torio and Lorne from Luskan to the fortress. It was probably
also how Bishop managed to get from Crossroads Keep to Garius’ side
so quickly after his betrayal during the siege. She could only guess at
how many other possible destinations there could be from that one
portal, considering Garius’ network of spies and minions leading up to
the final battle. And when she damaged it with the Sword of Gith, it
could have caused it to channel its energies randomly…
42
Whatever place they have stepped into, Alya reckons – and prays –
that it cannot be worse than the Outer Planes.
A soft flicker of light makes her glance down. The Sword has begun to
shimmer, first weakly, then stronger.
* * *
Bishop hears the soft sound of her climbing up the wall of the rock. In
his mind’s eye, he sees her scaling it effortlessly, with a cat’s grace. He
marvels silently at her dexterity. He has secretly seen her in training a
number of times, as she practiced on some invisible foe. He had been
mesmerized by her fluid movements, slow and flowing one minute,
lightning quick the next, like some sort of deadly dance. Once, he had
glimpsed her amidst an intense battle, out of the corner of his eye, as
she moved effortlessly about, weaving, dodging, ducking, striking. He
was so hypnotized by her, it was only thanks to a well-placed lightning
spell from Sand that he wasn’t beheaded by a berserker orc.
He sniffs, still unable to breathe perfectly through his nose. Yes, he has
experienced firsthand what damage she could do with her bare hands,
that many would not be able to do with a weapon. He didn’t fight back,
though with the way she pounced on him, he doubts he could have had
much chance anyway.
Rubbing the bridge of his still-sore nose reminds him again of her
wrath; those flurry of fists, moving so fast they were a blur, each punch
landing squarely. She was not holding anything back, was she? Alya
was furious.
And so she should be. He doubts she would ever understand that he
did not take pleasure in killing the paladin. There is no fun in it when
the quarry is begging for death’s embrace anyway. Plus, he knew just
how much it could affect her and the way she thinks of him. But in that
split second, when it seems like none of them would make it out alive,
with boulders crashing down on all sides of them, he could think of no
other way to move her stubborn hide.
And now, the way she looks at him just eats him up inside. She hasn’t
spoken a word to him since the day they arrived in this hellhole. But he
doesn’t regret doing what he did. No, he would have done anything to
43
save her from that crumbling fortress. But her hatred for him now is so
clear, he wishes she had just plunged that dagger into him the other
day.
When was the last time you cared about what someone else thinks of
you?
A rustle from above tells him that she is moving about. He steals a
glance at the dwarf. Sleeping like a log.
What would she think if he tries to speak with her now? Just go out
there, join her on top of the rock, and talk to her?
That he loves her. That he hates himself for being unable to admit that
to her, or to himself. That he is sorry. That if he could, he would have
swapped places with the paladin, if it would have guaranteed her
safety and happiness.
Bishop snorted to himself. That would be rich. Oh yeah, she will take
that well, won’t she? “Sorry I killed your lover. Can I take his place?”
More rustling up above, then a soft plop as she jumps down from the
rock. “Bishop?” she says, as she pops her head under the ledge, her
eyes wide, sparkling like emeralds in the dim light. For the first time in
a long while, there is no contempt in her eyes.
44
Chapter 9 – The Ambush
“I don’t know,” Alya replies. “I just hear them, and it seems like they’re
all around us.”
But this, it sounds vaguely familiar, and it bothers him that he can’t put
a finger on it.
45
No sooner have they emerged from the shadow of the rocky ledge,
than they hear a rough, guttural sound, possibly a shouted command.
Out jump their pursuers from behind boulders and outcrops of rock.
There are at least a dozen of them. Snarling, they surround the three
adventurers.
And Bishop remembers exactly where he has heard their calls before.
“Githyanki!?” Khelgar blurts out in disbelief as they step out from the
shadows. “What in the hells are they doing here?”
“Oh, no…” Alya lets out an annoyed sigh. She draws the Sword of Gith.
It gives off a vibrant glow, its shimmering hues illuminating her in a
radius of light. As if knowing its rightful owners are near, the blade
hums and pulsates with some unknown energy.
“Kalach-Cha…” Murmurs of the word spread among the gith like ripples
on the surface of a pond. They ready their weapons in their clawed,
bony hands, with what could be earnest anticipation on their yellow,
taut-skinned faces.
The gith are closing in, their blades raised. Bishop is about to charge
when he feels Alya’s shoulders rise and fall in frustration. “Oh, for the
love of the gods…” he hears her swear, then he feels her stepping
forward, her back falling away from his. He chances a glance over his
shoulder. She has the Sword of Gith laid across her hands, the hilt in
one palm, the tip of the blade in the other. Crouching down, she places
the blade on the ground and gets back up. Then she nudges the Sword
with her foot, pushing it to the feet of one of the githyanki.
“You want it?” he hears her say. “Then take it! We don’t need it
anymore, and we don’t want anymore bloodshed!” The nearest gith
bends quickly to pick up the Sword. At its touch, the blade explodes
46
into a rainbow of colour. Yellow eyes gleaming with glee, the gith
rejoins its comrades. Then, the circle begins to tighten again.
“I believe, Kalach-Cha, that you know the answer to that.” The wall
parted briefly, and a tall gith, clearly the leader of the pack, steps into
the circle. Its voice is deep and croaky. Its long limbs are sinewy and
powerful-looking, and the skin on its face is pulled so tight against its
skull, its lips are pulled back in a perpetual sneer, revealing its sharp
fangs. In its walk, Bishop sees the arrogant swagger of a seasoned
warrior who has seen, and won, many battles.
“I must commend you for your victory against the King of Shadows,” it
says patronizingly. “Thanks to you, we felt it safe once again to return
to your plane and to resume our hunt.” Its already parted lips widen in
what could be a smile. “But you have proven quite troublesome to
track down, Kalach-Cha. We never thought to seek you here in the
Outer Planes.”
“Look,” Alya says evenly, her hands help up, palms forward. “You have
your sword back now, and we are not looking for a fight. Please, take it
and leave us be.”
“And so we will, Kalach-Cha,” the gith hisses. “As soon as we have the
final piece.”
“But that’s the whole sword! We don’t have anymore–“ Alya stops in
mid-sentence as realization dawns on her. The gith is eyeing her with a
predatory look.
“Yes, just one small shard, nothing worth risking your compatriots’
lives over.” It glances meaningfully at Bishop and Khelgar. The ranger
can feel Alya stiffen.
“And don’t worry yourself about how you’re going to extract it. Leave
that problem to me.”
47
An angry roar comes from somewhere behind Bishop. Khelgar steps
closer to the githyanki army, his axe raised. “Ye’ll need to get by me
first before ye can lay a hand on her!”
The gith leader looks at Khelgar and shakes his head. He almost seems
sad. “A minor inconvenience.” He disappears again behind the wall of
githyanki. They hear a barked command, and suddenly the circle
closes as the gith charge them.
Bishop swings his twin swords, parrying the first wave of blows. He
tries to slip in for a counter-attack, but is instantly driven back. He
hears Khelgar’s war cry as his axe clashes loudly with some gith
blades. Alya has managed to sidestep an attack, throwing her assailant
to the ground. They fight back to back, covering each other’s rear,
almost as if they were one single defensive entity.
One of the ranger’s swords hits home, driven swiftly into a gith
stomach. He retracts it just as quickly, pressing on with his attack. A
scimitar comes flying at his head. He blocks it, but the force of the
impact knocks him backwards, eliciting an involuntary gasp. The horde
of githyanki is advancing relentlessly. He could see Khelgar swinging
wildly out of the corner of his eye, a freshly decapitated head rolling on
the ground. It seems as if the githyanki are stronger here in the Outer
Planes than they were when he encountered them around Neverwinter.
Digging one of his swords into the ground, Bishop grabs a throwing
dagger with his free hand and flicks it. It seems to take an eternity for
the blade to cover the distance between himself and Alya, before
finally thudding into the side of the gith’s neck, just before it plants its
dagger into her back. Whirling around, she turns just in time to see the
githyanki drop, gurgling, to the ground. For a split second, across a
dead body, their eyes meet. Her face is unreadable. With a curt nod,
she turns her attention back to the melee, as does he. More giths are
falling, and the tide appears to be turning. Bishop feels a rush of
triumph. Somewhere to his left, Khelgar is hollering. “They’ve got their
tails between their legs! Push on!”
Damn these gith and their holding spells…Bishop has never felt so
helpless in all his life, as he watches, paralysed, while the gith holds
Alya in the air, seemingly probing her for the shard. Suddenly, Alya
gasps in pain, and the gith smirks.
“Ah,” he says, “So that’s where you hide it.” Alya’s delicate features
are contorted, and she grits her teeth. What is it doing to her? Bishop
struggles to move, but to his dismay his muscles hardly twitch. He
doesn’t like that evil glint in the gith’s eyes.
Bishop hears a terrible wail of pure anguish, loud and long, that
resonates deep in his heart.
49
Chapter 10 – Taking Stock
It has been a ten-day since their Knight-Captain and her allies were
transported magically by the sage Aldanon to the King of Shadows’ lair.
A couple of days later, their scouts patrolling the edges of the Mere of
Dead Men reported hearing a sound like crashing thunder. Even from
Crossroads Keep, they could see the murky pall of shadow over the
Mere in the horizon dissipate. The oppressiveness in the air around
them had also lifted, and the Keep had rejoiced at the apparent victory
of their Knight-Captain. Everyone started busying themselves,
organizing a massive banquet to celebrate the triumphant return of
their heroes. Crossroads Keep had never looked so festive. That kobold
merchant, Deekin, had even got together with the bard in Sal’s inn to
write a celebratory song. With preparations complete, they waited to
welcome their Knight-Captain home.
The report from the scouts was not promising; the remains of a dark
fortress, crumbled beyond recognition. Did they manage to get out in
time? A patrol of Greycloaks were sent, with the unenviable task of
trying to recovery anything – or anyone – from the ruins.
50
“Sergeant,” Sir Nevalle joins him atop his vantage point. His voice
carries his usual business-like quality, but his blue eyes are clouded
with worry. “Anything to report?”
Bevil shakes his head. “We found nothing along the perimeters, Sir, but
with the help of the mages you provided, we have managed to clear a
path to the heart of the fortress. Hopefully we will find some clues
there.”
And not dead bodies. The highly probable outcome is not lost on either
man, but neither of them mentions it.
Bevil looks at the handsome knight as he surveys the scene. His jaw is
set in a grim line, and he runs his hand nervously through his blond
hair. The member of the Nine is visibly torn between his oath of loyalty
to Neverwinter, and his urge to do what is right. It angers Bevil that the
powerful nobility can so easily and thoughtlessly use and discard
people as they so wish. He rubs his face tiredly, and feels the
coarseness of his three day old stubble.
“You grew up together in West Harbour. This must be hard for you.”
Bevil puffs out his cheeks and exhales slowly, his broad shoulders
rising and falling. “She...does mean a lot to me,” he manages, feeling
more than a little awkward confiding his feelings to a knight he barely
even knows.
Nevalle looks into the distance, his azure blue eyes soft. “What was
she like?”
“…beg your pardon?”
51
The knight’s gaze remains fixed on the horizon. “She’s such a strong
character. I’m just curious where she gets it from.”
Nevalle smiles, too. “So did you two learn how to fight together?”
“Oh, no,” Bevil shakes his head. “Daeghun, her foster father, took her
away when she was…how old? Twelve, I think…” he remembers their
tearful farewell the day before she departed. He had asked how long
she would be gone for, and she said she didn’t know.
“But we will always be friends, I promise,” she had said, and they had
made their childish pact to be friends forever; they spat into each
other’s hands and shook on it.
“She was gone for nearly ten years,” he continues. He remembers how
alone he felt at times; his brother Lorne had left to fight in the army,
and the Mossfeld brothers were mean bullies. Amie was a sweet
companion, and a good friend, but they didn’t share many interests,
and she was always too busy as Tarmas’ acolyte. “When she finally
came back, she was trained in the ways of a monk. I could hardly
recognize her.” The skinny, boyish little girl with dirty red hair and
freckles on her nose had blossomed. Bevil remembers how he had just
stared at her, at her new womanly curves, her refined features, her full
lips. Her gangly tramping gait was replaced by a smooth, fluid grace
when she walks. But one thing about her has never changed: her
piercing green eyes, so foreign-looking – and the gleam of mischief in
them.
“The first thing she did when she came back was to push me into a
puddle of mud.” Bevil laughs at the recollection, and Nevalle joins in.
“She sounds like quite a character,” Nevalle chuckles, as his gaze falls
on the horizon again. “I would have liked to have known her better,” he
adds wistfully.
Bevil recalls the night after the Harvest Fair, barely months after Alya’s
homecoming from her Daeghun-imposed exile. They had finally turned
in for the night after their revelry, Alya, Bevil and Amie on a high after
winning the Harvest Cup. Then those creatures had attacked the
village, and poor Amie…Bevil can still see her, bathed in a column of
flames, writhing in agony till the end. Afterwards, Daeghun, being his
usual cryptic self, had sent them off on some errand in some swamp
ruins. Then, Alya had to leave West Harbour again.
“What did you find?” Bevil asks earnestly, as Nevalle steps closer to
listen.
* * *
With a Greycloak leading the way, Bevil and Nevalle negotiate the
fallen debris and rocks towards the centre of the fallen fortress. Bevil is
impressed with and proud of his men; they have cleared a massive
amount of stone in a short amount of time. He steps into a ring of
broken columns that mark the main chamber of the destroyed keep.
More Greycloaks and mages are at work here, removing the huge
53
quantity of rubble littered everywhere. Only one lone wall remains
standing on one side of the chamber, like a giant gravestone for the
fallen structure.
“My lords,” their Greycloak guide says, motioning Bevil and Nevalle to
the centre of the clearing they have made. There, laid out on a large
sheet of canvas, were five bodies.
His heart hammering in his chest, Bevil steps closer to inspect the
corpses. Their bodies are broken, their faces pale and covered in dust,
their eyes lifeless and staring. He recognizes their empty faces: the
female sorceress, the gnome bard, the githzerai cleric, and the elven
wizard. The last ‘body’ is the metal construct Grobnar had so lovingly
repaired. With its master forever silenced, the hulking blade golem is
no longer animated.
No Alya. Bevil breathes a sigh of relief that he instantly feels guilty for.
“Sand…” he hears Nevalle say from behind him. The knight kneels
down, and gently closes the moon elf’s inanimate eyes. Head bowed,
he mutters a silent prayer. Nevalle is not a fan of the wizard’s abrasive
personality, and has, on more than one occasion, been on the
receiving end of Sand’s acerbic wit. Nevertheless, he was a wise
counsel, and largely a good elf, and the loss still saddens him.
“No, sir,” comes the reply. “But we still have a section to clear.”
“My lords!” A cry from the far side of the room. Bevil stumbles over
loose debris with Nevalle close behind. They reach a mage whose garb
identifies him as one of the Many-Starred Cloaks…Vale, Bevil thinks his
name is. He had assisted in the battle to take Crossroads Keep from
Garius. “We’ve found something,” he says as the two men approach.
He leads them to where some Greycloaks and mages have lifted an
especially large slab of stone. Underneath it, they catch a glimpse of
mangled platemail.
The paladin.
Bevil moves around to get a closer look. Casavir lies in a pool of dried
blood, all of which seem to be his own. The bulk of the bleeding
appears to have stemmed from a nasty head injury, and a deep gash
in his neck. Bevil examines the neck wound; a clean cut, from a single,
deadly accurate slice. From the damage, this was probably what
ultimately killed the paladin.
54
A flash of blue and yellow under Casavir’s head catches Bevil’s eyes.
Kneeling, he pulls out a folded up piece of cloth, caked in the paladin’s
lifeblood. Unfurling and shaking it out, Bevil’s breath catches. The
distinct patterns on the material mark it as a cloak of a Neverwinter
knight.
“Is that…?” Nevalle asks. Bevil nods solemnly. Alya’s cloak. He could
almost imagine the heartbreaking scene. Alya battling to save the
dying man, supporting his head with her bundled-up cloak as she tries
to tend to his wounds. He feels a pang of sympathy for her, knowing
how fond she was of the paladin. It must have been so difficult for her.
He glances again at the dead man, and frowns.
But who could embrace such a fate? The dead man’s dimmed eyes,
once so strikingly blue, appear to have been staring fixedly at
something as his life faded. Bending over the body, Bevil follows the
path of Casavir’s last gaze, locked on one corner of the last standing
wall, looking at…
“Aldanon?”
Bevil straightens, and makes his way towards the sage, who appears to
be preoccupied with something. He taps the old man gently on the
shoulder, eliciting a small cry as he is startled from his thoughts.
“Do you?” the old man asks quizzically. “Ah, then it must be your new
hairstyle! I must say it suits you quite well –“
55
“Aldanon,” Bevil interrupts gently, not wanting to get dragged into a
long conversation with the absent-minded sage. “What are you doing
here?”
“Uh, Aldanon,” Bevil says uncertainly, unsure of what to say. “It’s still a
little dangerous here at the moment…there are falling rocks –“
“Aldanon…” Bevil tries again. How does he tell the old man that he is
getting in the way of their investigation?
“Yes, this one right here!” Aldanon caresses a small, partly fallen stone
archway. “Very well made, very good handiwork.”
“Yes! You know, gateways where you could travel from one place to
another in the blink of an eye! Very useful for long distances –“
“Of course!” comes the bright reply. Bevil could feel the faint twinkle of
hope growing inside him. “From what I can gather it was semi-
operational right till the end.”
“Do you know where they could have been transported to?”
“Whatever you need, Aldanon,” Bevil says, “Let me know if you need
help.”
57
Chapter 11 – Everyone Bleeds When Cut
A jagged wound gapes at him from the middle of her chest, blood
welling out of it. Here and there, he sees glimpses of white bone jutting
out amid all the red. In the centre of the hole, something pink and
ragged is pulsating weakly, spitting out tiny fountains of blood with
each feeble beat.
58
With a shaky hand, he feels her neck for a pulse. Is that one? It is too
weak to tell. He places a finger under her nose. The faintest hint of a
breath tickles his fingertip. Incredibly, she is still alive – but she’s
barely clinging to life.
Where is the paladin when you need him? He thinks, his breath coming
out in ragged gasps. He’s never felt so useless, holding her as her life
seeps away, unable to do anything to stop it. He curses himself for his
inadequacy.
“Move aside!” Khelgar’s command snaps him out of his grief. The
dwarf has uncorked a bottle of healing potion and is draining the
contents into her wound, the bright blue liquid mingling briefly with
scarlet before it is overwhelmed by the sheer amount of blood. He
opens another bottle and, tilting Alya’s head back, pours some of the
medicine down her throat. Most of it dribbles back out, flowing down
her chin.
Goaded into action by the dwarf’s initiative, Bishop runs to his satchel
and rummages in it for any healing supplies he could find. He finds a
roll of bandages and a couple of flasks of watered-down healing
potions. He thrusts a hand back into the bag – and his fingers close
around something soft and silky.
He pulls out the soiled strip of green satin, its magical runes gleaming.
The words she said to him all those months ago in the woods near
Ember echo in his mind.
“You know, that wound needs more than just a strip of cloth.”
The memory of her kindness and her cheeky smile comes flooding
back. He sees her dressing his wound, her robe tattered at the edges
where she had cut it. He hears her soothing, melodic voice as she
teasingly told him to put his clothes back on. Then, his mind flashes to
the anger and hatred in her eyes, as she holds a dagger to his throat.
Finally, he sees her lying motionless, her life ebbing out of her in
rivulets of red.
A wave of emotion hits him. Anger, guilt, grief, shame, sorrow, self-
loathe…they all surge up inside him at the same time, until he feels he
is about to burst from the upwelling. Gripping the slip of fabric in his
fist, he holds it to his forehead and clamps his eyes shut, breathing
heavily through clenched teeth, fighting to control his rampaging
thoughts, to bury them beneath the layers of indifference and hostility
that has acted as his emotional defences for so long. His eyes, his jaw
and his fist hurt from being clenched so tightly. Something wet and
salty stains his cheeks.
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When he has regained some semblance of control, he takes a deep
breath, releasing it slowly, shakily. Then, swiping at his face with the
back of a glove, he gathers up the healing supplies he has found, and
rushes back to Alya’s side, his jaw set in renewed determination.
* * *
“By the hells, lass, will ye please stop bleeding!” Khelgar exclaims, as
he sops up more blood. Casting away the blood-saturated bandage in
his hand, he grabs another one and proceeds to press it down firmly
over her wound, trying to stem the red tide. How he wishes that the
paladin, or the githzerai, or even the elven tree-hugger, was here right
now. Seeing Alya’s pallid face distresses him. She is normally glowing
with such vigour, and has the stamina of a horse. When Khelgar once
marveled at her ability to trek for days without needing to rest, she
attributed it to her abstinence from alcohol.
“Monks don’t drink,” she once told him, “It dulls our senses and
messes up our chi.” Khelgar doesn’t even know what a ‘chi’ is, and he
still cannot fathom the idea of knocking back tankards of water –
water! – in a pub. Trivial as it may seem to many, it was one of the
main reasons why he decided against becoming a monk of Tyr in the
end, despite having completed the trials and being deemed worthy. As
awed as he is by their ability to kick his behind without weapons, a
dwarf cannot live without his ale…
The warm, sticky moisture on his hands tells him that she has bled
through this bandage as well. As he applies another fresh one, he
prays silently that her monk’s endurance will pull her through this.
“Ye’ve got ta get better, lass; yer stronger than all of us put together,”
he says fervently. His heart aches to see her this way. He’s always
seen her as something like a little sister – well, a little sister who’s
taller than him, and who could probably wipe the floor with him in a
fight, but still someone he feels compelled to look out for. He’s always
taken pride in being her first ever companion, before the others started
joining in, before they started looking like some travelling circus – not
that he minds her other companions, at least not anymore. In fact,
loathe as he is to admit it, he was just about getting used to having
that tiefling around.
But that’s what happens when one hangs about with Alya for a while.
Never in his life has he ever met anyone so free from prejudice. She
took to Neeshka practically immediately despite the demon horns and
tail, and she was probably the only one who could put up with that
ranger’s barbed comments for any longer than a few seconds without
the urge to pound his face in.
60
“Everyone bleeds when cut.”
That was what she said, right? Or close enough along those lines.
Supposed to mean that we are all the same underneath, no matter
what we look like on the outside…or something like that. Sometimes
those sayings of hers seem more like riddles than words of wisdom,
like the time she tried to explain to him how a fight is not always the
best solution to a problem.
“To learn how to fight, one has to first learn how not to fight.” Khelgar
remembers how thoroughly confused he was when she told him that.
Then she had offered to demonstrate what she meant, by challenging
him to a sparring match. Khelgar smiles fondly at the memory, at the
hard lesson he learnt that day. She never threw a single punch or kick
throughout that fight, just dodged and side-stepped his advances, and
redirecting his attacks in that frustrating way that only she knows. He
would lunge at her, only to end up getting a fistful (and sometimes
faceful) of dirt, as she used his own momentum to send him flying.
After landing heavily on his backside a number of times, he had gotten
the message, and had acknowledged that avoiding a fight is not
necessarily a cowardly act. She had shown it by defeating him without
landing a blow. Later, he had begged her to teach him what she knows.
They have since trained and sparred together whenever they had the
chance, and it is during these sessions, over an exchange of blows,
that they had really bonded.
The sound of urgent footfalls makes Khelgar turn to see the ranger
returning with an armload of healing supplies. Bishop kneels across
from him, such that Alya lies between the two of them. “Still alive?” he
asks briskly.
“Aye, she’s hangin’ on.” Khelgar chances a peek under the bandage he
still holds pressed to Alya’s chest wound. “Bleeding seems to have
slowed, thank the gods.”
Plus, the look on the ranger’s face shows no malice as he works, just a
sense of urgent determination. This surprises Khelgar; he’s only ever
seen malice in those cold brown eyes.
The two men stand over her still form as an awkward silence falls. They
have been so used to having their Knight-Captain telling them what to
do and relaying messages, it feels odd to have to communicate directly
with each other now, and to have to make a decision without her.
“She can’t stay here!” Bishop snaps forcefully, “she’ll die!” and even
Khelgar is taken aback by his sudden vehemence. As if regretting his
outburst, the ranger looks away, and continues in an even tone, “We
have to get back to our plane.” His gaze falls on Alya’s body, and
Khelgar thinks he sees the ranger’s hard eyes soften slightly.
Yet, Bishop’s words ring true. They have used up the last of their
healing supplies. If they stayed on this plane, Alya wouldn’t last long.
They have to get her back to Faerun if she is to stand a chance.
Gingerly, he lifts her limp body, cradling her like a child. The softest
hint of a breath on his neck is all the motivation he needs.
63
Chapter 12 – The Black Sea
How long has she been drifting like this? She doesn’t know, but it is not
a worrying feeling. The stillness, the silence, the nothingness of it all, is
somewhat reassuring. Vaguely, she remembers her mind and heart
being troubled by something, before she had found this empty void.
She thinks she remembers pain, both physical and emotional. But now
her problems have been washed away by the black current. She does
not even remember what had been concerning her before. It feels good
to be free from cares, free from hurt, free from all thought.
A dim orb of light catches her attention. Without any conscious effort,
she gravitates towards it, moving from the comforting depths of this
boundless ocean of darkness. As she nears it, the heavy blanket lifts a
little, and she feels the rippling of the surface waves. It seems to
manifest itself in the form of what feels like strong arms around her,
rocking her as if she were a baby. The motion is making her feel
seasick.
A low muffled sound. The roll of distant thunder? The waves stop
swaying her about, and sets her down gently on something hard. She
is so close to the surface she could almost touch it. Through the dark
water, she sees some movement in the light, and she chances a closer
look.
The light is too bright. It seems to sear her eyes as she tries to open
them, making her head pound. She tries to breathe, but she feels a
sharp pain in her chest, a pain that runs deep into the very fibre of her
being. It causes a cascade of memories, in which she sees death,
64
destruction and suffering. She sees the lifeless faces of those she
loves. Casavir, covered in blood, a deep gash in his throat…
Something coils itself around her body, something that ripples like the
muscular body of a large serpent. It feels strangely comforting, and
unlike a reptile, it exudes a warmth that allays her fears. It reminds her
of strong, loving arms. Casavir’s arms, as he held her so tightly what
seemed so long ago.
Have you come back for me, Casavir? His touch is so soft, so gentle,
she feels that if she were to just give herself over to his sweet
embrace, he will take her back to the void at the bottom of this
trackless sea, where nothing bad will ever touch either of them again.
“Alya…”
* * *
“Alya!”
Bishop is on his knees, his arms around her. He gives her another
shake.
“Alya!”
But she has slipped back into her coma, just as quickly as she had
regained consciousness mere moments ago.
The heavy clunking of plate mail boots signals the return of the dwarf.
He stops when he sees Bishop kneeling there, cradling her in his arms.
An eyebrow shoots up quizzically as he looks at the ranger.
Like a child caught red-handed with his hand in the biscuit jar, Bishop
gently sets her back down and stands up, looking briefly
uncomfortable. “She moved. Thought she woke,” he mumbled
brusquely, as he brushes past Khelgar. Grabbing a piece of stale bread
from his bag, he sits down and starts eating, ignoring the dwarf. The
dry loaf is unappetizing at best, but it is his last bit of food.
Following his lead, Khelgar plonks down opposite him and starts eating,
too. The stale, crusty bread makes their mouths feel like sandpaper,
but thirsty as they are, they barely sip from their canteens, trying to
conserve what little water they have left. They sit in silence as they
eat.
Scowling, Bishop wipes the crumbs off his face with the back of a
gloved hand. “I don’t recall inviting you for some small-talk, dwarf.”
Khelgar shrugs. “Not like there’s anythin’ else ta do, is there? Seein’ as
we may be stuck here fer a while, just thought we could get a couple o’
things out in the open.” He stares at Bishop expectantly. Glowering,
Bishop eyeballs him back. Under normal circumstances, he would stare
anyone down. This time, however, he looks away after a few seconds.
He crosses his arms, then, picturing how petulant he must look,
decides to do something else with his hands. Picking out an arrow from
his quiver, he starts running his fingers through its feathers.
“It’s like I said before,” Bishop starts in a low voice, as he fingers the
tip of his arrow. “I don’t like being tied down.”
Khelgar wipes some water that has splashed onto Alya’s chin. “Then
why did ye come back?”
Another spell of silence. Bishop presses down harder on his arrow tip,
scowling into space. “Because I like being doomed in the Nine Hells
with a nosy dwarf and a half-dead monk,” he sneers sarcastically. “At
least I’ll die in good company.”
“Whoa there, easy, ranger,” Khelgar says, raising his arms in defense.
Then, as if reading Bishop’s mind, “If ye have no faith in the gods, then
at least have faith in Alya.” He glances at the unconscious woman, as
he tucks her bandages back into position. “Just checked the wound. It’s
stopped bleedin’. Whatever that strip of rag is that ye put into her, it
seems ta be workin’.”
“Aye, all right, ranger.” He grunts as he gets to his feet. “But alas, I
think I may have done me back in carrying her fer so long.” He groans,
theatrically rubbing the small of his back. Then, he looks at Bishop with
a knowing smile. “Could ye hold her for a bit?”
67
Chapter 13 – The Canyon
They arrive at the edge of what looks like an immense canyon. The
ground beneath their feet ends in jagged edges as it falls away into a
bottomless abyss. The chasm is so wide, they cannot see the opposite
side. It feels like they are standing on the edge of space itself, looking
out into the nothingness beyond.
Bishop stands well away from the brink, his arms protectively
tightening around Alya. Well, he thinks, at least it’s a change of
scenery. He was beginning to think that they were wandering around
in circles; the bleak, barren wasteland was flat, rocky and unchanging
up to this point.
Khelgar chances a peek over the edge of the precipice and steps back,
shaking his head of the effects of vertigo. “Now what?” he asks the
ranger. Bishop opens his mouth, about to suggest they walk along the
lip of ravine, but he is interrupted by a sudden growling coming up
beside him. He ducks instinctively as a huge shadow sails over him, its
sharp claws grazing the top of his scalp.
“What in the –?“ Khelgar starts to say, already drawing his battleaxe.
Before Bishop could even raise his head, he feels something charging
him hard in the back. He stumbles forward, teetering dangerously
close to the mouth of the crater. Stepping back quickly, he reels
around to face their attackers.
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As if sensing his vulnerability, two of the hounds spring at him
simultaneously. He turns his back to them, hunching over Alya, using
his own body as a shield. They hit him with a force that knocks the air
out of his lungs. Falling to his knees, he sprawls on the ground, his
body on top of Alya’s, the two hell hounds on his back. He can feel
their claws and teeth tearing into his leather armour, their breath
singeing his hair. With his face close to the dirt, he sees the lanky legs
of a few more hounds, circling their fallen prey. One of them cackles,
and he smells the stench of its breath.
Propping himself up on one elbow, he fumbles for his dagger with his
other hand, and swings the blade wildly, slashing at the hell hounds’
legs. The searing pain in his back tells him that his armour has been
breached, probably shredded; now they are digging through his flesh.
A ball of fire breathed by one of the hounds causes him to curl up on
top of Alya, protecting her. The acrid odour of his own scorched hair
invades his nostrils.
A furious war cry makes him peer up again. Chunky boots fill his field
of vision as Khelgar drives the hounds back. A yelp from one of the
animals on Bishop’s back tells him that the dwarf’s axe has found a
target. A second howl of pain, and the pawing on his back stops
mercifully. The dead hell hound falls beside him, its last breath
escaping in a tendril of sulphurous smoke.
With renewed vigour, Bishop hacks at the attacking hounds again from
ground level. A well-timed upward swing sees his dagger embedded
between the ribs of one of the hell hounds. It drops with a strangled
yowl. Khelgar continues to swing his axe fervently, slicing into the pack
of animals. With one final roar of bloodlust, the dwarf beheads the last
standing hound. Its severed head rolls and stops inches away from
Bishop’s face, its mouth still spewing noxious vapours.
“Is she okay?” Khelgar asks. As Bishop staggers to his feet, his raked
back burning, the dwarf picks up the unconscious woman, checking her
for signs of injury.
“Oh, she’s fine,” Bishop says sarcastically, wincing from his stinging
wounds. He rolls a shoulder stiffly.
“Don’t speak too soon, dwarf,” Bishop warns. In the near distance,
hidden behind rocks and dunes, he spies the red glow of more pairs of
eyes, some of them gradually coming closer. Whipping out his bow, he
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fires an arrow in their direction, and sees some of the burning embers
scatter, only to regroup moments later.
* * *
“By the gods,” Khelgar exclaims. “It must’ve been hours! Are they still
followin’ us?”
Bishop glances over his shoulder. Like glowing coals, he sees the hell
hounds’ eyes staring back at him. He has a dreadful feeling the
creatures possess an infernal intelligence, and that they are tailing
them, waiting until they inevitably need to stop and rest before striking
again. The few scouts who dared venture too close were quickly driven
back by Bishop’s arrows, but they are becoming bolder as their quarry
begins to tire.
Dead end…
They turn around, hoping to retrace their steps before the pack of hell
hounds catch up with them. But the creatures, as if recognizing their
predicament, are already there, forming a barrier between them and
their escape route. Fire dripping from their muzzle, they snarl as the
pack begins to move towards them.
As the pack of hell hounds slink ever closer, Bishop draws his twin
blades in preparation for close-quarters combat. He counts the
creatures. There are at least a score of them. Not good odds.
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Why couldn’t I have just walked away?
“Wha-?” he hears the dwarf say, just as a figure glides down from the
wall above them. As it lands, both Bishop and Khelgar stare in
disbelief.
* * *
“What are you doing here?” says a gruff, hearty voice with an
animated accent. The sound is not unlike a heavy hammer striking
rocks, and it is comforting in its familiarity.
“Funny you would ask that,” A deep, resonant voice, with some slightly
sinister undertones. The speaker sounds wise, and very, very old. “I
was about to ask you the same question.”
“Don’t play games with us,” A third voice, grating, menacing and filled
with distrust, yet not unpleasant. “Where in the Nine Hells are we?”
For a moment, her eavesdropping is interrupted as invisible arms wrap
around her again, firm yet gentle, trying to coax her back into the deep
nothingness.
Wait, she thinks, as she shrugs off the dark tentacles. Not yet. She is
intrigued by what is going on at the surface, and wants to hear more.
Obligingly, the grip around her loosens. She moves carefully closer to
the light, and catches another snippet of the ongoing conversation.
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Who is dying? She thinks, curious and concerned. This time, the black
snakes coil around her with increased urgency. So tender, so warm…
she feels so safe in those arms, as if nothing could ever harm her, so
long as she gives herself in to the dark embrace. Her curiosity
forgotten, she allows the tendrils to carry her away from the surface,
and back to the depths of sweet oblivion.
* * *
Bishop eyes the newcomer suspiciously. Red eyes set into a lined,
grey-blue face stare back at him in that frustratingly calm and
confident way only supreme baatezu are capable of. His draconic ears
twitch slightly, as if listening to their every move.
Mephasm…
“What are you doing here?” Khelgar asks incredulously, still cradling
Alya in his arms. Was that a flutter of her eyelids Bishop saw, or just
the flicker of light from the wall of flames the devil had summoned?
“Funny you would ask that,” the pit fiend replies, sounding genuinely
amused. “I was about to ask you the same question.”
“Don’t play games with us,” Bishop growls. He doesn’t trust the devil,
not when he has so conveniently popped up in this gods-forsaken
place. “Where in the Nine Hells are we?” He sees Khelgar tighten his
hold on Alya warily.
A shrill yip behind them makes Bishop glance around. The hell hounds
are trying to breach the fiery barrier between them.
“They’ve been a bit more persistent than the average pack of wolves,”
he comments, as he looks again at the hounds, pacing restlessly from
one end of the wall of fire to the other.
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“That is because they detect the scent of fresh mortal blood,” the
words send a chill down Bishop’s spine. “All the creatures here can
smell it from miles around. In fact, it is what drew me here. The scent
is very strong.”
Both Bishop and Khelgar look down at Alya’s pale form, still wrapped
protectively in the old cloak. Bishop pictures the wound that lies
underneath the cloak and bandages, raw and jagged and deep…he
remembers the hell hounds clawing at his back…
“I see our dear friend here has not fared very well,” Mephasm
comments, nodding in the monk’s direction. Momentarily, he closes his
eyes, as if probing, sensing. “She is dying,” he declares in a monotone.
“But she will not survive in this plane,” Mephasm interrupts coldly.
“The atmosphere here is…oppressive to those from the Material
Plane.” As much as Bishop hates to admit it, he knows the pit fiend
speaks the truth. The subtle life-sapping effect of the place is almost
unnoticeable, but it is there, waiting for the slightest trace of
vulnerability, before striking. He has felt traces of the bleakness,
especially right after his earlier close call with those demon hounds.
His mauled back protests painfully at the memory.
“You need to make haste to your own plane,” the baatezu says. “And I
can assist you.” Bishop couldn’t believe his ears. A demon is offering to
help them?
His twin blades raised menacingly in front of him, Bishop asks warily,
“And why would you do that for us?”
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“Yes!” Bishop and Khelgar say in unison, prompting a blue eyebrow to
cock up in amusement.
Never have I agreed with the dwarf on so much until these past few
days…
As if on cue, the wall of flames that separated them from the hell
hounds sputters out. The pack of dogs look momentarily confused with
the disappearance of the blockade, but then, sniffing the air, they emit
a cacophony of howls as they resume their hunt.
They dash for the gleaming portal, a couple of hundred yards before
them, as Khelgar, in a stream of dwarven profanity, curses the fact
that their exit lies so far away, no doubt intentionally, all part of the
game they are being forced to play. Bishop stops every few yards to
loose some arrows into the ever advancing pack of hell hounds, while
waiting for the dwarf to catch up. Encumbered with the unconscious
monk, Khelgar is even slower than usual. In an awful moment of
realization, Bishop sees the distance between them and the hounds
closing, yet the portal remains cruelly out of reach. And, true to his
word, Mephasm just stands there, unable – or unwilling – to help,
merely watching neutrally as the beasts stampede past him.
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“We won’t make it at this rate!” he yells, firing off another round of
arrows. One of the hell hounds fall, but it is like felling a tree in a
forest. The others keep coming. He chances a glance at the dwarf, who
has stumbled to a stop behind him, a strange look on his stout face.
“Go,” the dwarf says, as he purposefully pulls off one of his gauntlets,
leaving one hairy arm bare. With a steely glint in his eyes, the dwarf
adds, “And yer best take care of her, else I’ll personally come after ye.”
“Come on!” He hears the dwarf taunting now, as blood spurts from his
fresh cut. “Ye want a piece of me, dogs? Come get it!” The hell hounds
pause briefly in their advance, their nostrils twitching. Then, a feral lust
sets their eyes alight with an evil glow, as they smell the coppery tang
of dwarven blood. Snarling and yipping, they converge on the shield
dwarf, fangs gnashing.
With a roar of fury, Khelgar hurls himself into the midst of the legion of
demon hounds, his axe flashing wildly as he swings it around him. One
of the creatures drops dead, nearly sundered in half by an especially
strong cleave. Another clamps its fiendish jaws around the dwarf’s
bleeding arm, but in his frenzy, the dwarf appears not to notice the
huge dog dangling from his limb.
For a split second, Khelgar turns away from the carnage to see Bishop
still standing there dumbly with Alya in his arms.
“GO!” his bellowing cry snaps the ranger into action. He starts to run
down the narrowing path, towards the shifting portal at the end. With
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the monk cradled awkwardly in both arms, his progress is agonizingly
slow, and a quick look behind him reveals that a hell hound has broken
loose from the pack, and has started to chase them down, fiery slobber
drooling from its immense jaws.
Come on…he urges himself, the portal excruciatingly close now. With
his last reserves of strength, he dives forward, headlong towards the
shimmering gateway. In the instant both his feet leaves the ground, it
dawns on him that behind this thin, almost two-dimensional circle of
light, is the steep drop into the bottomless chasm.
Somehow, he has the presence of mind to look over the attacking hell
hound’s broad shoulder. He watches the rest of the horde piling on top
of each other in a frenzy as they descend on their prey. All he can
make of the dwarf is his bald head, and a momentary glimmer of his
axe. He hears Khelgar’s battle cry. Mephasm stands calmly on the
sidelines, a disturbing look of entertainment on his blue grey face.
As the bright aura of the portal surrounds them, Bishop shuts his eyes,
and utters a silent prayer to any god who would heed him.
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Chapter 14 – Through Another Portal
The wind stirs the high grass, whistling a low, mournful dirge. The
chirping of crickets and the croaking of bullfrogs join in a sweet,
melancholy symphony that pierces the otherwise still night air.
Something rustles in the trees, something unseen, but not unsmelt, by
the shadowy figure illuminated by the light of the nearly full moon, as
it skulks silently through the grass. Its well-trained nose detects the
scent of guano, confirming the identity of the tree-dweller as a bat.
A breeze blows through the grey wolf’s thick coarse fur as it lifts its
muzzle to the wind, sniffing the air, its golden eyes shining with a
hidden intelligence. It has been wandering since the day the human it
knows as its master had left it, stepping through a strange sphere of
light. The unnatural brilliance of the pulsing orb had made its hackles
rise. Somehow, it had reminded the wolf of that dark shadow that was
growing over the land, the one that made the dread in its belly escape
in a puppy-like whimper. With its tail tucked between its legs, it had
hesitated to accompany its master into the enveloping brightness.
Strangely, the master had not commanded it to follow like he normally
does, but rather, with a wistful scratch behind its ear, he had stepped
into the light – and vanished.
The sun had risen and set numerous times since he had disappeared,
and the wolf had been roaming since, constantly trying to pick up the
scent of its master – the smell of musk and forest pines, with a faint
bittersweet tinge of sadness – somehow the master always seems sad,
even when he doesn’t show it. The scary shadow looming over the
trees had faded in time, encouraging the wolf to brave the deeper
parts of the swampy woods. But the wolf had failed to detect even the
slightest whiff of its human master.
Until tonight.
Earlier, the wolf’s senses had been prickling. Something was in the air,
not a scent, but rather a feeling. The atmosphere practically crackled
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with it, and in was this unexplained energy that has drawn the wolf,
guiding it here to this glade.
The charge in the air grows stronger, and the wolf’s hairs stand on end.
A flash in the horizon makes it flinch instinctively. It was not lightning,
that much the beast knows.
And suddenly, there it was – musk, pine, sorrow. A faint but distinct
odour.
Quickly yet silently, the wolf melts back into shadows, following the
trail, one that appears to be leading towards the direction of that
strange burst of light.
* * *
Mephasm closes the portal as soon as the two mortals have plunged
rather gracelessly into it. The hell hound that had pounced after them
now finds itself sailing through where the shining gateway once was,
but what is now thin air, before tumbling to its doom in the chasm
below, its long, drawn out howl of terror bouncing repeatedly off the
canyon walls.
The pit fiend turns his attention back to the one remaining mortal on
this plane. The shield dwarf is still beset by the ravenous pack of fiery
hounds. Still swinging his weapon madly, the dwarf screams as he
buries his axe into the neck of one of the beasts. He is covered in
blood, a mixture of his and those he has slain. Having sampled the
taste of dwarven blood, though, the remaining hell hounds are in a
crazed frenzy, snarling, gnashing, tearing. And yet, despite the bleak
odds, the dwarf fights on, seemingly oblivious to his own wounds. This
greatly interests the baatezu.
Oh, how he has been entertained today. He must admit, even he was
surprised to find that half-elf here in Baator, although he did mention,
the last time he had seen her in the Material Plane, that they would
meet again. Still, he hadn’t expected to encounter her here, in the Nine
Hells itself. He wonders at the mortals’ journey to arrive here.
The actions of mortal men amuse and intrigue him so. It never ceases
to amaze him what they would do in a desperate situation. It is
interesting that, with some, their first response to an imminent doom is
to save themselves at the expense of another mortal. Others, though,
would throw away their own meagre lives if it meant another would
survive.
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Such an odd thing to do.
A yelp of pain from the mass of writhing bodies. The dwarf has claimed
another victim. He is impressed; the little thing is strong for a mortal.
Their lives are short and insignificant as it is. What could make one
mortal sacrifice itself to save another?
And then there was that human, all ready to throw himself to the
hounds, had Mephasm not stepped in first. Yet the devil felt as he
assessed the mortal that he was torn between self-preservation and
saving the life of the half-elf. As the pit fiend dug deeper into his
psyche, he discovers that the human conceals many strange feelings,
feelings unfamiliar to the baatezu, and he senses that the mortal is
tormented by the conflict between some of these emotions, many of
which seem oddly centred on the wounded half-elf he carried. It seems
to Mephasm that the human is practically bursting at the seams with
emotion, yet he has built so many walls of lies around himself, that he
himself could no longer distinguish the truths from the untruths. A
battle within one’s own head? Such a fascinating notion. The human
would be such a compelling specimen to observe.
Apparently bored now, the baatezu melts into the surrounding air, just
as the battling dwarf disappears under an overwhelming crush of
blood-crazed hell hounds. All that can be heard in the still, stuffy
atmosphere of this bleak plane, are the hungry growls of the hounds,
accompanied by the sound of ripping and tearing.
* * *
The portal spits them out unceremoniously before vanishing in a blaze
of energy. Landing in a heap of tangled arms and legs, Bishop
promises himself that this was the last time he would step through
another gods-damned magic portal.
Still breathless from his earlier exertion, the heat and stench of the hell
hound still in his nose, and with his guts reeling from their head-
spinning interplanar ride, Bishop lies where he landed for a moment,
eyes shut, concentrating on taking deep breaths, on filling his lungs
with much-needed air. Something refreshingly cool, fuzzy, and
comfortingly familiar brushes against his face, and he recognises its
moist, earthy scent.
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Grass.
With that single, monosyllabic word, he opens his eyes, looking around
him.
Trees.
Very good, Bishop. It is reassuring to see that you have retained your
sharp wit and considerable mental capacity.
A soft exhalation of breath makes him angle his head to the side. He
had lain down right beside Alya, their feet pointed in opposite
directions, resulting in an upside-down view. From this distance, he
could see every feature on her delicate face, count every eyelash,
every faint freckle on her nose. Her eyes are closed, her lips slightly
parted.
Close enough to –
Stop it.
Jumping up, he places two fingers on her neck. Her pulse, though still
weak, is now regular, and he can see her breasts rise and fall with
deep, level breaths. That Mephasm guy was right; the atmosphere in
the Nine Hells had been impeding her recovery. Now that they are
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back in their own plane, it is like the metal chains that were
constricting her chest have been broken; her face looks much more
peaceful, the frown of pain between her eyebrows faded.
Tilting his head, he sniffs the air. The swampy, slightly smoky scent is
again familiar.
Horribly familiar.
He smirks, shaking his head. That blue devil has a sense of humour.
This would make for a very interesting conversation when she wakes.
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Chapter 15 – A Rude Awakening
The light filtering through her eyelids is bright, painfully bright, and it
only serves to aggravate the pounding in her brain. Screwing her eyes
shut, she turns her head, hoping that she is tilting it away from the
source of the glare. She doesn’t know what day it is, what time it is,
nor does she care. All she knows is that this cursed light is really giving
her a headache.
Gods, how her head hurts. It feels like Khelgar had been using her skull
as an anvil. She hopes he hadn’t spiked her water with ale just to get
her drunk. Not that she wouldn’t have noticed…
Groggily, her mind tries to suggest that perhaps it is morning and she
should best be waking up.
Ow!
A sharp finger prods her upper arm, in the same way Daeghun used to
poke her as a child when she found it difficult to get out of bed.
Irritably, she cracks one eye open, and just as quickly snaps it back
shut.
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Then, mercifully, the brightness is eclipsed slightly.
Thankful for whatever is responsible for the dimming of the light, she
cautiously opens her eyes again. It takes a moment for them to focus,
and when they do, she sees the dark silhouette of a head framed by a
blue sky, the blotted out light radiating around it like an angel’s halo.
“Casavir?” she croaks, surprising herself with how raspy her voice
sounded. It sounds like some rusty, old machinery that needs oiling.
“No,” the floating head snarls. The tone is harsh, derisive. Definitely
not Casavir. As her eyes adjust further, the head starts to develop
facial features. Short, unkempt brown hair…firm, strong jaw peppered
with a shadow of stubble…lips curved downwards at the corners…a
slightly dented nose, as if recently broken…eyebrows furrowed in a
scowl…
The last thing that comes into focus is the eyes. Animal eyes, liquid
brown with a tint of yellow, like staring into the eyes of a wolf.
Once all the features have formed, she sees the mouth curl up in a
sardonic grin.
“Welcome back to the living, monk,” the mocking voice says. This
time, recognition registers somewhere in her pulsating brain.
The head moves closer, shifting its position above her in the process,
allowing light to shine in her eyes once more. She winces. A gloved
hand comes close to her face and starts moving…up…down…up…
down…sending light and shadows dancing across her vision. She feels
some motion sickness coming on, and tries to bat the offending hand
away, but her arm refuses to budge. Annoyed, she turns her face away
with a low growl. She hears a cruel snicker.
She ignores him as she tries to regain full use of her mental faculties.
What had she been doing to deserve such a bad headache? As the fog
slowly lifts off her mind, snatches of memories begin to return. Oddly,
many of them appear to revolve around savage little green men. In
fact, the last thing she remembers is one such individual, a particularly
nasty one, doing something to her, something unspeakably painful…
Bad idea.
Two things happen at the same time: her sudden movement gives her
a head rush, causing the world to tilt and spin all around her, and a
sharp, hot pain seizes her chest, as if someone had impaled her with a
branding iron fresh from the furnace. Clutching her front, she lets out a
strangled cry as she pitches to the side.
Strong arms grab her shoulders and ease her back to a reclining
position.
“What in the hells are you trying to do, get yourself killed all over
again?” she hears the harsh voice reprimanding her, hands pinning her
down firmly.
“Gith…” was all she manages to utter from behind the haze of pain and
dizziness.
A sardonic laugh. “Do you think I’ll be sitting here lounging if those
githyanki scum were still here?” As her world stops spinning and the
pain in her chest fades to a duller, more perpetual ache, it suddenly
dawns on her that the sky is no longer an angry crimson, but a light
cornflower blue. The naturalness of the colour is probably what made it
slip her notice earlier.
“Wh-where…?”
“How…?”
What else did the githyanki take, her tongue? Parts of her brain?
“With the help of an old friend,” comes the mysterious reply. She waits
for an elaboration but receives none. Nevertheless, the fact that they
managed to leave the Outer Planes was enough to make her sag in
relief. She feels him tuck a hand under her head to lift it, putting the
open mouth of a canteen to her lips. Only after the first sip, when the
sweet, cool water stings the parched cracks on her lips, does she
realise that she is thirsty, very thirsty.
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Hungrily, she tries to take deeper gulps, but he pulls the canteen away.
“Slow down there,” he says gruffly, as he sets her head back down.
“Any more and you’ll be sick.” He screws the lid back on the flask and
gets up. She watches him busy himself over a fire, his back to her.
As her clouded mind clears bit by bit, she attempts a longer sentence –
two words long, in fact:
“How long…?”
“…had your lights been out?” his back still turned, he finishes the
question for her. The ranger must be psychic. “Days, maybe even a
week.”
That long? She muses. That’s the longest she’s ever been out cold.
Well, she’s only been knocked unconscious twice before this. The first
time was when she fell out of that huge oak tree in Retta Starling’s
farm, when she was playing with Bevil. She had awoken a few minutes
later with nothing more than a bump on the head and a dislocated
shoulder.
She shudders involuntarily and pushes that vision back into the darkest
corners of her mind, but in doing so, she seems to have triggered a
whole flood of other painful memories. The one of Casavir, and of
Bishop’s treachery, hits her the hardest.
“Are you happy where you are, or would you prefer to look at things
above boot level?”
She clams her mouth shut, not wanting to speak further with him, not
wanting any of his help. But the rising sun is now directly in her eyes,
the rays hammering holes into her head. And to be frank, she is getting
tired of being in a supine position.
He picks her up, blanket and all, in one smooth motion. He is strong,
she has to hand that to him, though in a very different way from
Casavir. Where the paladin is sturdy and powerfully built, the ranger is
lean but sinewy. Not scrawny, though, oh no; the muscles in his arms
and chest are hard and rippling as he carries her to the shade of a tree.
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The sinuous flexing reminds her of a python curling itself around her –
sleek, beautiful, dangerous…
She feels the bark of a tree scratch her back – her bare back?
At that moment, her makeshift blanket falls off a shoulder. She gives a
little squeal as she quickly crosses her arms around her chest.
“A little too late for that, girl,” he purrs, “You’ve been half-naked for
days already.” As he looks at her, his expression changes, his smirk
slowly turning into a frown. Something in her eyes, the way her breath
suddenly catches, her horrified gape, must have told him that she is
feeling something more than just plain outrage.
And despite the fact that this is Bishop talking, something in his tone
convinces Alya that he is telling the truth, and she relaxes slightly. The
ranger turns his back again, minding the fire, apparently no longer
interested in a conversation, which is fine by her. Left alone for now,
she surreptitiously lifts an edge of the blanket, and peeks underneath
to assess her wound. It seems to have been cleaned and bandaged
neatly enough. It still throbs with a dull ache, but the pain is nothing
compared to what it was like before. Tentatively, she hooks a finger
under the bandages and lifts it slightly. A whiff of something pungent
and bitter hits her. All she sees is a mass of pasty, greenish-black
mush.
Eew…
She retracts her probing digit, some of the slimy muck now clinging to
it. She sniffs at it, makes a face, then, holding up her stained finger,
looks at the ranger quizzically.
Wiping the herbal poultice off her hands, she picks the bowl up. The
slightly greasy smell of the soup gives her a wave of nausea. If there
was anything in her stomach to begin with, it would have gotten mixed
with her lunch in the bowl. Instead, she merely gagged, and put the
food back down. Bishop appears unconcerned with her rejection, and is
happily tucking into what looks like a pheasant roasting over the fire.
As she watches him eat, she wishes Khelgar was there; she has so
many more questions she wants to ask, about what happened, how
they got here…
Khelgar…
It occurs to her that she hasn’t seen him since she woke up.
The back of her mind congratulates her on the longest sentence she’s
said so far.
“No,” she whispers, as dread builds in the pit of her stomach. “What
have you done to him?”
What she had really wanted to ask was: How did it happen? But
apparently her brain finds it more convenient to blame the ranger.
Bishop’s shoulders appear to get even more rigid. “What did I do?” he
repeats, his tone measured, cold. Slowly, menacingly, he turns to face
her. “What did I do? Perhaps a better question would’ve been: what did
you do to him?” He steps towards her threateningly.
“What did you do to make him hurl himself into a pack of rabid hell
hounds, just to throw them off your scent? In fact, what did you do to
everyone, to make them willing to march to their deaths, for you?” His
voice is rising, and he is gesturing with the half-eaten peasant
drumstick, waving it in her face. Under any other circumstance, she
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would have found that more than a bit comical, but the fires behind the
ranger’s eyes bear no humour in them. He has never seen him so
uncontrollably angry, and much as she hates to admit it, it frightens
her.
“It’s your fault they’re all dead, Alya!” He is shouting now. “Before you
start throwing blame around, I suggest you take a look at yourself
first!” Throwing the remains of the drumstick into the fire in disgust, he
storms off into the trees.
Alya sits there alone, in mute shock, before drawing her knees up and
hugging them to her chest, rocking herself slightly on her haunches.
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Chapter 16 – Reunion
Bishop crashes through the undergrowth, not caring who or what could
hear him. Woes betide any man or creature that would dare stand in
his path at the moment. His mind is seething, her words of accusation
burning into him like a brand.
Including myself?
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The last time his heart strings had felt so stretched and taut, was with
Calyx…
No! He grits his teeth, banishing the dark memories that threaten to
invade his consciousness.
The last time he had allowed himself to think with his heart, it did not
end well.
Would it be so hard to just walk away, right now? After all, he has done
more than enough for her already; literally bringing her back from the
Nine Hells...his debt to Duncan must be more than repaid.
He pictures her leaning against the tree trunk, his cloak wrapped
around her, her dark auburn hair tousled, making her look so much
smaller, like a lost little girl. She has lost so much weight, her high
cheekbones are sunken, her normal healthy glow pallid, her deep
green eyes ringed with shadow. So helpless and vulnerable…
It is the way of the world, isn’t it? And the only way to survive is to
fight, and to rely on no one else but yourself…
He has learned that the hard way…she might as well do the same…
A long, low howl snaps his head out of his hands. He could recognise
that cry anywhere.
Can it be…?
Moments later, a massive shadow lunges out at him from the trees,
hitting him so hard that he is nearly bowled over. A muzzle full of sharp
teeth hovers perilously close to his neck, before a pink tongue shoots
out and starts licking him all over his face.
“Hey, boy,” he laughs, as he tries to get the grey wolf off him. He
manages to pull the excited wolf away from his face long enough to
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ruffle its thick mane with both hands. Karnwyr is panting, his tongue
lolling out, his mouth open in a huge dog grin. His coarse fur is a little
matted, dried mud, leaves and twigs entwined in it, as if he had been
travelling for some time without stopping to groom.
“How’d you find me?” he asks in wonder, more to himself than to the
wolf, who has started to run around him in circles, leaping and
bounding, making playful puppy calls. He has never seen the normally
calm, silent creature do that since he was a mere cub.
He had been tailing a couple of Luskan trappers for a few days when
they came across a lone wolf’s den. From his hiding place among the
trees, he had watched the men cornering the female wolf, who
happened to have a litter of cubs, barely old enough to run. She was
the magnificent colour of black ebony, a shade so abnormal it was
probably why she was shunned by other wolves. Her golden eyes
blazed as she bared her fangs at the intruders. One of the men
commented that he needs a fur vest for the coming winter. As the she-
wolf shielded her litter, growling protectively, they took her down with
arrows, being careful not to put too many holes into the prized pelt.
Her cubs, all of them them grey-coated like normal wolves, scattered
as soon as their mother fell, scampering away pathetically, no doubt to
certain deaths in the unforgiving forest.
Bishop had watched with interest and amusement as the little thing
stood between the trappers and his mother’s body, all ten inches of
him bristling, snarling in a high puppy-like voice. When one of the
Luskans laughed and reached for the black she-wolf’s carcass, the cub
lashed out, clamping his tiny jaws around the man’s hand. To Bishop’s
admiration, he actually took a small chunk out of it.
The wolf cub received an angry kick for his troubles that sent him
flying. As he lay stunned, one of the Luskans started working on the
she-wolf’s carcass, while the other, still nursing his bleeding hand,
strode over to the puppy, put a hard foot over his skull, and started
pressing down, slowly. Instead of terrified yelps and whimpers of pain,
Bishop heard the cub continue to growl viciously, as he squirmed and
fought the crushing boot.
That was when Bishop put an arrow through the back of the man’s
head. The second hunter fell soon after in a similar fashion.
As the ranger set to work looting the dead bodies, the cub had
watched him silently, warily. When he tried to inspect the animal’s
injuries, he received a nip for his efforts, not hard enough to draw
blood, but enough to serve as a warning. As Bishop left the area, the
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cub followed from afar, limping. When he set up camp that night, he
could see a pair of yellow eyes glowing in the dark, watching him. He
left some scraps of food out. They were gone the next day.
For weeks, they went through the same routine, an unspoken truce
between them, until the young wolf’s wounds healed by their own
accord. Then, one day, Bishop was on the road when a low growl
behind him makes him turn, just in time to see the wolf diving into a
copse of trees. He followed, and found the juvenile creature attacking a
man. His clothing marks him as a Luskan assassin, a very high level
one, apparently, as he was stealthy enough that Bishop did not detect
his presence. His cover blown, the assassin was dispatched quickly, but
not before he managed to stick a dagger into the wolf’s shoulder.
Further investigation of the man’s corpse turned up a handful of
poison-tipped bolts, no doubt with Bishop’s name on them.
This time, the wolf had allowed Bishop to treat his wound, and from
that day on, the beast no longer trailed behind him on his journeys, but
travelled alongside him. Oh, how Duncan had balked the first time he
returned to the Flagon with a wolf on his heels, sending his other
customers jumping onto their tables.
That was what drew Bishop to Karnwyr. They are both survivors. If he
were forced to place his life into someone’s hands, he would place it
into the wolf’s paws. Again, he remembers how the young cub had so
fearlessly defended his dead mother, fighting so fiercely for a hopeless
cause, even as the Luskan’s boot threatened to crush his skull.
With a stab of guilt, he recalls how he had once told Alya that their
battle against the King of Shadows was a hopeless cause.
Who are you to say that she is not a survivor? A voice inside his head
scolds. He thinks about all she has gone through: the githyanki attacks,
the loss of her home village, the death of close friends.
If there is anyone who deserves a little help getting out from under a
crushing boot, it’s her.
Karnwyr jumps on him again for another barrage of licking. This time,
he lets the wolf slobber all over his face, as he affectionately rubs its
fur. He is glad to see the wolf again. The last time he saw Karnwyr, it
was right after he had sabotaged the gates of Crossroads Keep. He was
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stepping through a portal that would take him into Garius’ lair, when
he noticed that the wolf’s hackles were raised, his tail between his
legs. The portal was not natural magic, and so the wolf was rightly
reluctant to step into the strange light.
Not knowing what he would find in the dark fortress, nor what would
happen to him, he had not wanted to force the wolf to accompany him
to an uncertain fate. With that, he merely petted the grey head, and
left.
An overly enthusiastic pounce tilts Bishop back too much, and this time
he does topple over the log, with the excited wolf on top of him, his
grey tail wagging. Craning his neck to one side, with Karnwyr lapping
away at him with his tongue, he couldn’t help but laugh.
And then he sees her standing there, his cloak encircled around her
protectively, one hand on the trunk of a tree for support. She looks at
him, in his prone position, Karnwyr drooling all over his face, and her
green eyes grow so wide they look like they are about to pop out of her
head.
Aww…crap…
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Chapter 17 – Shocking Discoveries
She watches dumbly as he pushes the wolf off himself and scrambles
quickly to his feet. He glares at her, and she could see the
consternation in his eyes. The wolf, wanting to play some more, jumps
up on its hind legs, and plants its front paws on his chest, tail wagging.
Bishop shoves it roughly away.
Playtime is over.
“What are you doing here?” he demands, trying to sound angry, but
she detects his visible discomfiture at being caught out of character.
Was she hallucinating? Had Bishop actually been laughing?
“I…” she starts, but the scene has thrown her. She had been
rehearsing an apology as she tracked him to the riverbank, finally
settling on one that she thought sounded contrite enough without
seeming like admitting defeat. One of those I’m-sorry-for-what-I-said-
but-I-still-don’t-trust-you apologies. But when she saw the normally
surly ranger rolling about on the grass with a huge wolf, like a boy with
a pet dog, as if they did not have a care in the world…by the way,
where did the wolf come from? How did it find them?
There, that wasn’t so bad. Nice and vague, could even just be an
apology for catching him in a compromising posi–
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Now both eyebrows are up, and his head cocks slightly. “Sorry for…?”
his expression seems to say, forcing her to elaborate. All traces of
laughter gone, Bishop is, well, Bishop, again.
Damn him.
“…for what I said earlier,” she finishes quietly, reluctantly, and instead
of looking at him, she stares at the wolf beside him.
“Hmph,” the ranger grunts, as he brushes past her, the wolf at his
heels.
“Hmph”? She thinks. That’s it?? Well, what was she really expecting
from him, anyway?
“No, Alya, I’m sorry for yelling at you like that. What I said was unfair
to you and I didn’t mean it…” would have been nice.
She turns to look at Bishop, who has already walked partway up the
trail towards camp. As if it were an afterthought, he turns back to her
and says, “You shouldn’t be up and about so soon. You’ll keel over.”
“I’m fine.” That, from someone leaning against a tree trunk for
support. She looks at the rippling stream. “I’d like to take a bath,
actually. I stink.”
“Take him with you,” he says, “he’ll drag you out if you fall in.” Before
Alya even has a chance to protest, he is gone.
Warily, she eyes the impressive-looking grey wolf now sitting patiently
beside her. It returns her stare, and she couldn’t help but marvel at
how Bishop’s eyes look so much like the animal’s. Sometimes, she
thinks the ranger is more beast than human.
As she takes a tentative step forward, the wolf runs ahead. Leading the
way, it lopes down towards the river, turning every so often to watch
her following unsteadily behind, grabbing every tree she passes to help
her balance.
The terrain under her feet changes from grass and dirt to pebbles as
she nears the stream, which lies at the bottom of a gentle incline.
Suddenly, she feels the small stones give way beneath her. Arms
flailing, she lands heavily on her bottom and slides a couple of feet
down the bank.
She tries to stand, but the impact has further jarred her brain. She
can’t seem to get any traction from the shifting pebbles. Cursing under
her breath, she starts to push herself forward, sliding slowly along the
pebbly shore on hands, feet and butt, the cloak that was wrapped
around her now hanging loose as it trails behind her.
A cold nose nudges her bare shoulder, then the wolf squirms its head
under her hand until her arm rests around the animal’s shoulders. It
looks at her again with its eerily intelligent eyes.
It’s not like she has never directly interacted with the wolf before;
through their travels, there has been the odd pat on the head or
scratch behind the ear, but they were always rather civil affairs, as if
the creature were too polite to protest her advances.
The wolf doesn’t seem to notice her weight as she uses its back as
leverage to stand herself up again. Being a mere five feet tall, she is
short enough that she doesn’t need to bend at the waist to hold on to
the wolf. Leaning on the wolf’s firm, strong shoulders for support, she
finally makes it to the edge of the river, and then, gathering up the
cloak so that it doesn’t get wet, she lets the wolf help her wade into
the crystal clear waters.
Finding a cluster of raised boulders, she leaves the cloak neatly folded
on a rock while she sits on another, her feet dangling ankle deep in the
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current. She stays there a while, her eyes closed, letting the gurgling
waters wash away the tightness in her muscles and the soreness in her
head. Then, scooping a handful of water, she splashes her face,
savouring the cool, clean pureness.
She waits a few minutes, and when she is sure the ranger isn’t coming
back again, she starts to undo the laces on her trousers. She has the
waistband down to her hips before she stops. The wolf continues to
gaze at her intently.
“You’re…” and instantly she feels silly for talking to an animal. “You’re
going to look away, right?”
In response, the wolf sits down, just out of reach of the lapping waves,
its magnificent amber eyes not leaving her.
With an awkward shrug, she pulls her pants all the way down.
* * *
From his vantage point in the shadows of the trees, he watches as she
starts to untie her cords on her trousers. When she hesitates before
pulling them off, looking uncertainly at the wolf, he has to suppress a
chuckle. But when it becomes obvious that the breeches are definitely
about to come off, he turns away and trudges back towards camp.
It’s not like he’s never spied on her bathing before. Hells, he’s seen all
their female companions in the nude: the tree-hugger, the farm girl,
that annoying sorceress brat, even that icy-cold keep lieutenant, Kana.
He must admit that the goat-girl had a nice pert ass attached to that
tail…
Tossing a piece of kindling into the fire, Bishop smirks. That’s about the
only thing they both have in common: they don’t like asking for help.
The rustle of grass tells Bishop that she is done with her wash, and is
on her way back to camp. Her movements sound slow, erratic. All her
exertions today must have really tired her out. He listens as she
shuffles up the path…
…another rustle tells him that she has veered off it.
Guess her brain’s still not fully back in gear yet, Bishop sighs as he
starts moving toward the sound of her footfalls, intent on guiding her
back to camp before she gets herself lost.
And Bishop realises which path she may have accidentally taken.
The charred hollow shells of what could once have been houses jut out
of the ground like jagged black teeth. The crumbling structures of
wood and stone are arranged in a rough circle, and in its centre stands
an old collapsed well. Although the forest appears to have reclaimed
most of the area – the ruins are overgrown with mosses and plants –
the smell of ashes still hangs in the air like a constant grim reminder of
what transpired here.
The flash of hesitation in his eyes tells her all she needs to know.
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Chapter 18 – What Lies Within
Her eyes dart between the torched village and the ranger. “Is it…?”
she begins, even as realisation dawns on her face.
“Why are we here?” she asks as she continues to examine the gutted
houses.
“Don’t ask me that,” he shrugs. “Ask your blue devil friend.” He sees
the look of utter puzzlement on her face.
And here we go…he knew she would find out sooner or later, but
somehow he doesn’t fancy confessing his deeds in the middle of the
scene of his crime. Just standing there makes Bishop uneasy, as if the
burnt out ruins have eyes that are glaring at him accusingly…
“Let’s talk about this over dinner, shall we?” he suggests, as he leads
the way back to camp.
* * *
Alya sits by the fire, staring into the flames, feeling physically tired but
not sleepy. If Bishop was right, that she had been out for nearly a
week, she’s probably slept enough to last herself a while anyway. At
the moment, her mind is buzzing, not just with all that Bishop had told
her, but with many unanswered questions as well. The wooden bowl
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beside her is half empty. She had managed to stomach a bit of the
meat drippings and kept it down, which must be a good sign.
Absent-mindedly, she rubs Karnwyr’s head as the wolf lies beside her.
They are alone at the camp. Bishop had just got up and left after
finishing off the rest of his pheasant, no doubt sick of all the questions
she’s been asking him. Credit to him, he did answer most of her
queries honestly enough, which is more than she had expected of him.
Alya pokes at the fire with a stick, stirring up tiny sparks that flutter up
like fireflies before fading into the night. She recalls what Bishop said,
about how a band of Luskans had raided their village and had
kidnapped him as a child. They were the ones who had forced him into
Luskan service. With all the stories she has heard about the training
tactics of the Luskan army, no doubt it must have been a hard time for
a young boy.
She tries to picture what it would have been like, if she were snatched
away from West Harbour, and forced to fight for a cause she does not
believe in, being beaten and tortured if she would not or could not
follow orders. She imagines being put in the front line of a battle, the
first ones to clash with the enemy, the first ones to attract the hail of
arrows…
And if you don’t die, you’ll just have to do it over and over again…until
you do.
She shudders at the thought. It almost makes her feel sorry for the
ranger.
But to slaughter his entire home village for revenge? For sure, she
understands why the ranger has such a cynical take on life now. She
can also understand his utter hatred for all things Luskan. She can
even understand Bishop resenting the villagers, resenting his own
father, for not standing up to their attackers, for not trying to save him.
She remembers how she had resented her village elders, when…
Alya looks up at the moon. It is high in the night sky. Bishop has still
not returned. Not that she is waiting up for him. She might as well turn
in. Standing up slowly, she rolls up the sleeves of the shirt she is
wearing. It is one of Bishop’s, so naturally the sleeves are too long for
her, and the hem hangs well past her thighs, but it sure beats walking
around in just a cloak. Plus, the shirt has a nice scent, but she tries not
to think about that.
She eases herself into the bedroll Bishop has loaned her, and pulls the
blanket up to her chin. Karnwyr strolls over to her side and sits up
straight, his pink tongue sticking out. Apparently he has been given
orders to guard her while the ranger is away. She strokes the
creature’s thick coat. She’s always been fond of animals, and she must
admit, she enjoys the wolf’s company, far more than she enjoys the
ranger’s.
With the comforting feel of Karnwyr’s coarse fur under her hand, she
shuts her eyes…
* * *
The wolf watches the sleeping form beside him. He can still smell the
coppery tang of her wound, although it has begun to heal. Normally,
the smell of blood makes him hungry for flesh, but the master does not
seem to want this one to come to any harm.
He is glad he has found the master again, and the master did appear
happy to see him, too. As they played together at the riverbank, he
could hardly smell the sorrow that his master normally exudes, and it
made him happier.
The hand on his haunch moves as the sleeping woman turns in her
sleep. Craning his neck, the wolf leans over to sniff her fingers. If he is
to guard her, he should identify her smell. His sensitive nose picks up
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an earthy soft sweetness…an undertone of spiciness…and, well
concealed beneath everything else, the slightest hint of fear.
What could she be afraid of? He remembers travelling with the woman
before. She has faced down many things that most humanoids would
perceive as scary, that he has been scared of. Yet she seems to be
hiding a fear of something...
The wolf snorts as he puts his head on his paws. Perhaps he will find
out what is frightening her soon, or perhaps, like the master’s sadness,
he will never know…
* * *
Bishop never came back that night – or the following night, and the
one after that.
If it hadn’t been for the fact that Karnwyr is still around, Alya would
have thought that the ranger had just up and left her in the woods. But
the wolf is still here, and if anything, he seems to be warming up to
her. He’s even started to wag his tail when she pets him.
That said, he seems to have left the camp quite well-stocked. A full
canteen if water, a string of smoking meat, more leftover drippings –
there is even a pile of animal bones in a corner for Karnwyr.
Despite her opinions of the man, she couldn’t help but feel a little
grateful that he’s hung around long enough for her to wake up.
Perhaps he does have a conscience after all.
She is recovering slowly; the headaches and wooziness have gone, and
she doesn’t even feel her chest wound if she tries not to think about it.
She’s still stumbling around on rubbery legs like a baby taking its first
steps, yet as much as it annoys her how weak she is, she is sure that
her strength, too, will return in time.
But Gods, it is so boring to just sit around and heal, with nothing else
to do and no one to talk to. Ironically, when the threat from the King of
Shadows had loomed over them, and amidst the bustle of running the
keep, with Kana constantly at her heels – yet another report to read,
another contract to sign, another proposal to approve or reject – she
had longed for solitude, to be able to lock herself away, somewhere no
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one can find her, and to put her feet up, King of Shadows be damned.
And now that she has the opportunity…
She sighs. She wishes Khelgar was there; he’s always a laugh to be
with, especially after a few tankards…or Sand; she does enjoy his
sharp wit and sarcastic sense of humour, even if they were directed at
her at times…or Neeshka; how she had laughed when the tiefling had
tried to search Nevalle’s pockets for some goodies, and had ended up
with a handful of the kind of goods she had not bargained for…she
chuckles softly at the memory. Hells, she would even be grateful for
Grobnar’s singing right now.
What she should really like, is to have Casavir with her. Those kind
blue eyes, that gentle touch, that deep-throated laugh that he saves
only for her…
An unbidden tear rolls down her cheek. Jamming the heels of her palms
into her eyes, she tries to stem the rising tide of grief and guilt. Why
didn’t they leave when she gave them the chance? Why did they
choose to stay with her? Why are they not here now? Why is she still
here?
Why?
Something moist and warm flicks over her fingers. She opens her eyes
to find the wolf licking her hands. If animals could express emotions,
the light in Karnwyr’s eyes seems to reflect concern.
I have to do something, she thinks as she wipes at her face with her
sleeve. Else I’ll be wallowing in self-pity all day.
This time, she reaches the water without incident, and she quietly
congratulates herself for not falling over, even as she gives Karnwyr a
thankful scratch behind the ear for supporting her weight once again.
As the wolf dips his head to drink from the clear stream, she
undresses, and gingerly wades into the river. Finding a submerged flat
rock, she eases herself onto it, allowing the deliciously cool water to
envelope her up to her bare waist.
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as it rushes past her, sometimes strong enough that she can imagine it
carrying her away, far from all her duties, her burdens, her fate…
As she allows herself to relax into the bubbling current, her mind again
absently wonders on the whereabouts of the ranger.
He’s a big boy, she tells herself. He is more than capable of taking care
of himself. In fact, he’ll probably be insulted if he found out I was
worried about him.
Grabbing the washcloth Bishop had given her, she proceeds to scrub
herself down, starting with her arms and shoulders. When she reaches
her chest, the cloth lingers over her bandaged wound. She shivers as
she recalls how helpless she had been as the gith had ripped the shard
out of her. Putting a hand between her breasts, she feels both relief
and sadness. With the shard gone, it’s as if a burden has literally been
removed from her chest, as if she is finally free from destiny, free to
choose her own path. But at the same time, it seems to have left a
hollow hole in her heart. It unsettles her that she no longer senses the
soothing, ever-present hum of the shard, that used to pulsate in
rhythm to her heartbeat. Like the perpetual background chirping of
birds in the trees, it is only missed when it suddenly disappears, like
when the Mere was swallowed by shadow.
“What lies before and behind you are small matters compared to what
lies within you.”
With a mirthless smirk, she wonders what he would say now that what
lies within her seems to have been diminished significantly.
It then occurs to her that she has not yet seen the extent of her
wound.
As her fingers move to untie the bandage, she vaguely recalls the
ranger warning her not to get the bindings wet.
Screw it, she thinks, as she begins to undo the knot on one end of the
gauze. The smell of that herbal muck is driving me nuts. She has
spotted some plants by the river that can be crushed to make a more
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pleasant-smelling balm, and she could easily fashion another bandage
out of some broad leaves. Some tricks of the trade she picked up from
that other ranger she knows.
The bindings have been circled around her chest several times, as if
they were there to keep her insides from spilling out. Released from its
prison, the bitter smell of the black-green poultice comes rushing out
as the last of the bandages come off, assailing her nose with its
pungent odour. All she can see under the gauze is a mass of sticky
crushed herbs.
She splashes some water on her chest, and watches with glee as the
smelly gunk dissolves away. Using the washcloth, she carefully wipes
around the edges of her wound, probing tenderly.
Wow, how much of that stuff did Bishop put on? She wonders, as every
layer of the caked-up goo she rinses away reveals even more of it
underneath. And she still hasn’t reached her wound yet.
As she delves deeper, she spots something bright green protruding out
from the black slime. It looks like part of a herb that has escaped the
grindstone.
Ah, a poorly ground leaf, she snickers. Daeghun would not have
approved. She has a sudden mental picture of her foster father
reprimanding Bishop for the shoddy work, uncrushed leaf in one hand
while jabbing the man in the middle of his forehead with his infamously
sharp index finger, just as he used to do with her, to bring the point
home. The unlikely image makes her laugh out loud.
She is still laughing when she fishes out the green object, peeling it off
her chest.
Her laughter dies in her throat when she realises what it really is.
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Chapter 19 – I Didn’t Know You Cared
He stalks through the woods, his steps falling soundlessly on the carpet
of vegetation beneath him. It had taken him a couple of days to trek to
the nearest village, and another couple of days to trek back. The pack
he carries is weighted down with supplies he bought from the local
merchant, and at cut-throat prices too, if you ask him. But, the man
was the only trader for miles, and unfortunately that greedy bastard
knows it.
Let’s hope that half-elf hasn’t died while I was away, he thinks to
himself. Even better, let’s hope she’s no longer there.
Sympathy.
Those clear green eyes had frowned slightly, and in that cloyingly
gentle tone of hers, she had proceeded to probe him for more
information, seeking to identify with him, to understand him.
That was when he decided he might as well make his trip worthwhile.
He sees a faint glow among the trees ahead, and makes his way
towards it, moving swiftly and silently through the shadows.
Perhaps it would be best if he returns to find that she has up and left,
then he wouldn’t need to worry about a possible confrontation. Ill-
advised, granted, for her to go gallivanting in the woods in the state
she’s in, but things would be far less complicated without her around.
…right??
As he enters the clearing, his eyes scan the campsite before landing on
a sleeping form beside the dying fire.
Karnwyr trots up to him, tail wagging. He pets him quickly on the head,
then, knowing that the poor thing has been stuck at camp for days,
gives him a quick nod of consent. Delighted, the wolf melts into the
darkness of the trees, disappearing into the wild to do what wolves
love to do and what they do best – hunt.
After putting his satchel down near the glowing embers of the fire, he
turns to her again. She is sleeping on her side, her back to him, her
blanket thrown carelessly aside to reveal her silhouette in the fading
firelight. She still wears his shirt. His eyes follow the contours of her
body, especially where it dips down to her narrow waist, before curving
up again towards her hip.
As he tiptoes closer, he sees the steady rise and fall of her shoulders.
He moves around her so he can see her face, relaxed in slumber. She
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looks a lot younger without the burden of the waking world on her
shoulders. Although it is too dim to tell for sure, she seems to have
regained some of the colour of her normal complexion. The red
highlights in her dark brown hair glisten in the flickering light. It looks
damp, as if she had just washed it. A wavy chestnut-coloured lock has
fallen across her face, and Bishop fights an urge to brush it off.
A gust of wind stirs the ashes of the fire, and she shivers visibly.
Squatting down, he moves to pull the blanket over her, his fingers
lightly brushing her hip as he reaches for the sheet.
That is what she calls the move. With it, he has seen her rip out the
throats of men with one quick flick of her wrist.
He can feel his jugular vein pulsing against her fingers. Her face is just
inches from his, and he can smell the fresh scent of soapwort on her.
As recognition hits her, she quickly releases her hold on him. Once his
airway is clear, he sucks in a deep breath.
“Bishop?” she asks, as he sits down to rub his sore neck, still taking
long draws of air. Her fingernails have left imprints in his flesh.
“That how you treat all the men who visit you at night?” he wheezes.
She seems wide awake now, her eyes bright.
“Bishop, where have you been? I mean, you were gone for days – I
thought…”
“I don’t,” she finally says, her voice measured. “I just wondered where
you’ve been…”
“I hope you weren’t worrying your pretty little head about me.”
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“No.” She says this without meeting his gaze.
“Good, cause I would have been offended.” He gets up, one hand still
enclosed around his neck. When she continues to look at him
questioningly, he sighs. “If you must know, I was out shopping.” He
throws her a casual glance. “Seeing as you’ve taken my bedroll, I just
thought I’d get myself a new one.”
“At least it shows you’ve got your wits back. Probably means we can
finally break camp soon.” He turns his back to her again.
“Where will we go?” he hears her ask. It’s an imminent question, and
he has an answer to hand.
Say it.
“We will split up. You will go back to West Harbour, or Crossroads
Keep, or wherever your little heart desires. I will disappear deeper into
the woods, and you won’t have to hear from me ever again.”
She is silent for what could be a few seconds, or a few minutes. Then,
quietly, she says:
“Okay.”
* * *
She had only managed snatches of sleep after Bishop had woken her
up. Every time she had stirred, she saw the ranger pacing around the
fire. She marvels at how little rest he seems to need. But now, he is
nowhere to be seen.
She thinks back to the night before, when he had startled her out of
her sleep. It was pure instinct that made her grab him by the throat.
When she realised it was him, she had felt relieved – and glad.
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I must really be lacking in company if I was actually glad to see
Bishop…cringing, she remembers blabbering something along the lines
of:
“Bishop, where have you been? I mean, you were gone for days – I
thought…” Even as she said it, she was kicking herself at how overly-
concerned it sounded.
“Why, Alya,” he had purred seductively. “I didn’t know you cared.” And
she had bristled, even though she knew she had walked straight into it.
Wisely, she had clammed up after that.
She stretches, running her fingers through her hair to tease out the
knots. Bishop thinks that she’s almost well enough to get back on the
road. That’s good; she doesn’t know how much longer she could just sit
around before she starts to bash her head against a tree trunk, just for
something to do.
“We will split up. You will go…wherever your little heart desires. I will
disappear…you won’t have to hear from me ever again.”
Why had she felt oddly hurt when he said that? Was there even an
alternative?
Shaking her head, she makes her way to where their water skins are
stored.
And stops.
Draped neatly over their stockpile of water and dried food is a robe.
She spins around to find Bishop, a hare slung across his shoulder.
“I –“ her eyes fall back to the tunic in her hands. “It’s…” She fingers
the softness of the silk. “…nice.”
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Carelessly, he tosses the carcass onto the grass. “It’s nothing too
special. About the only decent piece of non-armour that merchant had.
And I know how you feel about armour.” He glances at her, but quickly
looks away, rubbing the back of his head. “It’s – got a bit of elemental
resistance, but that’s about it. I won’t suggest you go running into the
thick of battle with it.”
“Thanks,” she finally mutters. Then, with a cheeky glint in her eye, she
adds, “I didn’t know you cared.”
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Chapter 20 – Building on Shaky Foundations
Alya looks at her rippling image in the river as she ties the sash of her
new robe around her waist. Not a bad fit, even if she tends to prefer
her clothes to be more loose-fitting. This one is a little snug around the
chest. She vaguely wonders if that was intentional on Bishop’s part.
Well, she thinks as she turns to the side to admire the cut. He does
have good taste…the craftsmanship is quite impressive, not nearly as
impressive as her old robe, but still pretty good.
She pulls the strip of satin out of a pocket. She had tried to clean as
much of the blood and herbal goo off it. Although it is still stained in
places with old blood, the fabric now shows glimmers of what it once
was. The bright green shimmers in the sunlight, and the golden runes
glow as if they have a life of their own. As she rubs the material
between her fingers, feeling its luxuriant softness, her mind wanders…
* * *
She was only twelve when Daeghun took her on a long journey out of
the Mere, all the way to the High Forest in the east. There, he had led
her up the Star Mounts, where he introduced her to a strange-looking
old hermit living in a cave. White-haired, white-bearded, stooped like
an old gnarled tree, and wearing a peculiar silk robe, the wizened old
man had a very foreign look about him, but his sloping brown eyes
glittered with wisdom, intelligence and kindness, and Alya took to him
easily. Daeghun had introduced the hermit as Q’ian Zang, a warrior
monk all the way from the kingdom of Shou Long in Kara-Tur. She was
to stay with him a while as his student. Then, with barely a farewell
hug, her foster father had left her there.
Soon she was ready to learn from him, and Alya remembers with
fondness her first ever lesson.
Her sifu had laid aside his knotted old walking stick, and had handed
her a broadsword.
Her sifu had trained her hard – very hard. She would normally practice
from sunrise until the sun goes down, pausing only for meals or to
patch up an injury.
“You cannot build a house on shaky foundations,” her sifu had said, “A
gem cannot be polished without friction.”
And yet, despite her long hours of physical training in the day, her
master had continued to teach her after dark. He taught her the
principles of what he called “The Way”, a philosophy whereby one
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seeks to constantly improve oneself, and to strive for self-
enlightenment.
“Anyone who learns the drills can be a martial artist,” he had once
said. “But only through understanding can one become a true master.”
And so, she was given access to his roomful of books on all sorts of
topics. Many of them were in a strange language, but the vivid pictures
in them so fascinated her, she had begged Q’ian Zang to teach her the
foreign tongue, and was soon going through these scriptures
voraciously every night. Many of the scrolls dictated the teachings of
the Way, which she soon began to identify with, and she would
eventually embrace it as her religion. Some of the books, however,
described faraway places of incredible beauty and splendour, of
magnificent cities, a rich culture, and strange creatures. She longed to
be able to travel to these exotic locations.
She does not remember ever going hungry throughout her time in
isolation with her mentor, as he had shown her that nature provides
well. She learned to identify edible plants, berries and mushrooms, and
to set traps for meat. Daeghun would visit briefly once a year, bringing
her news of West Harbour, and she would get homesick for a few days
after his departure. Finally, nearly ten years into her apprenticeship, he
had conceded that he had taught her all he could, and that she could
now only grow with more practice and experience:
Her foster father came to bring her home, and as a parting gift, her
mentor had given her the most beautiful robe she had ever seen.
Brought all the way from Kara-Tur and made of the softest satin, it was
a brilliant emerald green with gold embroidery depicting phoenixes
and birds of paradise in flight, and it was imbued with strong protective
magic. She had accepted it with a tear in her eye and an
uncharacteristic hug. His words when he gave it to her remain
ingrained in her memory:
* * *
A low whistle snaps her out of her reverie. Bishop is leaning casually
against a tree.
“Thank you,” she replies, forcing her most polite smile. “I must say you
have pretty good taste.”
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“It’s a shame you have to take it off again.”
What??
Her shock must have registered on her face. Bishop gazes at her
intently before snickering.
“Don’t get any ideas, Captain. Just need to check on your wound.”
Oh…
“You don’t have to.” She pulls her collar down just enough for him to
see her makeshift leaf bandages. “I re-dressed it while you were
away.”
“You wha-?” He seems to finally notice the strip of cloth she holds in
her hand. For a split second, she thinks she sees surprise,
embarrassment, and a flash of hesitation on Bishop’s face. Then, just
as quickly, the mask falls back into place. “Completely self-sufficient
now, are you?” he says. “Able to handle yourself sleeping alone, dress
your own wounds…good. Sounds like you don’t need me around
anymore. Just as well, I’m getting restless here. I’ll probably be leaving
tomorrow morning.”
“Wait –“ As he moves to walk away, Alya grabs him near the elbow.
Her hand lingers on his arm for the briefest of moments. He stares at
her hand as if it had offended him, and she quickly draws it away.
“Um…” Why did she suddenly panic when he said he was leaving? It’s
not like she doesn’t know this part of the woods, and she’s travelled
through the Mere alone plenty of times as a child…plus, she’s not even
supposed to like this guy…
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They look at each other in silence. Alya opens her mouth, then shuts it
again. Those amber eyes continue to stare at her, as if probing the
very depths of her soul…
She makes her way towards the path that leads her back to camp,
grateful to get away from the potentially awkward situation.
She glances back over her shoulder discreetly. Bishop has his back to
her. As he pulls his shirt over his head, she could see the muscles
around his shoulder blades rippling…
Without thinking, she reaches out a hand to inspect the gouges. “How
did you –“
Bishop jerks away violently as if her touch had burnt him. “It’s – it’s
nothing,” he insists, then he appears to compose himself. With a wry
smile, he says, “The wench I took while I was at the village got a little…
overexcited.”
Ugh.
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He disgusts me, she thinks, as she admires his sculpted shoulders and
his bare chest, her eyes following the faint lines of scars trailing across
his flat stomach, to where they disappear under his trou–
Stop staring!
As if reading her mind, Bishop cocks an eyebrow. “Like what you see?”
he asks seductively, as he undoes his breeches. “Care to hang around
for more?”
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Chapter 21 – Torn
Karnwyr, who was napping by her bedroll, jumps up when he sees her
coming, and runs to greet her, a wolf-smile on his face. Absently, she
ruffles the scruff of his neck. “What is up with that master of yours,
Karnwyr?” she asks the wolf.
Of all the people in all of Toril I could be stuck with, why him? She’d
rather have Grobnar singing his white thistle song to her over and over
again…
Wistfully, she recalls the night they spent together at Crossroads Keep.
Her heart was still beating madly after he had confessed his love for
her up on the battlements, and the moment the door to her room was
locked, he had enveloped her in a gentle embrace. She remembers
how small she had felt, her head barely reaching his chest. At that
moment, in his powerful arms, she felt that nothing could harm her,
not even the King of Shadows. As she nuzzled her head into his firm
chest, she could smell his masculinity and a tinge of armour polish. She
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heard his steady heartbeat, and it had made her own heart swell with
emotion. Their first kiss was funny; she had to stand on tiptoes and
Casavir had to bend down quite a bit. But when their lips met, she felt
like melting into his arms. It started off gentle and polite, their lips
barely touching, before her hands had slipped up and around the back
of his head to pull him closer. As the kiss became deeper and more
sensual, he had swept her off her feet and carried her to her bed.
Laying her down, he started to kiss her all over her face and neck,
sending shivers up and down her spine. His lips lingered over the scar
on her chest, as one of his hands slid up her hip and under her shirt in
a rather un-paladin-like way. As he did so, her blouse began to ride up,
revealing her stomach, then the underside of a breast. She feels a
finger lightly brush her nipple…
And with a small gasp, she had caught his hand to stop him going
further.
“It’s – I’m just…” she stammered as she pulled her top down and sat
up.
“No, Casavir,” she placed a finger over his lips. “It’s not you – it’s me.
I…I’m sorry.” She ran both her hands through her hair in exasperation.
“Alya,” he had said gently, a hand on her knee. “We will not do
anything if you are not ready.” Sitting beside her on the bed, he placed
an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. “Know that I am
happier now than I have ever been in my life. My only wish is that you
are just as happy. So until you are ready…” he tenderly kissed the top
of her head.
And they had remained in that position through the night, holding on to
each other, Casavir softly stroking her hair while she leaned against
him, listening to the rhythm of his heart, until they were interrupted by
the siege on the keep.
It is only when Karnwyr starts to lick the salty tears off her face that
she realises she has been crying.
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She hears movement towards the river. Bishop has probably finished
with his bath.
Getting to her feet, she creeps into the trees, and finding a path, starts
to follow it unconsciously as she allows her mind to wander. She starts
to think about a conversation she had with that ranger at Port Llast,
Malin. Apparently she had some sort of history with Bishop, and from
what she had told Alya about him, they probably did not part on the
best of terms.
“Bishop doesn’t serve anyone but himself,” she had warned her. “Don’t
turn your back on him.” How right she had been. Where did trusting
Bishop get her in the end? The entire Crossroads Keep had come close
to falling to Black Garius, all because their Knight-Captain had foolishly
ignored everyone’s misgivings about the ranger, and had chosen to try
and see the good in him.
Alya remembers what Bishop had said, when she tried to confront him
about Malin’s accusations:
You’re right, Bishop, she thinks to herself. I’ll never know you. I cannot
seek to understand someone who does not wish to be understood.
The trees around her starts to thin out, and before she realises it, she
finds herself standing again in the clearing facing the burnt-out village
of Redfallows Watch. The blackened ruins seem to stare back at her
with hollow eyes.
How could anyone do this to their own village? She wonders, hugging
herself protectively. She tries to imagine what the place would have
been like: where she stands, this looks like it could have been the main
approach to the village. The houses were arranged in a rough semi-
circle surrounding the communal well, with what looks to be the
remains of a farm over there…she tries to add some people into her
picture: men, women, children, animals…a nice, normal Mere
community.
Something brushes past her leg, making her jump. Karnwyr looks up at
her intently.
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“Hey, boy,” she rubs his head. “Hope Bishop hasn’t sent you to track
me down.” The wolf sniffs the air, and, catching the scent of
something, runs off towards the charred remains of the village.
As she gets closer, she notices that it was a piece of leather armour. It
looks as if it had been dumped there only recently; the leather is still
supple, but…
This looks like Bishop’s, she thinks, as Karnwyr makes a snuffling noise
beside her. But why –
As she inspects the tattered piece of armour, she wonders what could
have been vicious enough to tear through the leather in this way. She
fingers a patch that looks to have been scorched.
The cuts in the leather are ragged. They were not made by clean
slashes, but rather by repeated scratching. It would have taken time
for whatever did this to dig its way under the armour.
But why would he just lie there and let a hell hound claw his back like
that? Was he unconscious?
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An unlikely image forms in her mind: the ranger being besieged by a
hell hound but unable to fight back because he was holding her. He
uses his body to shield her from the creature…
She shakes her head. Bishop would never do a thing like that…
Would he?
Karnwyr nudges her with his nose. The sky is darkening, and she does
not fancy hanging around these ruins at night. Wrapping her arms
around herself, she reluctantly makes her way back to camp.
* * *
She was not at camp when he returned from the river the day before,
and neither was Karnwyr. He had not bothered to try and track either
of them down. By nightfall, they had returned together. After eating
dinner in silence, she had turned in for the night.
Bishop could not read the funny looks she had kept giving him. She
didn’t seem angry with him anymore, but she still wasn’t talking to
him.
That’s not a surprise, though, is it? After how you acted like some
degenerate prick yesterday.
He knows he could have just told her the truth, but what good would
that have achieved? All he would have gotten would be more
sympathy…
He pictures himself jerking away when she touched his bare back. Her
hand had felt cool and soft on his shoulder blade, and his skin tingled
where her fingers brushed it. Something did a little flip in his chest, and
he hated it. He is glad he hadn’t told her how he really got those
scratches. She would probably have tried to touch him even more,
trying to nurse his wounds. He doesn’t know how long he could have
endured her hands moving up and down his back, before he snapped
and lost control.
It’s disconcerting how close she had gotten him to the brink with just
one touch.
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Would it be all that bad to go over the edge? A voice inside him asks.
Why can’t you just tell her –
He gathers up half the food rations and most of the healing supplies
and dumps them next to the bag she is packing. She looks up at him
uncertainly, but before she could say anything, he turns, and starts
busying himself with his own preparations.
Soon, they are both ready, their packs slung over their shoulders.
Wordlessly, he leads them away from the clearing and into the woods.
They trudge along a muddy path in silence, until Bishop thinks he
would get smothered by the palpable tension.
“I don’t know? Never heard of that place.” He cringes at his own lame
joke, but he thinks he hears a small chuckle behind him.
“Returning for the hero’s welcome, are we?” he snorts. “And then
becoming one of Nasher’s lackeys again.”
“I guess…” she sounds wistful. “But it’s not like I have anywhere else
to go. Besides, I’d like to see Bevil again. Perhaps Daeghun is still
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there. And…” she hesitates before adding, “perhaps then I could give
the rest a proper burial.”
Bishop turns to look at her. She is walking with her eyes downcast, and
he sees a tear trailing its way down one cheek. He looks away quickly.
It’s not like he’s never seen her cry before. For a hero of Neverwinter,
she seems to do a lot of crying. She had cried when that Shandra girl
died, and when they found that almost all the villagers of West Harbour
had been slaughtered. Shedding tears at all is bad enough, but doing
so in front of other people is such a show of weakness.
So why is it that she still appears so strong, even now, as the tears are
falling?
How he longs to stop and hold her, to wipe those tears away, to tell her
some nonsense about how everything will be fine…
Alya stops next to him, and looks at him expectantly, all traces of tears
gone now.
“And you?”
He points down the other trail. She nods distractedly, but keeps her
eyes on him. Those eyes, such a deep, liquid green, like forest leaves
on a dewy morning. He loves how they slope up ever so slightly at the
corners. They have always reminded him of a cat ’s eyes, so befitting
someone of such feline grace.
He suddenly realises that they have been staring at each other for a
full minute.
“I…” he mutters, forcing himself to break away from the hypnotic gaze.
“Go. I’ll stay here and watch until I’m sure you’re not straying off-
track.”
“Okay.” She walks past him towards the indicated trail. Then, she
stops.
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“What?” Again, those eyes, staring right at him.
“Thank you,” she whispers, her hands clasped in front of her, the
slightest hint of a smile playing on her lips.
He also gets the awful feeling that he will regret what he didn’t do –
forever.
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Chapter 22 – Rain & Mud
Karnwyr looks from his master to the woman as they walk along the
path. Neither of them says much as they travel, but he can feel a
strange charge in the air between them, one that isn’t being
dampened by the drizzling rain. He has been feeling the electrical
tension since this morning, and it is making his hair stand on end.
Where are we going? He tries to ask the woman by nudging her hand
with his head. He has grown quite fond of her in the last few days. The
master doesn’t seem hostile towards her, and she always seems to
have time for the wolf, and frequently gives him very good belly
scratches.
Her pat on his head in response feels half-hearted. She doesn’t seem in
the mood to play.
He hears the master say something to the woman, and she replies, her
tone hushed. They do not look at each other during the conversation.
Suddenly, the woman’s eyes start to leak again. A drop of water tracks
a course down one of her cheeks. Karnwyr remembers licking that
water off her face yesterday. He had not liked the taste; it was bitter
and salty. Why is she doing that again now?
They stop. As Karnwyr moves to sit between the two people, he hears
them talking, their sentences short and quite abrupt. Then, they are
silent again, and appear to be just standing there in the rain, doing
nothing but stare at each other. The air around them grows tenser still,
and Karnwyr bristles. He puts his muzzle under his front paws.
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Finally, the master utters a few more words, and the woman starts to
move away.
Where is she going? Karnwyr tries to ask the master, but he is not
paying any attention to the wolf.
The woman stops and turns, and Karnwyr’s ears perk up in hopeful
anticipation. She’s coming back! But he merely hears her say
something quietly. He doesn’t understand the words, but it sounded
something like “Tank yew.”
The master does not reply, only nods, and she begins to walk away
again.
But the master is just gazing quietly at the woman’s retreating back,
the rain dripping off his hood, his expression stony as the rocks the
wolf finds around the forests.
And then he smells it: the bittersweet aroma of the master’s sadness,
only this time it appears to be growing stronger, until it nearly
overpowers all other odours, even the scent of the rain. The wolf lets
out an involuntary whimper.
The wolf looks uncertainly from one person to the other, torn between
following his master, and going after the woman. Under all other
circumstances, the master would have been the obvious choice, but
Karnwyr senses that the woman has something to do with the master’s
scent of sadness. Even now, it seems like the smell is getting stronger
the further they move apart.
Why are you smelling so sad? The wolf is baffled. And why don’t you
want to feel better??
* * *
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The sudden wail of a wolf right behind her causes Alya to spin around.
Karnwyr is sitting in the middle of where the trail branches, his head
thrown back, baying loudly.
What’s wrong with him? She asks herself. Has he hurt himself?
Uncertainly, she just stands where she stopped, gazing curiously at the
wolf. Her confusion and hesitation appears reflected in Bishop’s
expression, as he, too, has stopped walking, and is looking at the wolf.
In response, Karnwyr lies down, his head resting on his front paws.
Exasperated, Bishop reaches out a hand to seize the wolf by the scruff
of his neck, but Karnwyr jumps up suddenly and dodges him.
“By the hells…” Bishop curses, as he tries to grab the wolf again, and
again Karnwyr eludes him.
Then the wolf starts running in her direction, his tongue lolling, and he
stops right next to her. Alya briefly entertains the notion of helping
Bishop catch Karnwyr, but then decides to just watch and see how this
plays out.
“Fine, you mutt,” he snaps. “Don’t come! Stay with her!” Flicking as
much dirt off himself as he could, he turns and storms off.
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But then Karnwyr starts to make high-pitched puppy yaps, and he
stops again. As he glares at him, the wolf whines. Alya could almost
imagine that they are having some sort of conversation.
Finally, Bishop walks all the way over, and Karnwyr ducks behind her.
The sight of Bishop, mud-covered and bested by a wolf, is too much for
her, and she laughs.
“Think he likes me?” she asks, as she rubs the wolf hiding behind her.
Bishop says nothing, but fixes her with a wilting glare.
Suddenly, Karnwyr pounces on her from behind – hard. She feels the
huge wolf’s paws planted in her back before her petite frame is
propelled forwards by the momentum. She runs into Bishop awkwardly,
and he stumbles backwards. He is just about to catch his balance when
Alya spots a flash of grey fur right behind the ranger.
Uh, oh…
Bishop trips over Karnwyr, sending the two of them sprawling onto the
ground in a tangle of arms and legs.
As they try to get up, their eyes meet. Alya is so close to Bishop she
could almost count the individual golden flecks in his brown irises, and
the faint scars on his face. She could smell the leather of his armour,
and the scent of the man himself. Her hands rest on his chest, and she
could almost feel his muscles flexing underneath the armour…
Then she realises that Bishop’s arms are wrapped around her.
This is awkward…
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“That mutt seems to want you around,” he grumbles, wiping more
muck off his face. “Guess I have no choice but to come with you. For
now.”
As she falls into step behind the fuming ranger, she picks a twig out of
her matted hair.
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Chapter 23 – Meditation
One part of him, the vocal part, grumbles incessantly about the delay
to their journey. Another part of him, the secret part he has banished
to the deepest, darkest corner of his mind, silently wishes for more
hold-ups.
Still, it’s worked out for the best, hasn’t it? The much-oppressed part of
his mind chimes up. The wolf’s made the decision you had wanted to
make yourself all along.
Shut up.
He relives the moment Karnwyr had knocked Alya off balance, causing
her to slam into him. As he tottered backwards from the force, that
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damn wolf had decided to run behind him at that exact moment. The
backs of his knees caught Karnwyr’s strong back, and he toppled
straight over his animal companion, landing on his back in a puddle of
mud. Even as he felt the muddy water seeping into his clothing, his
hair, and down his neck, he had noticed just how close her face was to
his. Her deep green cat’s eyes, sparkling like a beacon against the
gloomy backdrop of the rainy day. He could make out all nine freckles
that dust the bridge of her upturned nose. Her lips were slightly parted
in surprise, just inches away from his own. Her hair framed her face in
a red and brown halo, and he could feel a few locks tickling his cheeks.
He caught a whiff of her feminine scent, something akin to a mixture of
rosewater and cinnamon – sweet and spicy, just like her personality…
Then he had realised that his arms were wrapped tightly, protectively,
around her body.
That is not how someone who likes having you close would behave.
He stops to ascertain their position and to confirm that they are still on
the right track. As his trained eye scans the vicinity for familiar
landmarks, he spots her leaning against an oak, her eyes shut as she
concentrates on taking slow, deep breaths. Her arms are crossed, one
hand discreetly over the healing wound in her chest. Bishop feels an
involuntary wave of concern. Their path has been taking them
progressively uphill all day, and the sloping incline has obviously taken
its toll on her.
“You sure?” she asks, as she pushes herself off the tree, trying to look
unwearied. “We still have a few hours of daylight left,”
“I didn’t come so far out of my way just to have you drop dead now,”
he snaps, as he tosses his backpack on the ground and starts
gathering wood for a fire, making it clear that they are going no
further.
End of discussion.
* * *
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Bishop secretly watches her as she meditates at the edge of the grassy
cliff overlooking the valley below. She is sitting with her back straight
and her legs crossed, her hands resting on her knees. Her eyes are
closed, and her breathing is slow and steady. If Bishop hasn’t known
better, he would have thought she was sleeping sitting up.
When she had first left the camp, he had followed quietly, in case she
ran into any danger, all the while thinking how ridiculous he was to be
concerned for the safety of the Knight-Captain, slayer of the King of
Shadows. He watched her looking out over the wooded dale from her
lofty vantage point, a testament to how high up they have actually
climbed, before seating herself down right at the fringe of the drop-off.
When he was sure she wasn’t going to fall off the cliff, he had snuck
away to do some hunting.
And now, more than an hour later, she is in the exact same position, as
if she had never moved from that spot. A gentle breeze blows up from
the valley, and her head tilts back almost imperceptibly, as if savouring
the wind in her face. Her hair ripples with the air current, the reddish
highlights reflecting the rays of the setting sun, setting her hair ablaze.
With her serene countenance and her flaming locks, she reminds him
of some sort of fiery angel, perched at the edge of the cliff, guarding
the dell below.
Stealthily, like a panther stalking its prey, he moves closer to her, his
footsteps falling soundlessly, until he is right behind her. He watches
as her shoulders rise and fall slightly, in time to her slow, rhythmic
breathing. He crouches down so that his face is mere inches from the
back of her head, and again he smells the soapwort she used to clean
her hair. Moving cautiously, he cranes his neck over one of her
shoulders until his lips are almost touching her slightly pointed ear. He
studies her face in profile: her small, upturned nose, the contours of
her cheekbones, her moist lips, pulled back in a tiny, contented smile,
her prominent chin, perpetually set in stubborn determination…
Enough!
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Just as silently as he had approached her, he gets up and steps back,
looking at the still form of the monk in disgust. He had been so close to
her, and yet she had no idea. Her guard is completely down while she
is in that state, and it is such carelessness and disregard of one’s
surroundings that gets people killed. You would think that someone
like her would know better.
I could have pushed her right over the edge of the cliff, and she won’t
have realised it till it was too late.
Still shaking his head scornfully at her ignorance, he turns and starts to
slip away.
* * *
Alya sits calmly at the edge of the cliff, her eyes closed, as she
concentrates on her breathing. Slow, deep inhalations through her
nose, and with each exhalation through her mouth, she imagines
herself breathing out all her thoughts and troubles, all physical pain
and discomfort, everything that normally weighs her mind down, until
her consciousness is empty, free of all complex thinking, all burdens,
as she allows her primal senses to take over.
She inhales again, and this time she pictures herself breathing in her
thoughts again. But instead of falling back into a jumbled heap in her
mind, like it was before, she imagines the individual ideas drifting into
place, into some form of order. Feelings that are deemed detrimental
are not taken in again, but rather blown far away by the same wind
that is stroking her cheeks. As her higher thinking returns, she smiles,
already sensing the spiritual benefits of her meditation. The Way states
that the solution to any problem lies within one’s self, and it is by
freeing one’s mind that one gains the enlightenment to see the
answer.
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She is about to open her eyes when she hears the softest of footfalls
behind her, so silent that she would not normally have heard it, but
with her sense of sight still disabled, her other senses are on high alert.
The footsteps draw closer, and stop directly behind her. She is tempted
to open her eyes, to turn around, but she is curious as to what he
would do.
The sound of cotton rubbing against leather tells her that he has
squatted down behind her. That, and the heat she can feel emanating
from his body informs her just how close he actually is. She has to
struggle to keep her breathing steady, to appear unaware.
She feels the warmth from his body moving along the right side of her
face. It lingers there, and an almost imperceptible movement of air
brushes her ear. He is so close, his mouth is practically touching her
ear. Her skin tingles where his breath caresses her, and as a shudder
threatens, she fights to remain motionless. She can smell him now,
too; a hint of pine needles and musk, and she must admit, it is not
altogether a bad combination.
She listens as he stops short, and hears a sharp intake of breath. Oh,
how she longs to open her eyes and see the look that must be on his
face! But she remains as she is, listening for him, knowing that
remaining in her calm, motionless, sightless state would unsettle him
more.
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“Not bad, monk, I’m almost impressed.” His caustic tone tries
unsuccessfully to mask his bewilderment.
More silence follows. She can sense that the ranger has some
questions, possibly about how she had known he was there, but he
doesn’t want to appear interested.
After a few moments, he finally says, “That’s not the safest of places to
fall asleep sitting up.”
She smiles. Trust Bishop to find a way to get the answers he wants
without seeming like he wants them. She decides to play along.
“For one, it’s a lovely view for when I do open my eyes at the end. For
another, there’s this lovely fresh breeze blowing up from the valley.
And, of course, there’s the fact that I am not asleep.”
She hears him snort. “You seem well into dreamland to me,” he says,
feigning disinterest.
“So, you just sit there like a stone all day, thinking of nothing?” His
scornful words are betrayed by an undertone of curiosity.
Hey, I should shut my eyes more often when I’m talking to him! She
thinks as she detects the inconsistencies in his voice. Then I’ll know
what he’s really thinking all the time…
“Not exactly,” she replies. “You see, it’s like trying to rearrange
furniture in a cluttered room. Things will be getting in each other’s
way, and you’ll end up with a big mess. But if you took everything out
of the room, and started with an empty space, it’s easier to move the
furniture around, and they will all fit nicely into place. It’s the same
with my meditation; I remove all thoughts from my head, and when my
mind is uncluttered, it’s easier for me to sort things out. It puts
everything into perspective.” She angles her head slightly towards
Bishop’s direction, and adds, “You should try it sometime.”
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She sighs. “Thoughts about the future.”
“Sort of. Return to Crossroads Keep, arrange a decent burial for the
rest…” an image of Casavir appears in her mind’s eye, and her heart
pangs involuntarily. Hadn’t I just locked that grief away somewhere?
Steeling herself, she finishes, “And if there are any West Harbour
survivors, go back to the village to help them rebuild.” Cautiously, she
slips in a question: “How long before we get to Crossroads Keep?”
“At the rate you’re going, and taking into account the fact that we’ll be
travelling downhill from here…” Bishop appears to be making a mental
calculation. “Five days at most.”
Alya nods absently. From behind her eyelids, she sees an orange glow
that is slowly dimming. The sun has almost set.
Bishop stays quiet for a while before answering. “What do you think I’ll
do? I’m a traitor of Neverwinter. They’ll hang me on sight.” She hears
more rustling of clothing. Did he just cross his arms? “I can’t let anyone
see me,” he continues. “So I’ll probably just see you on your way and
be off.” She detects a slight waver in his last sentence. “Just as well,”
he adds. “I’m getting tired of you slowing me down.”
Something about the way he said that doesn’t sound right to her keen
hearing.
He’s lying.
“Who cares?” She can imagine him shrugging in her mind’s eye.
“Somewhere far away…” Why is there an undercurrent of reluctance
and regret rippling beneath that statement?
That was her freshly uncluttered mind talking. It had been something
she had wanted to say for a while now, but until today, she had never
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found the words. She is hoping that her confession would provide some
sort of closure; if she has to travel with the ranger, she has to learn to
trust him again.
Plus, it helps to say it without having to look into those piercing eyes of
his…
Finally opening her eyes, she turns to Bishop, looking to see how he
would react. His face is unreadable as he stands there, arms crossed,
staring back at her, his amber eyes glinting in the light of the setting
sun.
With a smirk, he says, “Like I said before, it’s your turn to owe me a
debt. I might just drop by to collect one day.”
“It’s getting dark,” he says gruffly, looking at the sun. Its rays are
barely peeking out over the horizon now. “Come on, dinner’s ready.”
“I’ll catch up to you in a bit,” she replies, straightening her legs and
stretching, feeling the pins and needles shooting down to her toes from
sitting cross-legged for so long. She winces, then glances at Bishop
sheepishly. “Legs fell asleep.”
He snickers, genuinely amused. “So you do get cramps from sitting still
for so long.” He makes a move to leave, appears to hesitate, then
walks back towards her. Wordlessly, he holds out a hand to her. As she
takes it, he hauls her to her feet. She lets him support her as she limps,
trying to walk off her cramps.
As the sun disappears completely from the horizon, and faint stars
start to appear in the darkened sky, neither of them says a word as
they slowly make their way back to camp together.
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Chapter 24 – The Fight
Bishop was wrong about how long it would take them to reach
Crossroads Keep. Alya’s condition has improved enough that she has
started to keep pace with him effortlessly. By the end of the day it
became clear that they would be approaching their destination before
sunset the following evening, a whole day ahead of schedule.
It pains him to think that this could be one of the last times he’ll hear
her sweet voice.
He has been mulling over their inevitable arrival all morning. What
should he say when they get there? “Take care, nice knowing ya” just
doesn’t seem sufficient. Should he just walk away? Maybe offer her one
last chance to run off into the woods with him? No, bad idea – she’s
already turned that down twice before, and the gods know he does not
take rejection well.
* * *
He sits by the fire, distractedly fletching some arrows. His mood has
not improved much. Every time he tries to think of what to say
tomorrow, his mind keeps harking back to the same impossible plea.
And why would she want to do that? Why would she forgo the comforts
of her own keep, surrounded by people she knows and trust, to live
hand to mouth with a ranger who has nearly gotten her killed by his
betrayal, and who has murdered the man of her dreams?
He hears the screams in his head, the hideous cries of anguish that
haunt his nightmares. He forces them out of his mind.
Flickering shadows at the corner of his vision makes him turn his head.
Alya is training, practising her fighting forms, the light from the fire
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causing her shadows to shimmer among the darkened trees. Her
movements are slow and controlled, as she appears to dance in
rhythm to some silent music. Smoothly, she dips and rises, spins and
turns, her arms and legs tracing wide arcs in the air, mesmerising
Bishop with her fluid grace. Although he is unfamiliar with the styles,
he can clearly see that many of the fighting stances resemble the
movements of wild animals: a swooping motion with clawed hands
reminds him of the majesty of the eagle; a slow sway of her body
before a swift strike brings to mind a snake surprising its prey; multiple
tumbles and somersaults and a crouched stance mirror the deft
acrobatics of the monkey; a sudden halt before standing stock still,
eyes looking his way, like…
It takes him a moment before he realises that she’s noticed him staring
at her and has stopped to return his gaze, a slight expectant smile on
her lips.
* * *
Raising her arms up high, she starts her eagle form, keeping her
movements constant, floating like the bird of prey in flight. Then,
settling into a low crouch, she changes from fluid and smooth to slow
and swaying, striking out swiftly and silently like a cobra. Next, she
rolls, jumps and flips, imitating a monkey swinging in the trees.
From the corner of her eye, she eventually notices Bishop staring at
her.
In the last couple of days, she is almost starting to enjoy the ranger’s
company. He has been somewhat less surly, and although he is still not
at all talkative, and is sarcastic whenever he does say anything, at
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least he hasn’t been snapping at her. Coming from Bishop, that is
being very nice.
“See something that actually interests you?” she asks teasingly, as she
stops to take a break.
“Only because you move like some of the prey I hunt,” he retorts,
seeming a little embarrassed to be caught watching her. “And,” he
adds in an intimidating tone, “You know what I do to my prey.”
With a grin, she starts to move again. Raising herself up on one foot,
her arms outstretched, she strikes at an invisible enemy with one
hand, fingers held together in the shape of a beak. Jumping in the air,
she lands and pivots effortlessly on one foot, the other leg held high,
both arms raised by her sides for balance, resembling a pair of wings.
Her green eyes sparkle with amusement. “Not bad,” she says. “What
about this?” Standing rigidly, feet set apart, she strikes with the heel of
her palms in large, side-swiping movements. Her stance is solid, as she
grips the ground with her toes with each heavy step.
She makes a face. “Close enough. Tiger.” Brushing her hands off, she
laughs. “Say, that was pretty good,” she says, before her eyes narrow
mischievously. “You’ve proven you can identify your prey. Question is,
can you beat them?”
“It probably won’t,” she shoots back. “I’ll beat you either way.”
Bishop raises both fists in front of himself. “Do your worse, monk.”
Cautiously at first, they circle each other, sizing the opponent up. She
eyes him intently. His hazel eyes are piercing, predatory, like a wolf’s.
He throws a dummy punch, but Alya anticipates it, and doesn’t rise to
the bait. Instead, she springs forward and lashes out at him. He backs
off just in time to see her foot flying across his face. As she draws back
for another kick, he seizes the opportunity to attack. His fists punch
thin air as Alya neatly dodges him, before ducking under his arms and
elbowing him in the ribs. He grunts and recoils from the pain. Alya
dances out of range, a satisfied look on her face.
With a low growl, Bishop lunges for her. She side-steps him while
simultaneously giving him a sharp tug in the direction he is headed.
The extra momentum sends him stumbling. As he struggles to regain
his balance, she kicks his legs out from under him. He lands heavily on
his back, the impact winding him. As he catches his breath, Alya
saunters closer, a self-satisfied smile on her face.
Too late, she realises that she is standing too close to him.
Her overconfidence costs her as he grabs both her ankles and yanks
them violently. Alya loses her footing and falls. Grabbing his chance,
Bishop pounces on her, trying to pin her down, but she bucks and
manages to squirm free. As she jumps to her feet, Bishop again lurches
towards her, tackling her around the waist. They land in a heap, and
something jars her knee. He attempts to put her arm in a lock, but
again she wriggles free, and in a flash, reverses the hold on him.
Pushing him to the ground, she grabs his arm and wrenches it
uncomfortably behind his back. She hears him hiss in pain.
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“Do you yield?” she asks, breathing hard from the exertions. Knowing
Bishop, he would not give up at this point, not with his face pushed into
the dirt in what he would perceive as a humiliating fashion.
Without warning, Bishop grabs her outstretched arm and pulls hard,
jerking her forward. At the same time, he plants a foot on her chest
and falls backwards. Caught completely off guard, she is sent flying
over him. After what seems like a long time in the air, the ground
surges up to meet her, and she sprawls awkwardly as she lands. Before
she could recover, he is on top of her, pinning her down.
Keeping his knees on her legs, his hands pushing down on her
forearms, Bishop snickers as she continues to buck and writhe, trying
to worm her way out from underneath him. “Do you yield now, monk?”
Before she could reply, Alya clutches her chest suddenly and gasps in
pain.
“Shit,” she hears Bishop swear. “Your chest wound…” rolling off her
quickly, he helps her to her feet. “You okay?” he asks, putting an arm
around her.
She responds by throwing him over her shoulder and pinioning him to
the ground. She hears a startled “Wha–?” before he hits the turf.
“Ha!” she declares, laughing, as she holds him down. “Didn’t think you
of all people would fall for that!”
Her laughter dies in her throat when she sees the look on Bishop’s
face.
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“Get the hells off me, now!” he roars, as he tries to break free. Startled
by his vehemence, Alya slides off as he pushes himself up. Scrambling
to his feet, he appears to tower over her; his chest heaving, his eyes
on fire, his hands clenched so tightly they are shaking, he looks ready
to explode.
With a snarl of rage, he drives a fist into the nearest tree, and stalks
away, leaving Alya sitting there, speechless. She brings both hands to
her mouth before running her fingers through her hair.
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Chapter 25 – Weakness
The woods are silent except for the chirping of crickets. The night is
clear with a chill in the air, and the silver moon and stars shine brightly
in the cloudless ebony sky.
Fuming, he breaks off a twig from the tree he is sitting in, and starts to
snap it into smaller pieces.
Absently, his arm reaches for another branch, and he starts breaking it
apart.
Just leave her, he tells himself. Leave her at Crossroads Keep tomorrow
and forget about her. You won’t hear from her ever again.
“I take it you’re still mad at me,” he hears her say, her voice sounding
chastised.
“Bishop…”
“Go away,” he growls, crossing his arms as he dangles his legs off the
branch he is sitting on.
He hears her moving closer, until she is right underneath him. “Bishop,
I’m sorry. It’s just that, I didn’t think –“
“At least come down from the tree,” she sighs. “I’m getting a crick in
my neck.”
“Which part of ‘go away’ did you not understand?” he asks brusquely,
before saying slowly, deliberately, as if to a child, “I – don’t – want you
here.”
Silence down below. Then, he hears some rustling, and the next thing
he knows, she is on the tree branch next to his, having bounded up the
oak like a cat. Despite himself, he is impressed by her agility.
“I’m sorry, but I need to talk to you,” she insists softly, tilting her head
so that one side rests against the bark of the tree. “I feel terrible for
what I did.” When he doesn’t reply, she goes on, “I was being stupid
and insensitive. I should have known better.”
Bishop has heard enough. Huffing irritably, he lowers himself off the
branch, landing softly on the forest floor. He is starting to walk away
when he sees Alya deftly swinging from the tree, and touching down
nimbly next to him.
“Will you please leave me alone?” he snarls as he whirls away, but she
holds him back with a hand on his shoulder.
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“Under any other circumstances, Bishop, I would,” she says, as she
moves around him so that they are facing each other. She has one
hand on each of his shoulder now. “But…” she falters slightly. “But
with this being the last night before we reach Crossroads Keep, well…”
she stops briefly, her eyes downcast.
“After all the hells we’ve been through together,” she adds, as if
anticipating his question. “I’d hate to leave thinking that you‘re still
mad at me.”
Bishop hesitates, his mind in turmoil. What would be the best way to
forgive her without admitting he has forgiven her? And why is she
being so nice to him? Why does she care what he thinks of her?
He suddenly realises how close she actually is. Her face is barely
inches away from his, and all he can see are those liquid green eyes of
hers, sparkling like deep emerald pools that he could drown blissfully
in.
The gleaming pools shimmer, inviting him further into their depths, as
she gives both his arms a gentle squeeze, “All this anger…” she
muses, smiling slightly at him. “This is not the Bishop I want to
remember.”
Before he could stop himself, he grabs her behind her head with both
hands, his fingers entangled in her auburn tresses, and he presses his
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lips hard against hers. He hears a muffled “mmph?” of surprise as she
tries to push herself away, her hands on his chest, but he holds on
tightly, one arm moving to the small of her back to pull her body closer
to his. He kisses her intensely, hungrily, as all his pent-up desires are
finally released in a rush of passion.
Alya’s resistance is brief. He soon feels her relaxing into his arms, and
instead of pushing against him, her hands start to rub his chest. Her
lips part as she starts to kiss him back, tentatively, almost shyly at
first, before becoming more sensuous. He feels her soft, velvety lips
enveloping his own bottom lip, sending a tingle down his spine. Her
arms snake around his neck, and he feels her clutching at his hair. As
he greedily tries to delve deeper, her mouth opens invitingly, yielding
to his fervent probing. He feels her warm, moist tongue caressing his,
just as her breath escapes in an involuntary sigh.
His lips never leaving hers, he pushes her up against a tree, pressing
his body firmly against hers, his hands running roughly up and down
her arms. The front of her robe falls open slightly, revealing a bare
shoulder, her bandaged wound, and a teasing peek of her cleavage.
The smell of rosewater and cinnamon invades his nose as he buries his
face in her neck. He hungrily kisses the tender area around her
collarbone, and he bites the soft flesh of her neck, eliciting a tiny moan
from her. Her fingers travel up to his face, lightly caressing his cheeks,
and he shudders under her touch. He can feel himself growing more
and more aroused with each stroke of her fingertips along his jaw line.
He gasps when he feels her cool hands on his bare chest. She has
partly unbuttoned his shirt, and has slipped both hands underneath,
her kneading touch sending jolts of electrical pleasure through his
body. The stirring in his loins grows almost painful as his manhood
strains against the confines of his breeches.
His fingers get tangled in her cords as he clumsily tries to undo her
laces. With a feral growl, he finally loosens the knot with violent yank.
In his frenzied state, he thinks he hears her call his name, but he
ignores it as he runs a hand down her hip, tucking his fingers under her
waistband. Her skin feels smooth, soft and hot, as his hands move from
her hip to her stomach, feeling the firm muscles of her abdomen
beneath his fingertips.
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“Bishop…” she gasps again between their breathless kisses.
From her navel, his hand moves down towards the radiating warmth.
He brushes the inside of a thigh, and the first wiry strands of hair…
“No!” she cries, as his exploring hand is suddenly grabbed at the wrist,
its progress halted.
“No, please…” she pleads breathlessly, shaking her head. Is that fear
in her eyes?
“Bishop, please…” she takes a step forward and reaches out towards
him, but he is in no mood to listen.
With a roar of utter frustration, he pushes her roughly back into the
tree trunk, and storms off into the deep, dark woods.
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Chapter 26 – On the Road
The morning was grey and gloomy, with the distant rumble of thunder.
It started to drizzle around midday, and now it is a torrential downpour.
The wind blows sheets of rain across the land, as the thunder rolls
across the bleak, overcast sky. The ground underfoot has grown slick
and muddy, the soil completely saturated by the deluge.
Alya pulls her hood tighter around her head as a gust of wind whips
more water into her face. With visibility obscured by the curtains of
falling rain, she can only see a dozen yards at best in any direction. Up
ahead, barely discernible in the gloom, she spots the stooped,
shadowy outline of Bishop’s back, as the ranger stomps ahead, leading
the way.
No words have been exchanged between the two of them since last
night. After he had stormed off, she had waited up for him, but he
never returned. Eventually, she had fallen asleep, only to wake up to a
dreary, cloudy morning. She found him sitting on a log, his satchel
slung over his shoulder. The fire was already covered with sand and
put out, and Karnwyr was beside his master, waiting patiently. He
never met her eyes as she busied herself with her own packing, and
when she was ready, he had merely started walking, not even turning
around to make sure she was following. When it started to rain heavily,
he made no move to stop, to wait out the downpour, and even now,
weighted down by soppy clothes and impeded by the sticky mud, he
marches on, as if he wants her to reach her destination as quickly as
possible.
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As if he wants to be rid of her as soon as possible.
Not that I could blame him, she thinks to herself, as she bows her head
and leans into the wind. After how she had led him on last night, she
had half-expected to be making this journey on her own.
She had felt terribly guilty for tricking him the way she did during their
sparring match. She just didn’t think he would get so bothered by it.
She had tracked him down, intent on apologising, and what she had
told him was heartfelt and sincere. Somehow, she just didn’t want him
to be mad at her, which is odd, seeing as she had never once cared
about what he thought of her. Perhaps, considering the fact that he
had risked his life to save hers more than a few times already, and had
nursed her back to health, she didn’t want him to think that she was
being ungrateful…
She was startled when he suddenly grabbed her and forced his lips
onto hers. The intensity and desperation in the kiss surprised her, and
it also scared her a little. She had tried to protest, pushing against his
chest, trying to struggle out of his grip.
But the feel of his lips on hers was not at all unpleasant, nor was the
sensation of having her body pressed tightly to his. She could feel his
firm chest muscles rippling beneath his shirt, and she caught a whiff of
his masculine scent. Something possessed her then to say “screw it”,
and to give in to his hunger.
She remembers returning his kiss, and he had shivered slightly when
she lightly nibbled his bottom lip. Their kisses became deeper, and she
felt his tongue invading her mouth. Soft and moist, it reaches for her
own tongue, sending a tingly sensation running up and down her spine.
She remembers her arms around his neck, her fingers running through
his short dark hair.
Somehow, she had ended up pushed against a tree, the grainy bark
scratching against her back. Her robe was slightly open – had he done
that? She couldn’t remember. He started hungrily kissing her around
her neck, and she had gasped when she felt his teeth on the sensitive
spot around her collarbone. Their gaze met briefly, and she saw a fire
in his wolf’s eyes that set the golden flecks in his irises ablaze. She felt
a sudden longing to have that fiery passion inside of her, to let it burn
her to her very core. Something about his ferocity, his wild thirst, was
somewhat arousing, and when she stroked his cheeks, feeling the
coarseness of his stubble, she felt something hard pressing against her
leg, and she knew that he was as stimulated as she was.
All of a sudden, she had a sudden yearning to feel his bare skin, and at
that moment his thin cotton shirt felt as thick as any plate armour. She
undid the top two buttons and slid her hands into the resultant
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opening. She remembers the small strangled cry that escaped his lips,
the warmth of his exhaled breath tickling her neck, as she massaged
his firm chest muscles, her fingers feeling the raised scars on his
smooth skin, and the fluid tensing of his strong muscles.
She felt his hand running across her hip towards her stomach, lingering
briefly at her navel before it started to descend, and it was only then
that she realised that he had unlaced her trousers.
His fingers brushed her inner thigh, and suddenly, the old fear had
returned. Without thinking, she grabs his probing hand before it
reached its destination. The look Bishop gave her was one of confusion
and consternation, as his hand strained against hers.
“Don’t play games with me,” he warned, his tone low and menacing,
as his hand tried to thrust downwards again. But she had held on in a
blind panic, and he eventually backed off. As she clumsily pulled her
pants back up, he stood staring at her, his hair mussed, his shirt partly
open, showing his well-defined chest muscles as they heaved with
every breath. His eyes still burned with an inner fire.
“Bishop, please…” she had started, but he pushed her away, and
rushed off into the darkness, leaving her leaning against the tree, her
hair in disarray, her dishevelled robe hanging off a shoulder, and her
mind in turmoil.
And what would you have said if he had stayed to listen? She asks
herself, and sighs when no answer comes to her. Even if she had the
chance to justify her behaviour, he would probably still have been
angry. Bishop doesn’t seem like the sympathetic, understanding type…
In fact, he doesn’t even seem like her type, so what in the hells had
possessed her last night?
He’s a traitor, she tries to convince herself. He sold you out, he sold
Neverwinter out…and he killed Casavir in cold blood…
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What has gotten into her? All this time stuck in the woods with the
ranger, with no one else for company, must have done things to her
head. As soon as she gets back to civilisation, things will be different,
and she will forget all about him.
She glances ahead. She catches a glimpse of amber eyes as the ranger
peers over his shoulder briefly before turning away again. She watches
the lithe movements of his powerful shoulder muscles as he walks on.
* * *
The rain finally starts to let up around early evening, slowing to a light
drizzle, although the sky overhead remains dark and imposing.
Karnwyr, who has been slinking quietly beside him, looking cold, wet
and miserable, shakes himself, spraying the ranger with dog-smelling
water. Bishop hardly notices this as he steps past the last trees that
mark the edges of the Mere of Dead Men, and onto a large road, one
that winds its way down a hill. In the distance, just about visible amid
the grey gloom, they glimpse the twinkling fires of torches lining the
battlements of Crossroads Keep.
Any common wench who would dare toy with him in that way would
not have had a choice anyway in the end, and he would probably have
cut her up a little while he was at it, as punishment for her insolence.
But with her, he had merely run off like a coward, his libido unsatisfied,
and he then had to degrade himself by getting reacquainted with his
right hand…
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As he stands in the middle of the deserted road, he hears her catching
up to him and stopping just behind him. He doesn’t glance back, but he
imagines that she is looking at the lights from the keep in the distance.
As the misty rain continues to fall all around them, they are both silent.
Several minutes pass before he hears her call his name.
“Just go,” he states tersely, still gazing into the middle distance,
refusing to meet her eyes. No doubt the witch would try to shake his
resolve if he were to look directly at her.
More uneasy silence, then, with a sigh, he hears her trudge away, her
boots making squishing noises with each muddy step. Karnwyr whines
beside him, and he grabs the animal firmly by the scruff of his neck, in
case he tries to bolt for her again.
She is looking back at him over her shoulder, her hood pulled up to
protect herself from the rain, a soggy lock of reddish hair plastered to
one side of her face. He cannot read the expression in her green cat-
like eyes. Her cheeks are wet, but whether it is rainwater or tears he
does not know.
He turns away quickly, ignoring the twinge in his heart, and starts to
shrink back into the shelter of the trees, dragging the reluctant wolf
with him.
He hopes the merchant has not seen him, allowing him time to melt
into the darkness of the swamp.
But the man is eyeing him intently as he pulls his horse to a stop. Part
of his face peeks out from under his hood: a jagged pink scar runs
diagonally across one eye. The eye sparkles with recognition on seeing
the ranger.
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“Bishop,” the mysterious man says with a sneer, his voice low and
rough, and somehow menacing.
Shit…
156
Chapter 27 – A Stranger from the Past
The flickering lights from the torches of Crossroads Keep are like tiny
beacons in the gloom, beckoning invitingly to Alya as she walks down
the muddy road towards them. Finally, after weeks, she is on her way
back. She almost couldn’t believe that she is here now, barely a couple
of miles from the keep.
Her spirit lifts a little with the possibility of seeing Bevil, and perhaps
Daeghun, again. She wonders how everyone is doing: Sal, Kana, old
Jacoby, the weapon smith; she has always been quite fond of the
amiable old man…
As the memories from the night before comes flooding back, she fights
a surging desire to run to him, to feel his strong, protective arms
enveloping her, to smell his musky scent mingling with the heady
aroma of his leathers, to hear him breathing in her ear, to drink deeply
from his lips…
She shakes her head of the graphic imagery, reminding herself of the
burning fury in his eyes last night, and convincing herself that what
childish reconciliations she has in mind is never to be.
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Her eyes start to prickle suddenly, and she turns away quickly. She is
not going to let him see how much this is affecting her. Why is she
feeling this way about him, anyway? It just doesn’t make sense! Hells,
just a few weeks ago, she had a dagger over his throat…
Would she really have gone through with it if that styx dragon hadn’t
shown up?
Her mind is whirling. She can’t think straight with him so near. She has
to get away.
Her footsteps quicken as she makes haste towards the glowing lights
in the distance.
A duergar…
For some reason, Karnwyr’s hackles are raised, and he growls at the
newcomer.
“Bishop.” Apparently, the strange man knows the ranger. His tone is
cold, dangerous. His hood falls open, revealing a bald, grey-skinned
head, and an ugly scar running across his face that splits one of his
eyelids in two, its pinkness contrasting with the rest of the dark dwarf’s
complexion.
The other man, who seems to be in his forties, snickers. “I see you
haven’t changed much since I last saw you. Still know how to make an
old friend feel welcome, eh?”
“You, on the other hand, have changed quite a bit,” the ranger sneers
just as menacingly. “Last I saw you, you were dead.”
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The dwarf’s eyes narrow dangerously at the retort. The scar on his face
appears to flush, turning a deeper red.
“Rule number one for assassins: almost make sure your quarry is
really dead,” Bishop recites, his tone mocking. “Trust me, Garrick, I’m
regretting my oversight already.”
Revenge.
“Now now, my son, don’t be too hard on yourself,” the man known as
Garrick chides sarcastically. “After all, you had taken a couple of blows,
so I’ll understand if you were not as…thorough, as you would have
been.” Then, with a sadistic gleam in his scarred eye, he continues, “Of
course, there’s also the emotional distress, after what happened with
Calyx…”
Alya hears another snarl, and it takes her a while before she realises
that this one had not come from Karnwyr, but from Bishop himself. She
sees his blazing eyes narrowed into slits, and the muscles in his jaws
clenching with barely concealed anger. Whatever Garrick meant, he
has certainly touched a nerve.
“I’ve killed you once.” He threatens in a low voice. “And I can easily kill
you again.” Glaring venomously at the dark dwarf, he adds, “And this
time I’ll be thorough.”
The duergar laughs heartily, the sound chilling Alya to the bone.
“My dear boy, you’d be a tad naïve to think that I would come after you
without a bit of…insurance.” One grey hand reaches under the
waterproof sheet covering his wooden cart. His dark lips pull back in a
malevolent grin. “You don’t know how long I have been waiting for
this…”
Bishop reaches behind himself for his twin swords, as Karnwyr, teeth
bared, readies himself to pounce.
Thunk! A throwing star embeds itself into the wood of the wagon,
barely inches from the duergar’s fingers.
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In an instant, both men are staring at her, as if they had not noticed
her presence before that.
Um…hi?
Garrick is the first to regain his composure after the surprise attack.
“Not bad, son,” the dwarf finally comments. “Not quite Calyx, but still a
pretty good catch.”
Who in the world is this Calyx he keeps talking about? Alya wonders,
feeling an unexpected, illogical pang of jealousy.
Although it is plain that the other man’s words are riling the ranger,
Bishop keeps his attention focused on her.
But something about that cart just does not seem right. Garrick has his
hand on the tarpaulin sheet again, his hand right above her throwing
star, which is still stuck fast into the side of the wagon.
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She cannot out a finger on it, but that cart is making her uneasy…
The only response she could muster is a dumb, stubborn shake of her
head that plasters more of her dripping wet hair to her cheeks. This
seems to amuse Garrick.
With that, he grabs an edge of the sheet and whips it off, sending up a
shower of rainwater that had been pooling on the waterproof surface.
And Alya realises what had been bothering her about the duergar’s
wagon.
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Chapter 28 – Welcoming Party
Luskan assassins.
They’ve had worse odds before, but something about how these
attackers are carrying themselves, with the smooth grace of those who
have done this many times, tells her that they are seasoned killers.
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Casually, he gives his order, “Don’t kill them too quickly.” The dwarf
begins to unsheathe his blade, a rather lethal-looking rapier. Almost as
an afterthought, he adds, “Oh, and try and make him watch his
girlfriend die, first.”
Another bolt zips by, this one whistling past her ear, barely an inch
away. She gasps involuntarily. Reaching for her throwing stars, she
rolls away from her rather exposed spot in the middle of the road, and
dives behind a copse of birches, the thin trunks of the small trees
offering some protection from the incoming missiles. Holding a star
between her index and middle finger, she peeks out from her behind a
trunk, and with quick flicks of her wrists, lets two stars fly in
succession. She dodges back behind her scant shelter in time to hear a
bolt thudding into tree bark. Another furtive glance reveals that one of
her stars has found the thigh of one of the marksmen, but that is
hardly going to slow him down. If anything, the lanky man looks
incensed, as he starts to approach her hiding place, limping only
slightly, crossbow at the ready.
Alya is about to try taking out the other ranged attacker, when an
almost imperceptible rustle right beside her catches her attention.
From the corner of her eye, she spies the glint of metal, and only just
manages to duck away, as a dagger slashes the air where her neck
was a fraction of a second ago.
“What the –?“ Even as she watches, a dark elf materialises out of the
shadows, her silvery white hair hidden beneath a black cape. Her red
eyes burning with malice, she advances on Alya, her scabbard raised
high.
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These people are good…
Staying behind the birch trees to avoid being shot at by the one
remaining crossbowman, Alya evades a lunge from the drow. Grabbing
the assassin’s wrist, she tries to disarm her, but the other woman
whirls around, swinging her free elbow into Alya’s gut. She exhales
loudly, losing her grip on the elf. Before she could recover, she feels
herself being pinned against the cluster of trees, the drow’s forearm
leaning painfully across her neck, right under her chin, choking her.
Alya’s lungs scream out for air as she tries unsuccessfully to draw
breath. The dark elf’s other hand holds the gleaming scabbard, its tip
hovering above her heart. Black spots swim around her vision as her
oxygen-starved brain threatens to shut down.
When he is done, Karnwyr looks up from his victim. His tongue lolls out
as his lips part in a wolf smile, and he wags his tail, as if seeking
approval for his actions. Apart from the deep crimson blood matting
the fur around his face, he seems every bit the friendly, playful animal
companion she has been travelling with, who has on many occasions
gently gnawed on her hand with those same sharp fangs.
* * *
Bishop parries the oncoming blade with one of his own, and
simultaneously drives his other sword deep in between his attacker’s
ribs. When he withdraws it, it is coated in the assassin’s sticky blood.
As the dying man falls to the ground, Bishop turns to face his other
aggressor. He has managed to move around in such a way that there
was always one of the swordsmen between himself and the other
assassin, thus allowing him to fight just one at a time.
With a grunt, the assassin gives a mighty push that sends Bishop
stumbling backwards. As he tries to regain his balance, the half-orc
swings his short sword at his head. As the ranger brings one of his own
blades up to deflect it, the force f the other man’s blow knocks his
weapon out of his hand. It sails briefly through the air before landing
with a splat in the mud.
Shit…
Freeing one hand from his sword handle, he forms a fist and punches
the other man in the nose. The half-orc is not expecting it, and so
bears the full brunt of the blow. Bishop feels something give way under
his knuckles, and he hears an ominous crack. As the assassin’s head
snaps back, the ranger seizes the opportunity to strike, but again his
attack is deflected by the powerful half-orc. Apart from the blood
flowing freely from his broken nose, the assassin does not seem at all
dazed by the blow, as his yellow eyes narrow in fury. He brings the hilt
of his short sword down, catching Bishop in the temple. The impact
sends the ranger sprawling onto the ground, splashing as he lands in a
puddle. An explosion of stars cloud his vision, as his head throbs
sharply in rhythm to his pounding heart. He tries to will himself not to
black out.
As he rolls himself onto his back, his vision clears enough for him to
see a hulking figure looming over him. A flash of light bounces off the
assassin’s blade as it swings downwards, aimed at his throat.
With a gasp, Bishop scrambles out of the way, just as the sword digs
into the ground where he was lying, sending up a shower of muddy
water and moist dirt. Staggering unsteadily to his feet, his head still
spinning, the ranger realises with dread that he has lost his remaining
sword.
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And the massive half-orc is rushing at him, both his blades raised.
He had scoffed when she first said that; he would yield to no one, he
remembers answering.
But with the powerful half-orc bearing down on him as he stands there,
vulnerable and unarmed, he figures he might as well give it a shot.
The assassin thrusts his sword at Bishop’s gut, and in that split second
before the blade would sink into his flesh, he steps aside. As he has
seen Alya do numerous times in a battle, he grabs his attacker as the
big Luskan rumbles past, and the ranger gives him an extra heave in
the direction of his forward momentum. Thrown off balance, the heavy
man is propelled ahead, and slams face-first into a solid oak. Bishop is
on him in the blink of an eye. Wresting the momentarily stunned man’s
sword from his loosened grip, he drives it deep between its owner’s
shoulder blades with such force that it rips right through the assassin
and into the tree. Without a chance to even cry out, the half-orc dies,
impaled to the tree trunk.
Breathing heavily, Bishop retrieves his fallen blades, while at the same
time surveying his surroundings warily. The wooden cart that carried
the Luskans, still tethered to the horse, is now unoccupied. The first
assassin he felled lies in a pool of his own blood. Further away, he sees
another Luskan body. The man’s eyes stare lifelessly at the rainy sky,
blood still spurting from a gaping hole where his throat once was.
Alya turns around in time to see the assassin, an arrow sticking out of
his skull, a surprised look on his face, topple over dead.
Bishop jogs up to Alya and Karnwyr. She has a hand around her neck,
her breath coming out in wheezes. He feels an urge to put his arms
around her protectively. The words “Are you okay?” dances
tantalisingly on his tongue before he pushes the thought away.
Instead, he briefly scans her for any signs of injury. Satisfied and
relieved when he finds none, he merely offers her a hand to help her
up.
“You’re hurt,” she begins, as she reaches for the swelling on the side of
his head, which is already turning an angry purple. Her fingers dance
lightly on the bruise before he jerks away irritably.
“I’ll live,” he says curtly. They both scrutinise the carnage around
them. At some point during the melee, the rain had intensified again,
not as bad as before, but heavy enough to obscure visibility.
Their eyes meet, and she asks the question he is wondering in his
head.
“Where’s Garrick?”
Both Alya and Bishop glance around cautiously. Through the drizzle,
they can see no one amid the gloom and shadows of the trees. The
constant sound of rain falling among the leaves makes hearing out for
any telltale rustling almost impossible. They look to Karnwyr to sniff
the duergar out, but the wolf merely growls in a low voice.
“Can’t you, like, tell him to fetch, or sic, or something?” she asks
Bishop. The thought of the dark dwarf watching them unseen seems to
be unnerving her.
“I could, if he knew where that bastard is,” the ranger scowls, his eyes
darting about warily.
They wait in silence again, straining to see or hear anything that may
reveal Garrick’s whereabouts.
When they still find nothing, Alya asks again, “Just how much should
we be worrying about our missing friend?”
“If you’re thinking he’s run off like a coward, don’t bet on it. That’s
precisely what he wants you to think.” Looking up, his amber eyes
scan the tree tops as water drips onto his face. “He’s still here –
somewhere.”
“You seem to be quite sure you know what he’s up to,” she remarks.
Alya’s head snaps around, her eyes wide as she stares at him. “He’s
your mentor??”
Bishop shrugs nonchalantly. “If you want to call him that.” To him, the
word ‘mentor’ conjures up an image of a wise old teacher who is
patient, kindly and nurturing in his teaching.
“Gee,” Alya mutters, shaking her head incredulously. “If he’s as good
as you are, then we should be worried.”
Another spell of silence follows. The light has begun to fade as evening
approaches, casting even darker shadows all around them, but they
stay where they are, their backs against the copse of birches. At least
from this vantage point, they have their rear covered. Frustratingly, all
sounds appear to be drowned out by the drip, drip, drip of raindrops.
“So…” Alya begins, trying to sound casual, even though he can see the
curiosity glowing in her eyes. “What happened between you two? He
seems to be going through a lot of trouble to hunt you down…”
Bishop is still trying to decide on how much he should tell her, when
something crashes loudly in the bushes. They spin around just in time
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to see a massive shape springing out from behind the shrubs,
completely black except for the glint of sharp fangs and claws, and a
pair of glowing yellow-green eyes. The dark shadow hisses viciously as
it pounces at them.
Even as they scatter to avoid the creature, Bishop knows that this is a
decoy. Their attacker, a large, sleek black panther, dangerous as it is,
is merely a means of diverting attention.
Keeping one eye on the big cat, which is having a snarling match with
Karnwyr, Bishop urgently scans their surroundings, searching for what
he knows would be there. He hears Alya’s surprised exclamation, as
she is forced to tumble out of the way when the panther lunges
suddenly at her. He barely notices that she has her throwing daggers
in hand again, as she slowly circles the jet-black animal.
Nearly invisible to anyone who is not actively looking out for it, a drawn
bow, partly concealed, peeks out from behind the leaves and branches
of a tree. There is an arrow nocked in it…
Shit!
He reaches for his longbow, hoping to get off a shot before the sniper
does.
But the twang of a taut bowstring tells him that it is too late for that.
And he sees the loosed arrow zipping unerringly through the air
towards its unsuspecting target.
With a thud, the arrow is driven deep into his flesh. Staggering a few
steps backwards from the force of the impact, Bishop feels a searing
pain directly beneath his right collarbone where the missile has
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penetrated his armour. He hears Alya gasp from somewhere behind
him.
Grabbing the protruding shaft, he grits his teeth as he pulls out the
arrow, the serrated arrowhead making a ripping, sucking sound as it
tears at his flesh on its way out, bringing a trail of crimson along with
it.
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Chapter 29 – Garrick’s Revenge
“Bishop!”
Alarmed, Alya rushes to the ranger’s side. She had not seen the arrow
until the very last moment, when Bishop had suddenly nudged her
aside. She felt him back into her a little as the missile slammed into
him, throwing him slightly off balance. Then, grunting, he had yanked
the arrow out from his collarbone. She had winced as blood spurted out
from the hole in his armour, but she felt a surge of hope and relief, that
he was not seriously injured.
But when she called out to him, she noticed that he was staring blankly
into space. All of a sudden, he lurched forwards, falling to his knees
before collapsing onto the ground.
She cries his name again as she turns the ranger over. Bishop’s eyes
are clamped shut, his rugged features contorted in pain. His breath is
coming out in ragged gasps through his clenched teeth, and his
muscles under her touch are bunching up as he writhes in agony.
Her eyes fall on the bloody arrow he still clutches in his hand. It has a
jagged head on one end, and on the other, black feathers that look like
they came off a raven’s tail.
With an accumulating sense of dread, she realises that the arrow tip
was probably laced with poison.
Shrugging off her satchel, she starts to rifle through the contents for an
antidote. Producing a flask of luminous green liquid, she bites down on
the cork, and moves to open the bottle.
She whirls around at the sound of Garrick’s sinister voice. The duergar
emerges from the shadows, his bow drawn and aimed at her. Another
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one of those black-plumed arrows is nocked in his shortbow. The
enormous black panther, which she has nearly forgotten about, pads
tamely to the dwarf’s side.
Glaring stubbornly at the dark dwarf, Alya pulls the cork out with her
teeth, lifts Bishop’s head, and gently prises his mouth open. She pours
the contents of the bottle down his throat, all the while expecting
Garrick to put an arrow into her for her defiance.
But he merely stands there, his ranged weapon still trained on her, a
cruel sneer pulling up the corner of his mouth.
Nothing.
“Told you, doll,” he chuckles. “That’s no ordinary poison. It’ll take more
than a bottle of watered-down antidote to neutralise.” He looks at the
twitching body of the ranger with an expression of amusement. “Too
bad he got in the way. That arrow was meant for you, dear girl. I didn’t
count on him trying to be a hero.” He shakes his head. “That’s not like
him at all,” he muses. Then, a shadow falls across his blue-grey face as
he continues. “And I wanted him to watch you die, to feel how I felt,
and then kill him.”
As the duergar closes in even more, Alya bites back the urge to
childishly retort that Bishop is not her boyfriend.
“Let’s just say his past has finally caught up to him.” Another step
closer, until now he is just a yard or so away. The dwarf starts to
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regard Alya in that lecherous way again. “It’s such a shame I have to
kill you now,” he says. His tone is so casual, he may have been
commenting about the weather. “But I can’t risk having a vengeful
lover on my tail.” He pulls his bowstring back further. “Such a waste of
a pretty woman…”
He’s too close, Alya thinks. I won’t be able to dodge the arrow.
Just as a ball of grey fur latches itself onto the dark dwarf’s arm.
The duergar cries out in surprise and pain as Karnwyr’s teeth sinks into
his flesh. He jerks his arm as he fires, causing his arrow to fly off
harmlessly into the trees.
Alya would normally have seized that opportunity to strike, but she still
has Bishop’s head in her lap. By the time she has gently laid him down,
Garrick has freed his arm with a vicious punch to the wolf’s snout,
causing the animal to let go with a pained snuffle.
With the element of surprise gone, though, the dwarf is not going to
have time to notch another arrow.
Alya moves to fling herself at Garrick, but he has quickly drawn his
rapier, swinging it in a wide arc. The monk has to brake suddenly to
avoid running headlong into the tip of the sword.
“Get that mangy mutt, Sable!” Garrick yells, shaking the pain out of his
bitten hand, and it takes a moment for Alya to realise that ‘Sable’ is his
black panther companion. Even now, as the creature hisses
dangerously, its fangs and claws bared, its eyes glinting with a feral
light, she cannot help but find the sleek, ebony coloured animal
majestic and lethally beautiful. As it moves, she could see its powerful
muscles flowing fluidly under its glossy coat.
With one effortless leap, the panther lands between Karnwyr and
Garrick. Alya feels a twinge of concern for the wolf; the cat is almost
twice his size.
The sound of a blade slashing the air in front of her reminds Alya that
she has more pressing issues to worry about. Garrick dances with the
rapier, slashing and stabbing, forcing her to dodge and retreat
repeatedly. He is obviously skilled with the weapon.
Alya gasps when one of his slashing attacks slits her sleeve, nicking
her arm. She feels a biting pain as warm blood trickles out of the cut.
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The duergar grins, relishing the fact that he is in full control of the
fight.
Watch his shoulders, something in her mind tells her, reminding her of
her training. They’ll betray his every move.
Her heart hammering in her chest, she carefully observes the dwarf’s
shoulders, trying to ignore the sharp blade whizzing past her vision
every other moment. Eventually, she begins to notice some patterns in
his movements: jab, slice, thrust…jab, slice, thrust…each action is
smooth and sure, a testament to the man’s fighting prowess.
But then she spots a slightly inconsistent jerkiness in his motion, right
before one of his strikes, imperceptible enough that she would have
missed it had she not been scrutinising so closely. His muscles appear
to twitch in anticipation of some form of sudden exertion.
As Garrick raises his rapier, an expectant glint in his eye, Alya takes a
deep breath, and steps forward just as the duergar charges, his blade
levelled at her gut…
She spins out of the way at the very last moment, and feels the sharp
blade whistling by. At the same time, she grabs Garrick’s passing
sword arm. Startled that his target is no longer there, and carried
forward by his own momentum, the duergar stumbles ahead.
Wrenching his arm in an awkward angle, Alya falls in the opposite
direction.
The loud pop! and the sudden extra give in Garrick’s arm confirms that
she has yanked it out of its socket.
She hears a gasp. Glancing up quickly, she sees Bishop’s back arch off
the ground as his body seizes.
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“Tell me,” she pants, pressing the edge of the blade into the tender
flesh of the duergar’s neck. “The poison…what’s the cure?”
The dwarf glares up at her, the ugly scar across his face an angry red.
Then, incredibly, he starts to laugh. He seems to be looking at
something directly over Alya’s shoulder when he pursed his grey lips
together and blew a shrill whistle.
Grabbing the panther’s upper and lower jaws, being careful not to
impale her fingers on its fangs, she tries to push the creature’s
massive mouth away from her neck. She smells the rancid reek of the
animal’s hot breath, as it snarls, straining against her hold. Warm
saliva drips from its open maw, and its whiskers twitch continuously in
anticipation of a kill.
The panther’s jaws inch ever closer as its weight, combined with its
superior strength, starts to overwhelm her. She will not be able to
muscle her way out of this one.
The animal’s yowl of pain rings out right next to Alya’s ear as it
staggers off her. Jumping to her feet, she kicks out again at the
creature, and again, repeatedly aiming for its vulnerable underbelly.
The panther swipes at her with its dagger-like claws, and she skips out
of reach. Launching herself on the cat’s back, she latches both arms
around its thick neck. Growling angrily, the creature bucks and writhes
as it tries to throw the monk off. It even tries to reach over its own
head to paw at her, but she tightens her grip, cutting off the animal’s
air supply. As she hangs on, she can feel the panther tiring, as its
struggles grow more sluggish, and its breath starts to escape in
strangled wheezes.
Finally, after what feels like a lifetime dangling from the big cat’s neck,
the panther staggers and falls. Even as she lies beside the creature on
the ground, Alya keeps her arms firmly around its windpipe, until the
rise and fall of breathing in the animal’s body has completely stopped.
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As she clambers to her feet, she sees Garrick not too far away. Scraps
of cotton gauze and an almost-empty bottle of blue liquid lie strewn at
his feet, as he gingerly flexes his freshly healed shoulder.
Their eyes meet across the distance, and they both simultaneously
spot the rapier that lies on the ground between them.
Garrick dives for the sword, but Alya kicks it away, and in the same
motion, follows through by swinging her foot into the duergar’s chest,
sending the assassin stumbling backwards. The dwarf is tough; he
steadies himself quickly, and steps back in with a cocked fist. Reading
his movement, Alya catches his punch in her hand. Her trained fingers
quickly find the pressure point on Garrick’s fist, between the thumb
and the index finger, and she digs her nail into it.
A scarlet line traces its way from Garrick’s mouth to his chin, and Alya
waits for his dazed eyes to refocus. When she is sure he is looking
directly at her, she grabs the front of his throat with her fingernails,
holding his jugular in a vice-like grip. As the duergar attempts to fight
back, she gives his neck a little squeeze for good measure. With a
small gasp, the dwarf stops struggling.
Logic tells her that she should end this troublesome dwarf’s life right
now. He does not seem the type to graciously retreat with his tail
between his legs.
But out of the corner of her eye, she sees Bishop’s still form, no longer
gripped by seizures. She has no idea if that is a good sign, as the
ranger now appears to have lost consciousness. Worse still, she can’t
see any sign that he is even breathing, and her insides twist with
worry.
Despite the feeling in her gut warning her that the duergar cannot be
trusted, she wonders if she would be able to live with her conscience if
she doesn’t at least try.
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“The antidote,” she states evenly. “Now.”
Garrick’s eyes widen as her nails dig deeper into his flesh, until she
could feel his pulse beating against her fingertips. A pitiful whimper
escapes his split lips.
“Give me the antidote first,” she demands warily. “Or I’ll rip your throat
out.”
What little respect Alya had for the dwarf is completely erased now by
his piteous whining.
With one hand still encircled around Garrick’s throat, she carefully
picks up his pouch with the other. The contents in the bag shifts fluidly
in her hand, and Alya feels a surge of hope.
She undoes the drawstring of the purse with her teeth, and peeks into
the open mouth of the sack. It contains a strange yellow powder.
Putting the pouch closer to her face, she sniffs it tentatively. It smells
slightly acrid, and oddly familiar.
“This is –“ she begins, but her hand that still holds the bag of dust is
suddenly pushed forcefully into her face, scattering the unknown
powder into her eyes, nose and mouth.
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Chapter 30 – Fire & Darkness
Alya gasps in surprise when the bag of powder is tipped into her face.
She inhales involuntarily, breathing in some of the dust through her
mouth and nose, as even more of it flies into her eyes.
Every orifice that the gritty powder manages to get into begins to blaze
with a blistering pain. Her eyes, her nose, her mouth, even her throat…
it’s as if someone has rubbed hot, glowing embers into them. The
prickly sensation tickles her airways, and she coughs uncontrollably.
With a hoarse cry, Alya brings both hands up to her face, trying to wipe
the fiery dust out of her eyes. But the harder she rubs, the more it
seems to sear her eyeballs. Hot tears start to flow reflexively, to
attempt to flush out the caustic powder, but the salty water does
nothing to relieve the excruciating sensation that her eyeballs have
been set on fire.
Something hits her hard in the stomach, knocking the air out of her.
She tries to look around, but her eyes refuse to cooperate. In fact, they
refuse to even open, as if they have been welded shut.
Another blow, this time across the side of her head. The stunning blow,
combined with her blinded state, causes her to lose her balance, and
she falls heavily.
She hears Garrick’s cruel laughter, and she curses herself for being so
stupid and naïve.
The steel-toed boot driven swiftly into her ribs confirms her suspicions.
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Alya yelps as she feels a rib crack, the piercing pain shooting through
her body, disabling her momentarily as she rolls helplessly on the
ground, clutching at her injured side, coughing and gasping for breath.
Then she hears what sounds like a foot being dragged back for another
kick, and she quickly tumbles away from the noise, hoping to put as
much distance between the dark dwarf and herself as possible.
“You have been more trouble than I’ve bargained for, wench,” Garrick
is saying. “And have you any idea how difficult it is to procure a decent
panther? You’re going to pay dearly, sweetheart.”
She still sees nothing but bleary darkness, her eyes and throat are still
burning, and her bruised ribs are throbbing. She winces as they protest
painfully with every move she makes. She continues to stumble away
from the dwarf’s voice, one hand gripping her side, the other held out
in front of her, groping blindly. She forces herself to stay calm in spite
of her dire situation.
Keeping her breathing steady, she wills herself to ignore the pain from
her broken rib, her raw throat, and her impaired sense of sight, and to
concentrate instead on relying on her other senses to determine the
duergar’s location. The soft squishing noise of a boot sinking into mud,
the barely audible exhalations of breath…and Bishop is right; she
smells the faint stench of animal droppings that Garrick used to
disguise his scent from Karnwyr.
With the sensory information, Alya builds herself a mental image: the
assassin is circling her slowly, perhaps trying to hit her from behind, or
side on. She focuses on making sure she is always facing what she
believes is his general direction.
With lightning speed, she chops at the side of his neck with the blade
of her hand.
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And then she hears nothing.
Alya freezes. Still holding her aching side, she strains her ears, hoping
to detect a rustle, a footfall, any sound that could betray the dwarf’s
whereabouts, but she can sense nothing.
She rotates slowly in a circle, listening out for anything that may give
the duergar away. Her pulse is pounding so loudly in her head, it is
probably drowning out any telltale noise.
A sudden clattering off to one side makes her whirl around, her body
reacting before her mind could interpret the noise. By the time her
brain grasps that the sound was that of a handful of pebbles being
thrown against a tree trunk, a mere ruse to divert her attention and to
throw her guard, it is too late.
Something blunt crashes into the back of her neck, sending her
sprawling into the mud. Her still cloudy vision is made worse by
dancing stars, before everything goes black for a brief moment.
Perhaps she momentarily lost consciousness, but when she regains a
vague awareness of her surroundings, she finds herself staring into the
cloudy sky, drops of rain falling on her cheeks, a dull throb at the base
of her skull. Through a teary haze, she sees a dark, squat figure
looming over her, wielding something shiny and metallic.
As her vision clears, she recognises the duergar and his rapier, which
he has managed to retrieve.
The true extent of her predicament finally dawns on her dazed mind,
and she tries to move, to raise her arms in defence, but her limbs feel
like lead weights. With a sneer, the dwarf raises his sword, then sends
it plunging down towards her heart.
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In the instant before the blade sinks into her flesh, she shuts her eyes,
and waits for the pain to come.
She hears the whistling sound of something slicing through the air,
followed by a hollow thud, and she flinches reflexively. Oddly, though,
she feels no pain, nor the warm spray of her lifeblood spurting from her
punctured heart.
No blade protrudes out from the centre of her chest. No crimson blood
stains the front of her garment.
She sees the rapier, suspended a hair’s breadth from her breast, and
Garrick, standing over her, still clutching the hilt. He is staring down at
her with an odd expression on his scarred face.
At the shaft of an arrow sticking out from the middle of his gut.
And finds Bishop, propped unsteadily on one knee, his longbow in his
hand. Their eyes meet briefly, before the ranger, apparently exhausted
by his effort, crumples to the ground.
She looks up to see the duergar, his own arrow still stuck in his belly,
shaking with fury and pain. The scar on his face burns a bright red, and
there is a mad glint in his eyes.
With another enraged howl, Garrick raises his rapier again, and stabs it
downward towards her. This time, though, she is clear-headed enough
to roll out of the way, and the blade buries itself harmlessly into the
ground.
Leaping to her feet, Alya strikes at Garrick before he could pull out his
embedded sword, driving the heel of her palm into the side of his jaw.
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His head snaps around awkwardly as she feels his jawbone shatter, but
still he stays upright.
Wrapping her arm around his neck, she attempts to throw him to the
ground, but fuelled by his anger, the dwarf shoves her back with pure
brute force, causing her to catch her balance. She hears another
bellow as Garrick charges at her like a crazed bull.
Alya redirects his advance with a spinning kick to the side of the
dwarf’s head. The force of the blow flips the duergar through the air
before finally knocking him over. Pouncing on him, Alya makes sure he
stays down by pinning his neck to the ground with her forearm.
“This is the last time I’ll be asking you nicely,” she pants. “Give me the
antidote.”
He stops when Alya closes a fist menacingly around the arrow that still
protrudes from his stomach, her eyes steely with cold determination
and intent.
Alya has had enough of his gloating. Giving the arrow a quick twist, she
drives it deeper into the dwarf at an upward angle. Garrick’s laughter is
cut short as his eyes widen. When she steps back, they remain staring
lifelessly up at the falling rain.
* * *
Pushing himself up on his knees was hard, but drawing back the
bowstring and concentrating on aiming straight had taken the last of
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his strength reserves. But he’d be damned if he was going to let Alya
get hurt on his account.
Why didn’t she just leave when he had told her to? Why must she get
herself involved? Stubborn girl…
His eyes fell on the black-feathered poison arrow he still clutched in his
hand.
When the dwarf thrust his blade downward, Bishop let go of his
bowstring. The arrow’s flight seemed agonisingly slow, and he prayed
that the missile would get there in time.
Now, all he feels is pain, intense pain. He can feel the poison burning
as it surges through his veins, enveloping his entire body in a searing
agony. His blood feels like a river of lava coursing through him, and
every ragged breath he takes sets his lungs on fire. His heart flutters in
his chest, as it dances frantically, surrounded by licking flames.
He feels himself being turned onto his back. He forces his eyes open.
Through his haze of pain, he could make out Alya’s features as she
bends over him. Her brow is creased with worry as she looks at him,
and he couldn’t decide if he should be touched by her concern, or
offended by her pity for him. She has a hand on his chest, her fingers
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lingering over his arrow wound. Her arm is splattered with blood, but it
reeks of the duergar, so he is not too bothered.
Alya’s hands start to fly around his chest. He glimpses a flash of metal.
It may have been his skinning knife. He hears some ripping sounds,
and somehow his poison-addled mind manages to register that the
monk has cut through his armour and shirt.
A splash of cool liquid temporarily eases his burning wound, but not for
long. Alya then proceeds to force something down his throat. It tastes
like some form of healing potion, and he chokes when it goes down the
wrong tube. The coughing fit seems to stoke the flames in his veins,
and he hisses with pain, his body stiffening.
Alya is saying something. Her lips are moving, but he hears nothing.
He feels her hands on his chest, then the cold tip of a blade…
It takes a moment for Bishop to realise that Alya had cut deeper into
his arrow wound, and is now trying to suck out the poison. He watches
through heavily lidded eyes, as she spits out a mouthful of his blood
before placing her warm mouth around his wound again. He feels her
soft lips pressed over his collarbone, and perhaps even a hint of her
tongue.
Despite the excruciating pain, he finds the sensation more than a little
arousing.
As his vision starts to dim, he thinks, This is not a bad way to die…
He absently wonders if she would miss him as badly as she missed the
paladin.
Everything around him fades momentarily, but the touch of her hand
on his face brings him back. She is holding his face in her hands,
saying something he couldn’t hear. She wipes a drop of his blood off
her lips, and then…
Then he remembers that he had experienced all that, only to have her
push him away.
He is gripped by another wave of spasms, and somehow his hand finds
one of hers. As his vision starts to blur, he sees her face, standing out
clearly amid the failing light, a fiery haired angel come to take him
away.
With one final weak smile, he lets the darkness claim him.
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Chapter 31 – Burying Memories
It is another gloomy day. The light from the sun is obscured behind a
thick blanket of grey clouds, depriving the sodden earth of the warmth
of its rays. A light rain is falling, and the rumble of distant thunder
holds the promise of another approaching storm.
She stands silently with her cloak pulled tightly around her, water
dripping off the rim of her hood, as she ignores the cold rain pelting
down mercilessly on them. The few people around her are silent as
they focus their attention on a white-haired old man in a priest’s garb,
who is droning on about the assurance of hope and salvation in the
afterlife.
The last couple of weeks have been difficult for her. She had spent
many sleepless nights pacing around the Keep, fretting, hoping and
praying.
She had been powerless to help in any way, and she hated that feeling
of helplessness.
Then, in the end, they had told her that there was nothing more that
could be done.
And being the one in charge, it was down to her to make the
necessary, and unpleasant, preparations, and she did it all with a
heavy feeling in her heart.
She looks up at the slate grey sky. The rain continues to fall
incessantly, making the funeral ceremony seem even more depressing.
The priest finishes his sermon, picks up a handful of dirt, and sprinkles
it into the open grave.
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Then he looks at her expectantly.
With a deep breath, she steps forward calmly, forcing down the despair
that is welling up inside her. Bending down, she scoops up some earth
in both hands, the wet soil feeling clammy and sticky in her palms.
As she moves to the edge of the gaping hole in the ground, she spies
the wooden coffin at the bottom of the grave, simple and unadorned,
with a wreath placed in the centre.
Her composure very nearly crumbles then, as grief clenches her throat.
Tilting her head up into the bleak cloudy sky, she has to close her eyes
to will away the tears. Icy cold drops of rain sting her cheeks, as they
mingle with the hot tears she is fighting to keep at bay.
She feels a gentle hand on her shoulder. She turns to find the white
haired priest looking at her, his grey eyes reflecting sympathy and
patience.
She inhales deeply as she tries to regain her self-control, the fresh
scent of rain, grass and damp earth permeating her nostrils.
Her role completed, she steps back as two men with shovels set to
work on their grim task. She watches with morbid fascination as they
ladle up huge piles of dirt, and toss them rather unceremoniously onto
the coffin. The casket slowly disappears beneath the accumulating
mound of earth.
She doesn’t notice when everyone else has gone, and continues
staring until the grave is completely filled, until the last spade full of
soil is patted into place. Then, when even the undertakers have left,
she slowly walks towards the freshly filled hole, and kneels down
beside the tombstone. Reaching under her cloak, she removes a small
bouquet of white lilies, and places them reverently on the grave.
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The headstone is no more ornate than the coffin, a simple slab with
some words and numbers carved into its face. She gazes sadly at the
name on the stone as she feels a rush of guilt.
Fate can be so cruel. They were just starting to connect on some level,
and she was just discovering how many things they had in common.
I’m so sorry it has come to this, she thinks, as she lowers her head. But
you will never be forgotten.
She turns at the touch of Bevil’s hand on her arm. The sadness in the
lieutenant’s eyes is apparent, and she could see her own grief
reflected in them.
Then she stands up, and with one final look at the empty grave erected
in memory of their missing Knight-Captain, the new Captain of
Crossroads Keep, Kana, trudges slowly through the gates of the
fortress.
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Chapter 32 – The Search Continues
Bevil stomps through the halls, ignoring the rainwater dripping off his
face, and the mud he is tracking across the clean flagstones of the
Keep, as he seethes with the memory of what he just had to endure.
The order had come from Lord Nasher himself: the Knight-Captain has
been missing far too long. Hopes of finding her alive are fading with
each passing day. Neverwinter cannot continue to expend its resources
on a cause that is increasingly becoming more and more hopeless.
Time to stop dwelling in the past, and to look towards the future.
Crossroads Keep needs a new Captain, and Alya Elvawiel, saviour of
Neverwinter, shall be remembered with a hero’s funeral.
The page who delivered the message said that Lord Nasher was giving
the command “with deepest regret”.
Bullshit…
Nasher is just concerned about lining his own coffers. Crossroads Keep
has been thriving since Alya rebuilt it, and Neverwinter has been
reaping the economic benefits with their share of the tithes. No doubt
Nasher is eager to see the Keep’s prosperity continue in the absence of
their Knight-Captain.
The sooner the Keep’s residents stop pining for their lost hero, and get
back to making everyone more coin, the better.
And so, within a couple of days of receiving the dispatch, Kana was
appointed the new Captain of Crossroads Keep, Bevil was promoted to
Commander, and arrangements for the burial were hastily made.
What a joke…
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He brushes roughly past a group of Greycloaks, disregarding the
questioning glances they exchanged at the sight of their Commander’s
thunderous face. He is too preoccupied with his own thoughts to care
about what they might think.
He had practically begged Kana for just a bit more time, just one more
week, perhaps, to search for Alya. He didn’t need many men, maybe
just half a dozen of them. Surely she could spare a few Greycloaks for
their missing Knight-Captain?
But Kana had merely sighed, and reminded him of his new duties as a
Commander. After all, he is now even more of an example to the
troops than when he was a sergeant.
Bevil was understandably mad when she rejected his request, but he
knew he couldn’t direct his anger at Kana. Her hands are tied; she
takes her orders directly from Neverwinter now, and as much as she
doesn’t agree with some of the commands, he knows that she is not
the type to question the authority of her superiors.
If anything, Bevil couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for the woman.
Despite her icy demeanour, she is a good soldier, a loyal soldier, and
he couldn’t shake the impression that she doesn’t always feel she
belongs with the other Greycloaks. Her exotic heritage and foreign
beliefs make her very different from the other soldiers. Combined with
her superior rank, these unusual qualities isolate her from the men she
leads, and he had noticed how she often sits alone in the mess hall
during mealtimes. It was no wonder that she had taken an instant
liking to Alya, as they are both followers of the Way, and hence they
share the same philosophies on life, although Alya had always tended
to be less serious in her interpretations. He had often seen them
together, when they should be going over paperwork, just sitting
around and chatting like old friends, or animatedly debating some
ideological viewpoint. It looked like Kana had finally found someone
she could relate to.
And now that Alya is gone, she is expected to fill the monk’s shoes.
Bevil can imagine how difficult that must be for her. The woman’s eyes
practically shone with respect and admiration every time Alya was
around. He wouldn’t be surprised if they had become the best of
friends if only they had been given the chance; they had so much in
common. He has no doubt that Kana also believes that the monk is still
alive, and is loathe to usurp her position as Captain of Crossroads
Keep, when it is still possible that she could return.
But he also knows that Kana would never disobey orders from higher
up.
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His mind flashes back to the funeral ceremony, just an hour ago. In the
cold drizzle of the grey morning, they had buried an empty casket, and
erected a tombstone with Alya’s name on it.
But after everyone else had left, Bevil had found Kana kneeling beside
the grave. She had placed a small bunch of lilies in front of the
headstone, and was thoughtfully running her hand across Alya’s name.
Bevil bursts through the door to the Keep’s library, startling Aldanon
out of his thoughts.
“Oh!” the old man exclaims, dropping the book in his hand. “Who are
you?”
The sage’s eyes widen in surprise. “My, Commander Bevil, you must be
some sort of psychic! You seemed to know precisely what I was about
to ask!” He strokes his white beard thoughtfully. “Although I could
swear something’s different about you today…” he muses.
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Bevil shrugs nonchalantly, even as he holds back a chuckle. After
dealing with Aldanon enough times, one learns to speed up the initial
reacquainting part.
Aldanon blinks vacantly a few times, and the ensuing silence is almost
unbearable.
“Ah! The portal!” the sage finally declares, and Bevil lets out a visible
sigh of relief. “Yes, I have made some most fascinating discoveries!
Come with me!”
Bevil follows closely behind as the old man shuffles to the very back of
the library, where the bookcases have been moved to clear a space for
a makeshift workshop of some kind. There, in the midst of a jumble of
books and scrolls and equipment, stands the reassembled portal. Its
archway is cracked and chipped in some places, and parts of it appear
close to crumbling, but the runes etched into the stone are mostly
intact, and thanks to Aldanon’s restoration efforts, a number of them
have started to glow with an eerie light.
“From the initial test runs, I don’t see why she shouldn’t be,” replies
the old man. “Of course, in the state she’s in, she may disintegrate
immediately after a teleportation, but at least she could be used once,
eh?”
“Will you be able to put it back together again, though, should it fall
apart?” Bevil asks again.
“Any luck on determining where the portal was last connected to?”
“The last destination of the portal,” he reminds the sage, forcing his
voice to sound patient. “Where was that?”
He pauses for effect, only to find Bevil staring blankly back at him.
“Very well,” the sage sighs. “What I’m trying to say is, that this portal
doesn’t merely transport someone from one place to another.” The old
man’s eyes gleam with enthusiasm before continuing.
Bevil’s head snaps up. “She, er, it, what?” he blurts incredulously,
correcting himself hastily when he too, started to assign a gender to
the inanimate archway.
Aldanon puts his hands on his hips. “I say, Commander, don’t tell me
you don’t know about the different planes?”
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“N-no, I do…” the younger man mutters, sparing himself another long
lecture. He glances at the fragile stone archway with a mixture of hope
and apprehension.
That must be why they hadn’t been able to find any sign of her…at
least, not on this plane…
“So where exactly was the last destination?” he asks, this time not
bothering to hide his impatience.
“The Outer…” Bevil feels a heaviness building in the pit of his stomach.
He is not a man of vast knowledge, and he doesn’t know much about
the other planes of existence, but what he does know, is that they
were no place for a half-elf.
But he has come too far to give up now. The chances are minuscule at
best, but he has to at least try.
“Most definitely!” the old sage says cheerfully, and Bevil feels a surge
of hope.
“You said you could reconnect the portal to the Outer Planes.”
The old man’s jovial expression turns serious. “What? The Knight-
Captain’s in the Outer Planes? Now why didn’t you tell me that before?
We must get to work immediately!”
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This time Bevil does slap himself in the forehead in exasperation – with
both hands.
“Just give me one minute…” the old man motions, oblivious to the
Commander’s frustration, as he sets to work tinkering with bits and
bobs Bevil couldn’t even begin to identify. He watches as Aldanon
inscribes a rune onto the floor in front of the portal, all the while
mumbling some magical incantation.
With a soft hum, the portal starts to glow and vibrate, the pulsations
causing even more pieces of its shaky foundations to flake off. Bevil
eyes the stone frame anxiously, silently praying that it doesn’t collapse
just yet.
After a while, the light from the portal stabilises, and the gateway
starts to glow steadily with an incandescent light.
“There,” he hears Aldanon saying, as the sage brushes his hands off on
his robe. He, too, is looking worried at the showers of debris coming off
the frail structure. “Now what?” he queries, glancing quizzically at the
Commander.
Now that it is operational, Bevil has no idea what their next plan of
action should be.
He gazes into the swirling lights in the centre of the portal, almost
hypnotised by the undulating colours dancing all around. Every now
and then, the curtain of light parts slightly, offering him a glimpse of a
barren, rocky landscape and a blood red sky.
Before he could decide, bright rays of light shoot out of the portal as a
hand, a humanoid hand, protrudes out from the mass of rippling
colours. The hand is followed by a slender arm, as whoever, or
whatever it is, steps directly from the Outer Planes into the Keep’s
library.
Finally, a slim figure steps out of the pool of light, but the beams
radiating outwards from the portal bathes the newcomer in a dazzling
brilliance, obscuring the stranger’s identity.
As the dust begins to settle, the shapes of the two creatures that came
through the portal become more discernible. Bevil realises that he had
unknowingly drawn his longsword, and is holding it in front of him in a
defensive position.
He gapes when he recognises the familiar form of the two women, one
a tall tiefling, the other a petite wood elf, both looking tired and
bedraggled, but otherwise alive.
“Woah.”
196
Chapter 33 – Help
Heavy boots stomp through the mud as the Greycloak trudges half-
heartedly along the road, stumbling occasionally as he walks, and
swigging every now and again from the bottle in his hand. His uniform
is wrinkled and in disarray, and although his tunic marks him as a
sergeant, anyone meeting him may be forgiven if they mistook him for
a drunken sailor. His surly, unpleasant attitude, coupled with the ever-
present reek of alcohol that seems to permeate his very being, would
be more fitting on some rowdy sailing vessel than among the ranks of
the Neverwinter army.
And today, the soldier’s mood is distinctly more sour than usual.
Stupid foreign bitch, he curses, as he wipes the spittle from his mouth
with the back of one hand. Acting all high and mighty already!
But then word had come from Neverwinter, ordering them to abandon
the futile search for their missing leader. Why waste resources hunting
for a lost Captain when we could simply appoint another one?
Kana had wasted no time in hauling him up before her, telling him in
no uncertain terms that unless he started behaving in a more
197
‘acceptable’ fashion, she would not hesitate to discharge him from
service.
Just another hour before he goes off duty. Then, it’s back to the Keep,
and the Phoenix Tail Inn for more ale. Screw that half-witted barkeep
Sal if he doesn’t like his patronage. He has the coin to pay for his
drinks, after all…
The man stops short at the scene before him. His bottle drops from his
limp hand and rolls away, leaving a trail of frothy beer in its wake.
Luskan assassins.
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Could that be what killed these people?
Then he sees her, kneeling over yet another body, and his eyes widen
in disbelief, wondering if this could all just be some alcohol-induced
hallucination.
She glances up when she senses his presence, and recognises him
almost immediately.
“Jalboun?”
He carefully steps over the dead bodies to get to her, all the while
thinking that this can’t be a drunken dream; the corpses, the coppery
smell of blood mingling with muddy rainwater, her…it all just seems
too real for that.
“Jalboun!” she cries again, as she jumps to her feet. Her movement is
slightly unsteady, as if she had taken a few hard hits, and she is
bleeding from a cut on her arm.
She grips his arm tightly when he approaches. “Oh, thank the gods for
leading you here! Please, you have to help us.”
“We got attacked. He’s hurt. We have to get him back to the keep,
now!” Her tone is urgent and a little anxious.
What does she mean, he saved her? He’s a traitor, and he very nearly
got them all killed! He has half a mind to slit the bastard’s throat right
now for jamming the Keep gates open during the siege, forcing him to
fight what seemed like an endless stream of undead that surged into
the fortress as a result. He had barely survived that assault, and he still
has the scars to prove it.
Waitaminute…
Generous reward…
“Jalboun?”
Imagine the look on Kana’s face when he returns from his patrol with
both the Knight-Captain and the betrayer in tow! Surely there must be
an extra reward for the monk’s safe return…
He tries to decide on the best way to transport his precious cargo back
to the Keep. His eyes fall on the horse and cart.
Forcing sympathy into his voice to mask his increasing glee, he tells
her, “Give me a hand with him.”
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It doesn’t take long for them to load the wounded man onto the wagon.
Jalboun is about to grab the reins when the Knight-Captain calls out,
“Wait.”
He watches with curiosity as she places both her hands on the ranger’s
bare shoulders. Her thumbs wander down towards his chest, and linger
briefly over an area directly above each pectoral muscle. Firmly and
with a twisting motion, she pushes both her thumbs deep into the soft
flesh of each spot. The action causes the unconscious ranger’s body to
jerk in response.
“Let’s go,” she finally says, as she clutches one of the ranger’s hands.
“Oh, and Jalboun?” A faint smile plays across her lips. “Thank you.”
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Chapter 34 – Indecision
He picks up the harness and urges the horse away from the grassy
verge, all the while daydreaming about the bounty he is about to
collect, imagining all the ale and wenches that amount of coin could
buy. And who knows? With the monk back, perhaps she would regain
the captaincy, and maybe he could keep his job and the reward…
provided she doesn’t get too mad at him for selling the ranger out
when they get back…
He cries out involuntarily at the sight of rows of sharp teeth just inches
away from his face. He hears the Knight-Captain shout something, but
amid the snarls of the frenzied animal and his own screams, he cannot
make out her words.
Mercifully, the creature backs off, but as Jalboun sits up, he realises
that it is the Knight-Captain who has pulled the large wolf back by the
scruff of its neck. The creature strains against her, gnashing its fangs
at him. It is a magnificent animal, with a rich, thick pelt and shiny
yellow eyes. There is a nasty gash on its flank, where its fur is matted
with blood, as if it too, had been in a violent fight.
Jalboun vaguely remembers the ranger owning a pet wolf. This must be
his animal companion then, although why the creature is not turning
on the Knight-Captain when she is wrestling so roughly with it is
completely beyond him.
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Without warning, the wolf breaks free from the woman’s grasp, and
sinks its teeth into Jalboun’s leg. He roars as the sharp pain shoots up
his limb, and he kicks out savagely at the creature to drive it back, but
the Knight-Captain has again managed to restrain the animal. As he
struggles to stand up, the creature growls menacingly, and it glares at
him accusingly with its eerily intelligent eyes.
“Filthy mongrel!” he snaps angrily, nursing his bitten leg. “I’ll see you
hang with your traitorous owner!”
The part of his brain that is not steeped in ale cringes inwardly.
Shite…
Apparently still too shocked to speak, she merely shakes her head
dumbly. The wolf grumbles throatily beside her.
“I’m afraid, mighty Cap’n, that you have no jurisdiction in this matter,”
he snickers, slurring the big word he tries to use, making it sound more
like jurr-eesh-dick-shun. “The order comes from higher up.”
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“C’mon Cap’n, what did ya expect?” Jalboun continues. “He committed
treason. Against Neverwinter.” He eyes her steadily.
“He tried to kill ya, Cap’n,” Jalboun says. “Why in the hells are ya trying
to protect him?”
She doesn’t answer him, seemingly lost in her own thoughts. He could
almost see her mentally weighing up her options. Being missing all this
time must have done something to her head, but he is sure that she’ll
come to her senses soon enough when she’s back at the Keep.
When she still doesn’t reply, he decides it is time to play his trump
card.
He could see the woman’s slightly pointed ears twitch up at his words.
As she looks at him, her eyes reflect both suspicion and a faint flicker
of hope.
”How did you find them?” she asks warily, her eyes narrowed.
“I didn’t find ‘em,” he says simply. “It was that nutty old guy in the
library. I don’t know all the details, but apparently he put together
some old portal and, well, out they popped.”
“Ammon Jerro. The warlock. He was with Elanee and Neeshka when
they disappeared.”
“Oh, that old guy.” There have been rumours at the Keep about what
the two women had said after they were rescued. “Something about
some infernal contract he was bound to,” he shrugs. “He never made it
back.”
She grimaces at the news, but he could tell that she is satisfied with
his answers, certain now that he is telling the truth.
Jalboun delights in the torn look on the woman’s face as she wrestles
with indecision, her gaze wandering from the Keep in the distance, to
the ranger, and then back again. Gods, does she have the hots for the
man or something?
“Cap’n,” he says again, his tone gentle as he could make it. “We need
ya.”
He sees her close her eyes as she draws a long intake of breath. When
she exhales, she looks back at the Keep with a look of steely resolve.
“Okay,” she whispers simply, the one word evoking in Jalboun’s mind
the jangle of a sack full of coins. She lets go of the wolf, which seems
to have calmed down during their talk, and no longer seems intent on
ripping the man’s throat out.
“I know I may seem a little out of sorts at the moment, Jalboun, but I
have had such a crazy journey.” Moving in front of him, she continues
gratefully, “I’ll be fine when I get back to the Keep, I’m sure, but I just
want to thank you for talking me to my senses.”
And without warning, her arms embrace him in a hug. Startled by the
sudden show of affection, Jalboun could only stand there, rooted to the
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spot. When was the last time a woman had thrown her arms around
him without being paid to do it?
Never…
Her head rests on his chest, and he could smell the womanly scent of
her hair. When she pulls back, she smiles again, and her hands start to
travel up his neck, tickling him with her light touch. “Why, Jalboun,”
she purrs. “You have such strong neck muscles…”
He couldn’t believe this was happening to him. The reward, finding the
Knight-Captain, and now this? Talk about a lucky day!
He could feel himself becoming aroused when her fingers trail to both
sides of his neck, lingering on a sensitive spot behind his ears. As he
feels himself shivering, a goofy grin breaks out across his face.
* * *
It took all her willpower not to gag when she wrapped her arms around
Jalboun. Gods, the man reeks! She tried to hold her breath as she
caressed the sides of his neck, all the while trying to act seductive.
Considering his stench and his bad breath, it wasn’t easy. Thankfully,
he was too stunned by her advances to think about trying to grope her.
Finally, her fingers found the soft point behind his ear right under the
hard ridge of his skull. She noticed that the man’s eyes were half-
closed, and his breathing had quickened. He had a dopey grin stuck to
his face, exposing a row of crooked yellow teeth.
With a final forced smile, Alya plunges her thumb deep into the
vulnerable spot. She watches as Jalboun’s eyes widen with surprise
before they roll up into his head. As she steps back from him, the
man’s limp body topples gracelessly onto the ground.
“Perve,” she mutters at the man’s inanimate form, and finally allows
herself a disgusted shudder. That was revolting! she thinks, as she
unconsciously rubs herself, attempting to brush off all traces of the
man. She is glad that he was too drunk to catch her out on her bad
acting. With a cringe, she remembers what she had said:
If what Jalboun said is true – and despite what she thinks of the man,
she doubts the drunkard is capable of lying so smoothly through his
teeth, not after he has just downed a gallon of ale – then she couldn’t
go back to the Keep.
Of course you can go back there, she corrects herself. You just can’t
bring Bishop.
She runs over to the wagon to check on the ranger. His breathing is so
shallow, Alya could not even see his chest rising and falling. It is only
by feeling for his pulse and finding a faint flutter in his neck that she
knows he is still alive, but barely. She could feel dread building up in
the pit of her stomach.
She thinks about Elanee and Neeshka, feeling a surge of relief that
they have made it back safely. She longs to be reunited with them,
with everyone at the Keep: Bevil, Kana, Wolf and the other kids…
The lights in the near distance wave at her, beckoning her, drawing her
to the Keep like a moth to a flame. All that she had fought for, all that
she holds dear, are waiting for her there.
She hears a whimper and looks down. Karnwyr had jumped onto the
cart, and is now by his master’s side, licking at the ranger’s pallid face.
The unlikely yet tender scene makes her heart clench slightly.
“Why in the hells are ya trying to protect him?” Jalboun’s earlier words
ring in her head.
Why am I?
Because I owe him, that’s all, she tries to convince herself. A life for a
life.
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She is snapped out of her thoughts by a groan coming from behind her.
Jalboun will be waking up soon. They must get out of there before he
stirs.
She looks again at the ranger. His normally tanned face is distressingly
pale.
And provided that no one else knows of the bounty on his head.
Why not just bring him along instead? I’m sure you could persuade
Nasher to spare him…
She runs her hands through her hair in frustration, her mind grappling
with the difficult choices she has to make. Leave him, and he will die.
Take him with her, and he risks being executed. The only other
alternative seems to be to go somewhere else for help. But where?
Even now, she is wasting precious time. The poison is surging through
his veins. There is no other village for days in any direction. How much
longer will he hold out?
The pit in her stomach continues to grow, and she wills herself to
remain calm. Panicking now will help no one. Still clutching at her hair,
she forces herself to take slow, deep breaths. She stares longingly
again at the torch-lit Keep, barely half an hour’s walk away, the
flickering lights mesmerising her for a moment with its hypnotic dance.
When she finally breaks her gaze away, her eyes carry a glint of
determination. It is going to be a gamble, but one she feels she has no
other choice but to take.
Delving into her satchel, she finds some bandages and medicine, and
crudely patches herself up. Then she whistles, calling Karnwyr over.
Producing a bottle of healing potion, she pours it over the wolf’s gaping
wound, courtesy of his encounter with the panther. Karnwyr yelps once
when the liquid stings his cut, but he settles down once the potion
starts to take effect.
With both of them in relatively better condition, she climbs into the
driving seat of the cart, motions for the wolf to jump on, and snaps the
reins. With a grunt, the mare reluctantly tears itself away from the
grass at the side of the road.
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Knowing that every moment they waste without seeking treatment is
bringing the ranger closer to death, she manoeuvres the wagon until it
faces the stretch of road ahead of them. Clicking her tongue, she urges
the horse into a fast canter towards their destination.
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Chapter 35 – The Lost Boy
He sees a child playing beside the well, a young boy with a head of
tousled dark hair. He is running around with a wooden sword, swinging
it wildly at imaginary foes. A woman, probably the child’s mother, sits
on the front step of a nearby house, sewing.
“Easy there!” the woman admonishes gently, when one of the boy’s
overenthusiastic lunges nearly clips her. “You’ll be taking my head off
next!”
The child laughs, his cheeks flushed from his exertions, as he leans on
his toy sword. “Don’t worry, Ma!” he says breathlessly. “I won’t hurt
you! I only hurt the bad guys!”
“Well, you could have fooled me…” his mother jokes, as she pretends
to feel her head for missing strands of hair. “You nearly gave me a bald
patch there!”
“That was my special move, Ma!” the boy replies. “Watch!” He holds
up his sword in both hands and slices the air in front of him, from left
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to right and back again, the wooden blade making a whooshing sound
as it goes. “I use it to cut my enemies in half!” he declares
triumphantly.
“My, what a strong cleave!” the woman gushes, as she motions the
boy over. Brushing his messy hair out of his face, she playfully chucks
his chin. “You’ll be as strong as Pa in no time!”
The boy nods solemnly. “When I grow up, and become as big and
strong as Pa, I want to be a knight.”
With a warm smile, the woman puts an arm around the boy. “You
know, you don’t have to be a knight, or to fight bad guys, to become a
hero.”
“No,” she says, as she tenderly rubs their noses together. “Anybody
can be a hero. As long as they are willing to do anything for the people
they love.” She motions towards the men working in the fields. “All
those men there, they work hard all day to make sure their family have
food and shelter. In my eyes, they are all heroes.”
“So Pa’s a hero, too?” the boy asks, his voice filled with awe.
“Someone call for me?” A burly man with a beard strides up to them
with a hoe slung over his shoulder.
“Pa!” the boy shouts as he runs towards his father. The man easily
plucks the child up with one hand, cradling him in the crook of one
massive arm.
“Ugh,” groans the big man. “Is it just me, runt, or have you grown
heavier since this morning? Soon you’ll get too big for me to hold you
like this!”
The child giggles as he throws his arms around his father’s neck. “Ma
says you’re a hero.”
“That so?” the man asks, as he bounces the boy on his arm.
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“Yes! She says that anyone willing to do anything for the people they
love is a hero.”
“Aww…” says the father, as he winks at his wife. “Well, you know what,
runt? It’s your Ma’s turn to be a hero now.” He flashes a huge smile.
“She’s gonna save our poor rumbling bellies by making us some nice
supper!” He glances at the boy’s grubby hands. “But I think you need
to clean yourself up a bit first, don’t you think?”
With that, he jumps off his perch on the man’s arm, and races into the
house. Alone now, the man puts an arm affectionately around his wife.
“Been putting more soppy ideas into his head?”
The woman gathers up her sewing and punches him playfully. “Well,
you have been filling his head with way too many stories of knights in
shining armour. A little soppiness never hurt anybody.”
The observer watches as the couple walk arm in arm into the house,
and shuts the door behind them.
* * *
The figure on the bed stirs and sits up. It is the same little boy from
earlier. Nervously, the child tiptoes to the window, and parts the
curtains just enough for him to peek through. Curious, he moves to
look over the boy’s shoulder, to see what the child is seeing.
The village is bathed in an eerie orange glow. Some of the houses are
ablaze, and people are running about in a panic, screaming. There are
a few villagers who seem to have fallen down, but they seem unable to
get back up. Many of these have burning arrows sticking out of their
twitching bodies.
Amid the cries of fear and pain, the sound of horses’ hooves could be
heard, thundering ominously. One of them, a magnificent stallion the
colour of smooth obsidian, trots into view, nostrils flaring, bearing a
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man dressed all in black. The raging fires surrounding them are
reflected in the creature’s eyes, and in the blade wielded by its rider,
as if both were radiating some infernal light. The effect makes the rider
look like an apocalyptic horseman straight from the flaming depths of
the Nine Hells.
With a small whimper, the boy runs back to his bed, and kneels down
beside it. For a moment, he thought the child was about to wriggle
under it to hide, but then realises that he was rummaging underneath
it for something.
Heavy footsteps reverberate through the house before the door to the
bedroom is thrown open with a bang. The child jumps in fright, nearly
hitting his head on the wooden bed frame.
Suddenly, he finds himself being reeled in towards the boy, closer and
closer, until he thinks he would soon be colliding with the child.
Instead, he goes straight through the boy, and feels himself merging
with the child, becoming one with him, entering the lad’s mind, until he
finds himself seeing through the boy’s eyes.
His parents lead him hurriedly to the back door of their house. A blast
of smoky air hit them as they rush through the exit. Running as fast as
they could with a child in tow, they make their way to the relative
shelter of the surrounding woods. The boy trips once on a raised tree
root, but his father quickly hauls him back up, literally carrying him
until the child regains his balance. He hears the sound of rushing water
up ahead. They must be close to the river.
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The trees surrounding the three people start to thin as they reach the
stream. There are a few other villagers there, familiar faces to the boy,
all huddled together in fear.
Someone screams, and they all turn back towards the trees. A couple
of black-clad robbers, their weapons drawn, emerge from the woods,
apparently having left their horses to track their quarry on foot through
the tangled underbrush. As the two men advance menacingly, the
villagers step back, hemming themselves in between the raiders and
the river behind them.
“So this is where the rest are hiding,” remarks the dark rider, his face
concealed under a black hood. “You don’t know how much of an
inconvenience it was for us to track you all down. I am not happy.”
With that, he slashes his blade across the throat of the villager
standing nearest to him. Amid shrieks of horror from the other
villagers, the man, whom the boy recognises as old Janus the baker,
slumps to the ground, his eyes bulging with surprise as his lifeblood
spurts out from his neck wound.
A pair of hands falls across the boy’s eyes as his mother tries to shield
the child from the horrific sight, but he could still hear the sickening
gurgles of the dying man choking on his own blood. He suppresses a
horrified shudder at the man’s death rattle, but he could not tear his
gaze away, and peeks out between his mother’s fingers at the
macabre scene.
“Tell you what,” the horseman says, his tone casual even as he flicks
the blood off his sword. “I’ll make a deal with you. Hand over all your
valuables willingly, and I may consider not killing anyone else.”
With that, the other two raiders proceed to relieve each man, woman
and child of their possessions, roughly snatching away bags, pulling
rings off fingers, tugging pendants off necks.
One of the raiders, a swarthy, brutish looking man with missing teeth,
approaches the boy’s cowering family. He plucks the sack of valuables
from the mother’s arms, then greedily eyes the woman’s simple gold
wedding band. Brutally, he grabs her wrist with one hand, and starts to
prise the ring off her finger with the other. The boy hears his mother
cry out in pain.
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“Hands off my Ma!” he shouts, the toy sword he retrieved from under
his bed now firmly clutched in both hands. With all his might, he swings
the wooden blade down onto the raider’s fingers encircled around his
mother’s wrist. There is a resounding thwack on contact, and the man
draws his hand back, yelling and cursing.
As his vision stops dancing, he sees a pair of soft leather boots near his
face. He looks up to find the horseman staring down at him with
apparent amusement. Now that he is off his mount, he no longer
appears as hellishly scary as before, seeing as he only stands as tall as
the boy, but his stout, sturdy build and his cruel gaze harbour no
illusion: he is still a dangerous man.
“You’re not going to let a little kid get the better of you, are you,
Jared?” he chuckles. Nudging the boy with a toe, he comments, “Look
what you did to the poor lad. He’s all covered in dirt now!” He glances
down again at the child, his eyes glinting with malevolent glee.
The shock of the icy stream quickly clears up his dazed mind.
Instinctively, he tries to lift his head, but he is held firmly in place. He
claws desperately at the hand gripping his hair, but it only succeeds in
getting his face shoved even further into the depths of the river. His
heart beats loudly in his head as panic consumes him. Thrashing
wildly, he watches helplessly as streams of tiny bubbles trail out of his
nose and mouth. The harder he struggles, the more bubbles escape,
until he feels a crushing pressure in his lungs, as if a metal band was
being tightened around them. He tries to fight the urge to draw breath,
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but the band continues to squeeze his airless lungs like a vice, and he
feels they would implode if he does not take in some air soon.
Unable to bear the pressure any longer, his mouth opens, and a torrent
of water rushes down his throat. He feels the freezing liquid flooding
his lungs, the cold piercing him like a thousand icy needles.
Reflexively, he coughs, and the reaction makes him suck in even more
water. He could feel his lungs distending as they fill up, yet the band
around his chest continues to tighten.
Suddenly, the hand forcing his head down is lifted. Pushing himself
hastily out of the water, he takes a big gulp of air, sweet air. Sputtering
breathlessly, he leans his dripping forehead on the ground, his little
body convulsing with each mouthful of water he coughs up, his pulse
still pounding madly in his temples. He hears some sort of commotion
in the background, but he ignores it for now as he concentrates on
expelling the fluid from his lungs, and filling them instead with precious
oxygen.
When the tightening in his chest finally starts to subside, he looks up,
his throat feeling raw from all the hacking.
His mother is lying on the ground with Jared pinning her down. Her
eyes are shut, and she is groaning, blood dripping out of her nose.
Jared is swearing furiously at her, his uninjured hand still balled into a
fist. Jagged red scratch marks run down his face, as if he had been
clawed by an angry cat.
The leader of the raiding party stands nearby, snickering. “Poor, poor
Jared. Not a good day for you, is it? First the kid, then the mother…
although I do see now where the lad got his balls from.”
This time, Jared breaks out in a gap-toothed grin. The boy has no idea
what the dwarf is implying, but he does not like the predatory looks on
the men’s faces as they ogle at his mother.
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“Please…!” he pleads, stepping forward and falling to his knees.
“You’ve taken all we have. Please spare us…” The boy stares at his
father’s submissive display in wide-eyed confusion.
The raiders are snickering at the big man’s grovelling. The leader
ambles right up to the man. With his father on his knees, the dwarf is
just about able to look him levelly in the eye.
Come on, Pa, you’re much bigger and stronger than him! Fight him!
Save Ma!
But his father merely blubbers helplessly as he flinches away from the
dwarf’s sword. As the raider backs off, the boy could only watch,
mortified, as his Pa covers his face with his massive hands, muttering,
“Please…please…please…”
With building horror, the boy watches as all three raiders converge
around his mother’s body.
The child gapes at his Pa, the big, strong man he has always looked up
to, and feels a pang of shame.
Without thinking, the child picks himself off the ground, still sopping
wet, and launches himself on the back of the dwarf. He hears a cry of
surprise before a hand clamps down on his shoulder. The child bites
down hard on the offending hand, eliciting a yowl of pain from its
owner.
Then something solid hits him in the base of his skull, and everything
spirals into darkness.
When he awakes, the hair on the back of his head is matted with
something sticky and warm, and it hurts. He is lying face down in the
dirt, and the brown sand is stained with a few drops of something
darker and reddish.
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He tries to get up, but he could not move his body. For a moment,
panic hits him, as he wonders why his limbs are not responding to his
brain. Eventually, he realises that his hands are bound behind him. His
feet, too, are tied up.
“Pa? Ma?” he calls out groggily, his voice a terrified squeak. The
wailing he heard before waking up is still sounding in his head.
His father, his big, strong Pa, is rocking on his hands and knees,
keening mournfully.
The boy is frightened. He has never seen his father weep before. What
has upset him so?
He cranes his neck in the other direction. The three raiders have
stepped away from his mother, but something is wrong with Ma…
Her eyes are open, but they do not seem focused on anything. They
just stare vacantly into space.
And as the raiders step back even further from her, he sees the blood.
“MAAA…!!” This time he does scream, long and loud. His Ma does not
seem to hear him. She remains unmoving, her dimmed eyes still
gazing blankly at nothing.
Why isn’t she moving? What’s wrong with Ma? Tears start to roll down
the child’s face as he whimpers plaintively.
One of the raiders approaches him. Gruffly, he picks up the child and
tosses him over a shoulder. The man’s shoulder is bony, and it hurts
where it juts into the boy’s ribs. He tries to squirm free, but his bonds
are tight.
His father hears him, that much he is certain, but he makes no move to
get to his feet, to come rushing to his rescue.
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Instead, he merely crawls pitifully on all fours toward them. When Jared
strides towards him, his weapon raised, his father stops, tears
streaming down his face and drenching his beard.
“My son! No, please, not my son, too…” and he breaks down in
uncontrollable sobbing.
The child could only stare at his father, all hopes in his little heart
crushed.
Where are they taking me? What will they do to me? Like any child, his
imagination runs wild with all sorts of nightmarish possibilities.
He cries out to the other villagers, who have been crowded together all
this time, entreating, praying, for one of them to aid him. He sees
some familiar faces among them: Amos the innkeeper, Sven the
carpenter, Hogarth the farmhand…all big, strong, capable men.
There are so many of you! There are only three of them! Why won’t
you fight them?
But they just look on as the black-clad men amble off with the boy
slung over a shoulder, trussed up like some animal on its way to the
slaughterhouse. Their eyes show fear, resignation, and pity.
Pity…
The child does not stop screaming until he is flung ungraciously over
the back of a horse, his face buried into the mount’s firm flank.
Consumed with grief, dread, and abject terror, the little boy starts to
bawl.
A hand roughly grabs him by the hair around his head wound, sending
jolts of pain through the child. The hand jerks his head up, and the boy
finds himself staring into the dwarf’s face. He glimpses the strange
greyish-blue hue of the dwarf’s complexion, and the evil glint in his red
eyes. The child flinches in fear.
The dwarf is laughing. “I like you, kid. You have fire.” He visually
assesses the child. “I could find some uses for you yet…if you survive
long enough.”
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A small whine escapes the boy’s quivering lips. He does not like the
dwarf’s tone at all.
The man glances back towards the trees, in the direction of the river.
“Your Ma tried to be a hero, kid,” he tells the child, as if giving him a
fatherly lecture. “Fought to the very end.” His fingers are still entwined
painfully in the boy’s dark locks. He shakes his grey-blue head. “Trust
me, it was a bad move.
He lets go of the boy’s hair, and pats him on the head. Then, the dwarf
mounts the horse with an agility that belies his short stature.
With that, he snaps the reins, and the black stallion breaks into a
gallop. The child sees a few horses ahead of them, and more behind
them. He bounces uncomfortably as the dwarf’s steed starts to run
faster, leaving the burning village behind.
The child could only stare dumbly at the retreating village, at the
burning houses.
At his home.
His Ma’s words from what seems so long ago echo in his mind.
He sees his father again, his big, strong Pa, who has always been a
hero in the child’s eyes, begging pitifully for mercy, unwilling to stand
up for his family, for Ma.
The image of his Ma’s bloody, violated body burns freshly in his mind.
Ma had tried to save him, had she not?
As the raiding party picks up the pace, the fires of the burning village
fade slowly into the distance. His little spirit broken, the child lays
limply across the horse’s back, ignoring the throbbing pain in his head
and the discomfort of his bonds.
No, I don’t want to be a hero…the child thinks, his cheeks stained with
tears, blood and grime.
Not anymore…
The observer could almost feel the child’s little heart crumbling in
despair.
Everything starts to flicker, and before he knows it, the dream ends,
fading into nothingness.
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Chapter 36 – Sanctuary
The evening air is cool with a light breeze. The harmonious chirp of
crickets, coupled with the rhythmic clip-clopping of the horse’s hooves
on the road, is like a soft lullaby, lulling her slowly into the welcoming
embrace of sleep. The gentle rocking of the cart soothes her further,
and her eyelids begin to droop as she drifts blissfully into slumber.
Suddenly, she feels a falling sensation, and she wakes up with a jolt,
just in time to catch herself from tumbling off the front of the wagon.
Her heart thudding, she grips the reins tightly with one hand while
slapping her cheeks with the other, hoping the stinging pain would
help wake her up, but her eyelids still feel heavy, her senses dulled,
and her movements lethargic.
You can’t keep going like this. You need to rest soon.
They have been travelling for four days without stopping, journeying
through the night to cover more distance, and she is suffering from the
full-blown effects of lack of sleep. Stifling a yawn, she shakes her head
to try and refocus her bleary eyes on the road ahead. Her muscles are
stiff and aching, and her backside is feeling sore from all those hours
sitting at the head of the wagon.
It would be so nice if she could just pull over to have a quick nap,
maybe just a couple of hours…the gods know she needs it…
But as she glances over her shoulder at the still form of the ranger, still
covered by her cloak, she knows that they cannot afford to stop.
Alya has all but used up their entire healing supply to try and slow
down or reverse the effects of the poison…or at least to just try and
keep the man alive. Worryingly, there has been no improvement in his
condition.
She hears a whimper behind her. Glancing back, she sees Karnwyr
lying beside his master, his head resting on his front paws, looking
dejected. Bishop’s brow is furrowed, and his head twitches
occasionally. She hears a soft groan amid his shallow breathing.
Concerned, yet unwilling to stop the cart, she reaches an arm behind
her and lightly caresses his stubbly cheek, hoping the simple gesture
would help to calm him somewhat. His skin feels flushed and clammy
under her fingertips. Not for the first time since their encounter with
Garrick and company, she feels a pang of anxiety for the ranger.
Alya forces down the up welling of guilt. She had taken a risk on his life
by not going straight to the Keep for help, but it is too late to change
her mind, to turn back, now. Besides, they are almost at their
destination.
They arrive at the banks of a wide, meandering river. Alya pulls the
horse to a stop, and jumps off. Kneeling down by the edge of the
stream, she scoops up some water, and drinks from her cupped hands.
The water is sweet and refreshing, and she splashes the remainder on
her face, letting the cool liquid trickle down her cheeks and drip off her
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chin. With a sigh, she douses her face again. The chilly water is
invigorating, and it will hopefully wake her up a little.
Something furry nudges her, and she turns to find Karnwyr beside her,
lapping at the water with his tongue.
Grabbing her satchel, she pulls out a piece of cloth and dips it into the
river. Wringing out the excess water, she carries the damp rag to the
wagon and climbs back on. She bends over Bishop, and gently dabs his
face with the cool, wet cloth. Then, folding the fabric neatly, she
presses it onto the ranger’s febrile forehead. It’s not much, but
hopefully it will help keep his temperature down.
Leaving the cloth on Bishop’s head, she moves back to the front of the
wagon and whistles for Karnwyr. The wolf leaps onto the cart and lands
effortlessly beside her. Ruffling the animal’s mane, she looks towards
the beginnings of a forest ahead of them. A wooded mountain towers
out from the tops of the trees. They could probably manoeuvre the
wagon through the undergrowth for another hour or so before the
vegetation becomes too dense and tangled, and before the route
begins to slant steeply uphill.
When that happens, they will have to ditch the cart completely.
She glances again at the unconscious ranger, and her heart clenches
involuntarily. She reaches out a hand to gently squeeze his shoulder.
Then, with a snap of the reins, she urges the horse onward.
* * *
He feels himself walking out from the shadows as the woman jumps,
startled by his presence.
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“Gods, stop sneaking up on me like that!” she scolds, even as she
gives him a slight smile.
“You know, you could make it harder for me by actually being aware of
your surroundings,” he retorts, as he moves to stand beside her,
leaning his back casually against the wall, his hands in his pockets.
She shrugs. “What choice do I have?” Her fingers start to play with her
hair again.
“Lots by the looks of it,” he replies, as he leans his head back against
the cool hard stone. “Running away from it all still seems the best
option, but we’ve been through this before, haven’t we?” He casts a
sidelong glance at her. “I take it you’re still not changing your mind?”
“From your own shadow,” he finishes for her. “Heh, wonder where I
heard that before?” Shifting his weight, he leans his shoulder against
the wall so that he now faces her. He catches the gleam of resolution
in her eyes.
He crosses his arms in front of himself. “If you won’t take off, then at
least get one of those lackeys of yours to be your so-called ‘champion’.
That dwarf is always itching for a fight, and that paladin,” he practically
spits out the last word. “He seems all ready to throw himself at a herd
of berserker orcs for you.” He raises an eyebrow. “Wasn’t that why he
was in here earlier? I doubt he visited you just to preach about Tyr.”
She meets his gaze unflinchingly. “I am not ‘eager’ to die,” she states
firmly, indignantly. He has obviously hit a sore spot. “If anything, I
don’t want to go through with it any more than you do.” Her piercing
green eyes start to shimmer. “I’m scared,” she continues with a quake
in her voice. “I’ve been scared ever since all this business with the
shard fell into my lap.” She looks away, embarrassed by her outburst.
“There have been too many deaths already,” she whispers. “And if I
sent someone to take my place tomorrow, and he dies…the gods know
I will never be able to live with myself.” She smiles a bitter smile.
“Hells, I’ll hang anyway if my champion dies. The way I see it, doing it
myself, well…better just one death than two, eh?”
He watches in silence as she brings her knees up, and hugs them
tightly to her chest. She continues to look away from him, her reddish
hair covering her face. He feels his heart twinge when she
surreptitiously swipes something off her face. She suddenly appears so
small and helpless, and he feels an overwhelming urge to gather her
up in his arms, to comfort her, to protect her.
“Didn’t think you were the pessimistic type,” he remarks. “The way I
see it, you stand a pretty good chance against him.”
She makes no move to reply, or to turn back to face him, but he carries
on regardless.
“I’ve seen guys like him fight. They don’t think. They’ll just come
barrelling at you with everything they’ve got. All he has going for him
is his strength. You’re much smaller and faster. Weave in and out. Use
your ranged weapons. Keep hitting him till he goes down. Just try not
to get hit yourself.” He notices that she is finally looking at him. With a
wry grin, he taps his temple with a forefinger. “Fight smart, and maybe
you’ll live.”
He sees her smirk, her eyes still shining. “You didn’t just come here to
tell me how to fight Lorne, did you?”
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Another minute of silence follows as he struggles with what he wants
to say next.
“Look,” he finally begins, sliding his back down the wall until he is
sitting beside her. “I can see you’re loath to risk the lives of your
friends. So why not send me instead?”
She whips her head around in surprise, but it is his turn to look away.
He wonders if she had detected that hint of self-loathing in his voice.
“I think I’d enjoy killing that bastard,” he rushes on. “And I might do it,
if you ask me nicely enough.”
He feels a hand on his knee. Glancing down, he falls straight into her
luminous green eyes.
“No, I don’t want you to fight my battle.” She smiles gratefully. “Like
you said, I don’t want to risk the life of a friend.”
He cringes inwardly as his heart does a ridiculous little flip. Did she
really mean that?
It dawns on him then that they are alone. And that her hand is still
resting on his knee.
Pressed shoulder to shoulder, her face is only inches away from his.
From this distance, her emerald cat’s eyes sparkle with an invitation
for him to lose himself in their embracing depths. He counts the faint
freckles on her nose. Nine of them, ten if you include that almost
invisible one right on the bridge, between her eyes. He catches her
feminine scent, sweet and a little tangy. Her mouth, those soft-looking
lips, close enough to…
“Well, don’t say I never offered my help then,” he says, forcing his
voice to remain calm as he strolls towards the exit, all the while
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ignoring the torrent of conflicting emotions crashing around in his
head.
Before stepping through the door, he turns and salutes her with two
fingers.
* * *
The old man is sitting at the top of the rocky cliff, his eyes closed in
meditation, when he hears the distinct clattering of a horse’s hooves
pounding its way up the narrow trail. It surprises him, for he almost
never gets visitors. The animal is galloping, and he can hear the
slippery pebbles shifting dangerously underneath the creature’s feet.
Very unwise to be riding so fast on such a steep, treacherous path.
Perhaps the rider has some form of urgent business.
He waits until he hears the horse pulling to a stop behind him, snorting
and panting. The creature sounds very tired, as if it had been running
for a long time without rest. The rider dismounts smoothly, and he
recognises the quiet, fluid movements.
“My child,” he says in his native tongue, as he opens his eyes and
turns towards the red-headed half-elf. “You have returned.”
“Sifu,” she reverently falls to her knees before him. Her face and
clothes are dusty, and there are dark rings of shadow around her eyes.
She, too, looks very tired.
Just then, he hears padded footfalls. A large grey wolf bounds up the
trail, its tongue lolling out.
“I see you’ve brought company,” the old man remarks, his tone and
expression neutral and calm in spite of the unexpected guests.
She nods grimly. “He is hurt, sifu,” she explains, speaking hurriedly,
fumbling slightly over the foreign words. “It’s poison…I know not what
kind.” Her eyes glimmer with concern as she clutches his hand.
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“Please help him.”
Slowly, the old man shuffles over to the horse. He examines the
unconscious man briefly before frowning slightly. The man’s face is
waxy, his features contorted in pain. Placing a finger on the man’s
neck, he finds a thready pulse, and his skin is burning hot.
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Chapter 37 – The Observer
Alya helps her master move Bishop into the cave that serves as the old
man’s home. Despite his stooped and frail appearance, her sifu is still
able to bear half the ranger’s weight with apparent ease.
They put him gently down on a pile of furs, and Alya steps aside as her
master kneels down beside the ranger, and removes the cloak that
was wrapped around his body. He runs his bony fingers along the
bandaged area around his collarbone.
“Is this where the poison entered?” he asks. His tone is crisp and
urgent while still managing to sound patient and kind.
“It is,” she answers, as she watches him peel back the dressing to
inspect the wound.
“The wound is old,” the old man remarks, as he prods at the scab
lightly with a finger. “When did this happen?”
“Five days ago,” she answers, as she squats down beside him.
Her master eyes her with an inquiring expression. “That is a long time.
You travelled far to get here, then.” He turns his attention back to
Bishop. “Was there no closer place to summon help?”
“I did, sifu.”
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He studies the contusions appreciatively. “You have done well. Those
pressure points are probably what have been keeping him alive.”
She hugs herself tightly, and observes in anxious silence as her master
busies himself with a thorough examination of the ranger: checking his
pulse, pulling his eyelids back to inspect his pupils, opening his mouth
to scan his tongue.
Finally, the old man straightens up, and sits back on his heels.
Slowly, the old man picks himself up. “I have some herbs to help
alleviate the symptoms, at least temporarily. I cannot do much else
until I identify this mysterious poison.” He looks at Alya to find her
covering her mouth to stifle a yawn.
Alya shakes her head. “I want to help,” she insists, glancing again at
Bishop’s still body.
The old man places a hand gently on her arm. “You have already done
much more than can be expected. Go. Rest. I will take care of your
friend.”
Reluctantly, she allows her master to usher her to the back of the cave.
It is dim and cool here, and she feels a sense of nostalgia at the
familiar sight of the bookshelves, stacked with all the scrolls she used
to read.
As she unrolls her sleeping bag, she finally realises the extent of her
fatigue: every muscle in her body feels cramped and stiff, her head
feels congested, and there is a dull thudding in her temples.
* * *
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The observer finds himself in another dream. It is a clear, bright
morning. Throngs of people are crowding in on him on all sides, and
they all appear to be waiting for something. The air is buzzing with
nervous excitement as they all gaze expectantly at the empty arena
before them.
He glances around and spots some familiar faces, all of them looking
just as anxious as everybody else. The dwarven fighter is wringing his
hands nervously; the female tiefling’s tail is twitching with anticipation;
the elven mage stands stock still, his face impassive, but his
complexion is paler than usual, and his hands are clutched so tightly
behind his back his knuckles are turning white.
And then there is the paladin, his hands clasped together, his lips
moving slightly as he mutters a silent prayer, his intense blue eyes
fixed on the stadium before him.
Finally, he sees the ranger, standing some distance away from his
companions, his arms crossed in front of him as he calmly surveys the
scene around him. The observer finds himself invariably drawn to the
man, and as the sound of drumbeats begins to reverberate through the
amphitheatre, signalling the start of something important, the observer
feels a sudden quickening of his pulse.
Curiously, he pushes through the crowd to get closer to the man, just
as he sees two figures walking onto the arena floor from different ends
of the coliseum. One is a hulking monster of a man, bald, heavily built,
and armed with a lethal-looking falchion. The other person could not
look less similar: petite and unarmoured, she is instead dressed in a
basic monk’s robe, a simple wooden staff in one hand. The observer
recognises her as the red-headed half-elf from the previous dream.
Clever girl, he hears in his head, before realising that they are the
ranger’s thoughts. Using a staff to improve your reach.
The two people in the ring are now face to face, apparently sizing each
other up. An announcement echoes through the stadium, eliciting a
chorus of cheers as the two combatants are introduced. When the
fighters have retreated to their respective ends of the arena, walls of
flames shoot out in front of both entrances into the ring, effectively
sealing both combatants in and blocking their escape.
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The ranger draws in a long breath and releases it slowly as the fight
begins.
The large man charges headlong at the woman, his weapon held high.
Deftly, the girl spins away right at the last moment, swatting the man
in the back with her pole as he trundles past. Growling, the man whirls
around, his blade slashing the air, and the monk parries his blow with
her staff.
The observer glances at the ranger beside him. At some point, he had
removed an arrow from his quiver, and is now stroking the feathers on
the end of the shaft, his eyes fixed on the battle, seemingly oblivious
to the shouts and applause around him.
The observer turns his attention back to the fight. The big man is
running at the woman again, but this time, as if anticipating her dodge,
he swerves suddenly, bringing his falchion with him, forcing the monk
to dive out of the way of the swinging blade. She rolls as she lands,
ending up in a crouched position. Before the girl could stand up again,
he is looming over her, his blade tracing a downward arc towards her
head.
Shit…
The ranger appears to catch his breath, as his grip tightens ever so
slightly around the arrow shaft.
Seizing his advantage, the man attacks again. The woman tumbles out
of his way, still clutching both ends of her broken staff. As she jumps to
her feet, she twirls them about in her hands, wielding them as if they
were twin swords. Neatly, she deflects a thrust with a stick, and hits
out with the other, catching the man across the neck. Grunting in
surprise, the big man stumbles backwards, and the monk follows,
piling on the pressure as she strikes at him repeatedly with her twin
staffs, while simultaneously ducking the man’s wild swings as he tries
to defend himself. Each one of her blinding flurry of blows is aimed
with deadly precision to cause maximal damage, cracking skull,
knuckles, kneecaps, ribs…
Finally, with a swipe behind his knees, she fells the large man. With
one foot on the hand gripping the falchion, she levels the splintered
end of a stick at the man’s neck.
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Finish him off…
But as the observer watches, the monk merely stays standing over the
fallen man. Her lips move, as if she is speaking to him.
He sees the big man glaring up at the woman. Suddenly, he grabs her
ankle with his free hand, and with a snarl of rage, flings her bodily
across the arena. He sees the monk try to break her fall, but she lands
heavily and awkwardly, sending one of her sticks clattering away from
her.
“Stupid girl!”
This time the ranger mutters it aloud, his fist closing tightly around the
shaft of the arrow in his hand.
Scrambling to her feet, she dances towards the far end of the arena,
out of her opponent’s reach.
The big man hurtles towards her like a raging bull, lurching slightly
because of a fractured kneecap. Again, she evades him and sprints
across the ring. Fumbling in her pouch, she produces her throwing
stars, and starts flicking them one by one at her advancing adversary.
The observer watches as each of the missiles pierces into the man’s
flesh, until the front of his chest is studded with protruding stars.
But the huge man appears to have gone into some sort of barbarian
rage. His face, all the way up to his bald head, is a bright, angry red,
and he appears not to even notice it when the throwing stars hit him.
Instead, he rushes towards the woman, screaming in frenzy, waving his
falchion like a madman. She tries to avoid him again, but the big man
is surprisingly quick on his feet, as he turns with her, swinging his
sword in a wide arc.
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“No!” the ranger utters through clenched teeth, flinching, as the monk
utters a strangled cry of pain. She staggers backwards, clutching her
side, crimson blood oozing out between her fingers and dribbling onto
the sand at her feet. The observer could feel the ranger’s heart
pounding, and his jaw is clamped so tightly he could see the man’s
veins pulsing in his neck.
Too late, the woman finds herself backed against the wall. With a
savage cry, the man lunges at her. She manages to deflect his
falchion, but not the roundhouse punch he throws immediately
afterwards. His massive fist catches the side of her head, knocking her
off her feet and into the wall.
Alya! No!
As the woman crumples to the ground, the ranger’s entire body tenses
with a sharp intake of breath. The observer feels the man’s heart
clench painfully, all the while rattling noisily against his ribcage. His
throat is dry, and there is an ominous pounding in his head.
“Get up…” the ranger hisses. The observer catches him glancing down
briefly at the arrow in his hand. He could almost see the man’s mind
weighing up the risks.
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Everyone’s attention is on the two combatants on the field. No one
would notice if he fired the arrow, would they? And what are the
consequences of doing that? Would the fight be annulled? Postponed?
Or would he save her from Lorne only to send her to the gallows for the
unfair assistance she got?
The big man is towering over the monk now, an evil glint in his eye.
The woman rolls herself onto her back, and appears to wince in pain,
her eyes still barely open.
His mind racing as fast as his heart, the ranger unslings his longbow,
and notches his arrow in it, his fingers trembling.
Holding the falchion in both his beefy hands, the man raises the blade
over his shoulder, preparing to swing it downwards at the woman’s
neck.
By the gods, woman, if you don’t move now, I swear I will do it…
Just then the big man howls in pain and lowers his falchion. For a
moment, everyone seems as confused as the observer.
Then he sees it: the monk, still lying on her back, clutches one half of
her broken staff.
The sharp, splintered end has been impaled in her opponent’s foot.
The big man stares dumbly at his foot for a moment before bellowing
loudly with rage. He raises his blade again, but this time the monk
tumbles away, leaving only a bloody stain on the sand where she was
lying. The man tries to follow, but yelps again. The stake is rammed in
so hard that it has gone through his foot, and is embedded into the
ground, effectively pinning the man in place.
The woman pops up behind her opponent. Grabbing his shoulders, she
tugs sharply while bringing her knee up swiftly at the same time. With
one foot stuck in place, the big man loses his balance and starts to fall
backwards.
The base of his neck connects with the monk’s rapidly rising knee with
a sickening crunch.
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For a moment, time seems to stand still, as the two fighters remain
frozen in position. There is a hushed silence all around the stadium.
The observer feels a building pressure in his lungs, and realises that
the ranger is holding his breath.
Finally, the monk steps back, breathing heavily, and the big man
collapses, lifeless, his head flopping about loosely, his spine severed at
the neck.
The woman merely smiles weakly at him, and the observer could feel
the ranger’s heart clench again at the sight of her blood on his hands,
with even more pooling on the ground around them.
Just then, her other companions arrive. The tall paladin runs up and
roughly pushes the ranger away before bending over the monk. The
man’s face darkens with a scowl, and the observer senses that, under
any other circumstance, such rudeness would not have been tolerated.
In fact, it would probably have earned the other man a dagger in the
back. But he also senses that the ranger is feeling completely
powerless to help the monk, and so he merely crosses his arms and
stands aside. The elven druidess is now alongside the paladin, as they
both set to work tending the woman’s wounds.
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Chapter 38 – Facing the Past
The old man sprinkles the crushed herbs into a small clay bowl and
shakes it gently. Picking up a glowing incense stick, he places the
burning end into the desiccated mixture. The dried spices catch alight,
and they start to smoulder, releasing a curling wisp of purplish smoke.
Lifting the unconscious man’s head off the pillow, the old man places
the bowl of burning herbs under his nose, and watches as he slowly
breathes in the pungent vapours.
When the bundle of herbs have burned itself out, the old man sets the
bowl aside.
He puts the man’s head back down, and produces a long, slender tube
made of clear crystal. It is hollow, with one end tapering to a needle-
like point. Pulling the bandages on the younger man’s chest aside, he
places the sharpened end of the tube over the entry wound, and
presses down, piercing the hollow point through the man’s skin.
Holding the other end to his mouth, he starts to suck slowly, and
watches as the crystal straw fills up with dark red liquid. When the tube
is nearly full, he pulls the needlepoint out from the wound and replaces
the dressing. He then blows gently into the straw, forcing the blood out
and collecting it in a small vial, which he corks and holds up to the
light, inspecting its contents.
There should be enough there for him to run his tests on.
The old man shuffles to his workbench, and begins to mix reagents in a
shallow dish, muttering some incantations as he goes along.
He hears a whine and turns. The grey wolf that had accompanied the
man has padded over, after having kept its distance while the old man
was treating its master. Now, the creature lies down on the furs beside
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the injured man, snuffling softly. The unconscious man has begun to
writhe again. His chest heaves as his breathing quickens, and he starts
to toss his head from side to side. He keeps clenching and unclenching
his hands, and his teeth are being ground together so hard that the old
man could see his jaw muscles flexing. He hears the man’s ragged
breathing, and detects a hint of fear in them.
With a sympathetic shake of his head, the old man calmly returns to
his work, ignoring the commotion behind him as the man continues to
thrash. He hears a distressed bark from the wolf, and sighs sadly.
He can easily relieve any physical pain the man may be suffering.
* * *
Bishop sits at the far end of the bar, merely watching as the duergar
gets increasingly drunker and rowdier with every shot of rum he
knocks back. Knowing Garrick, he’d probably get in a bar brawl later
on, beat a couple of people to within an inch of their lives, fall asleep
on the floor, and wake up the next morning with a splitting headache.
He knows better than to mess with the dwarf at times like this.
As he nurses his own drink, his mind wanders back to the first time he
had ever seen Garrick stinking drunk, back when he was still young
and naïve enough to harbour childish fantasies of running away. It was
one of his first excursions with the duergar, having been locked up in a
cold, dank cellar for a few months after the raid for the purpose of
“acclimatisation”. The dark dwarf had downed an entire bottle of
firebelly whiskey, and was sprawled on the countertop, muttering
gibberish. Bishop was seated next to him, fletching the duergar’s
arrows as commanded, when Garrick started throwing insults at a
nearby group of sailors. The men, three of them, seemingly as
inebriated as the dwarf, converged on Garrick, surrounding him
threateningly.
“Care to put those words into action, duergar?” one of them asked
menacingly.
The dark dwarf had merely laughed, grabbed the boy by the collar,
shoved a skinning knife in his hand, and plonked him down between
the duergar and the sailors. With an amused gleam in his red eyes,
Garrick had told the child to defend himself.
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Bishop was confused and scared. Was this the dwarf’s idea of fun?
Pitting him against three full-grown, burly men? Credit to the sailors,
they seemed hesitant to fight a child, and were standing around
uncertainly when the boy glanced back at his captor. The duergar was
swaying unsteadily on his stool, his eyes unfocused. He was roaring
drunk.
Especially if…
Gripping the knife handle tightly, he plunged the blade into the dwarf’s
thigh, all the way up to the hilt. He had pushed past the startled sailors
and was halfway across the tavern floor before the duergar could let
out a scream.
He spent the next three days running and hiding, trying to put as much
distance between Garrick and himself as possible. Unfortunately, he
got himself so hopelessly lost in the forest, he ended up wandering
around in circles.
And dragged him back to the dark cellar for a whole week of torture
and punishment.
The fact that Bishop can’t recall exactly what the duergar had
subjected him to is probably a good thing. His mind has blocked out
the traumatic memory of that week, and all he remembers is the
dwarf’s taunting words:
“You know, boy, if you had fought those seadogs, you would’ve been
brave, but stupid. If you had started crying for your Ma, I would have
killed you myself. I have no use for cowards. But for you to do what you
did? Man!” Garrick had chuckled amid the sound of a cracking whip.
“That takes both brains and balls! You have some potential there, so I
may not kill you just yet.”
And so, they had come to an ‘agreement’. Garrick would show Bishop
all the tricks of his trade, and in return the boy would do all his “dirty
work” for him.
“But if you pull another stunt like that again,” he warned, “I will make
sure your death is slow and painful.”
Since then, Bishop has never gotten lost in the woods ever again.
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Garrick pounds the counter with his fist, hollering at the barkeep for
more rum. Bishop watches the dwarf from a distance with thinly veiled
disgust. For the first couple of years, every time the duergar got drunk
like this, he had briefly entertained the notion of slipping away. But as
the months wore on, he had started to learn more and more from the
man – and he was picking it up fast. After all that had happened to
him, it felt satisfying to be good at something. Besides, if he were to
run away, where would he go? He doubts he has much of a home to
return to. He does think of his Pa sometimes, but after what happened,
after how he had just stood by and watched while his wife got raped
and killed, and while his only son was snatched away from him…
Bishop pushes the thought away as he takes another swig of his ale.
Well, it’s not like he’s bound in chains at the moment anyway. In fact,
he can go wherever he pleases now, even disappear for days on end
on a hunting trip. Garrick lets him go, because he knows that he will
always come back. Not that they have developed any kind of
friendship, far from it. Call it grudging understanding, perhaps. As long
as he continues to do the duergar’s odd jobs, he gets the freedom to
do whatever he likes.
Freedom…
Plus, he hates the fact that the dwarf has such a psychological hold on
him. He could go anywhere he wants, for as long as he likes, but
sooner or later he would come crawling back to Garrick, knowing that
he has no other future to speak of, save for learning from, and working
for, the duergar.
But what is the point of even considering leaving? Where would he go?
What would he do?
He rubs his chin absently, feeling the soft fuzz of his first growth.
Well, at least he has developed a knack for killing people. Like all
things, the first time was the hardest, and it only got easier.
She is tall and slim, and the armour she is wearing hugs her womanly
figure in all the right places. Her long, lustrous black hair falls
carelessly around her shoulders, so shiny that it resembles a star-filled
midnight sky. It is a stunning contrast to her porcelain pale skin. Her
features are sharp, without being unpleasant or seeming too severe:
high cheekbones, a slightly aquiline nose, a pointed chin. Her lips are
bright red, full and sensuous, and she has hypnotic grey eyes, so light
and shiny they almost seem silver.
She laughs, a deep, throaty laugh. “Well, the fact you have a smart
mouth is true, at least,” she teases. She pulls her seat even closer,
until her knee brushes his. “I’m Calyx,” she says, eyeing him
unashamedly up and down.
“Calyx…” He lets her name roll on his tongue, savouring the sound.
“Nice name.”
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She smiles. “I hear you’ll be the latest addition to our little troop.”
He assumes she means the Luskan assassin squad. Garrick has finally
felt that he is ready to join the duergar’s elite group. At least it’s a
definite step up from being a lowly soldier.
He shrugs in response.
He smirks. “I hope you’re not content on just seeing…” and he lets his
sentence trail off.
* * *
The tavern is quiet except for the muffled sounds coming from the
darkened room at the end of the corridor. Inside, the bed creaks noisily
as the two figures on it writhe beneath the sheets, moaning in
pleasure. The blanket falls away, exposing the graceful curves of a
woman’s silhouette, as she straddles the man beneath her. Her ebony
mane falls down her back and over her shoulders, tickling Bishop’s
face, the floral scent of her hair making him giddy. She pants as she
moves, sliding herself up and down his entire length. His hands grab
her firm buttocks, and he pushes her down as he thrusts his hips up,
feeling himself going deeper into her inviting embrace. The hot
pressure in his loins builds as they move faster and faster, until with a
carnal scream, they climax, and the pressure is released in a flood of
ecstasy.
There have been times when he wonders why she is even interested in
him. She could have any man she wanted, and yet she chooses a mere
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boy like him. Somehow, after all the crap he has been through, he finds
it difficult to accept that it was just a matter of luck.
But Gods, every time she does this to him, he is willing to believe
anything.
Finally, she rolls off and lies beside him, one hand rubbing his chest.
Bishop watches her through heavily lidded eyes, relishing the feel of
her fingers playing across his skin.
“Well…” she starts to trace little circles on his abs with a fingernail. His
core muscles tense in response to the ticklish yet pleasant sensation.
“Have you chosen a village yet?”
Calyx is silent for a while, her finger continuing to draw shapes on his
torso.
She appears unfazed by his discomfort. “Why not?” she goes on.
“What better way to get them back for what they did…or rather, didn’t
do?”
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He curses Garrick for his big mouth, and rolls over, turning his back to
her.
He feels a hand round his waist. “Think about it,” she insists. “They’re
weak. They couldn’t even stand up for one of their own.” She whispers
in his ear, “Not even your own father.”
Bishop shuts his eyes at her last sentence, as he swallows the lump in
his throat.
Calyx starts to brush her lips over his shoulder blades, gradually
moving to the nape of his neck, tickling him with her warm breath.
“Bishop, love?” she says in between her kisses. “Do you love me?”
Does he?
He knows that no other woman has ever made him feel this way. He
knows that he does care for her, that he is probably willing to do
almost anything for her.
He knows that she is the only thing that is going right in his life.
She smiles as she nuzzles her face into his palm. “Then you would
know that I want what’s best for you.” Putting her own hand over his,
she presses it into her chest. “It hurts me to see you like this, always
so bitter about the past.” She reaches her own hand towards his face,
and rubs his developing stubble.
“The only way to let go of the past is to go back and face it.”
Bishop is still mulling over what she said when Calyx suddenly mounts
him again and starts to kiss him fiercely. Her hands are all over his
body, and she presses herself hard into him. Once again he feels a
stirring in his loins.
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Chapter 39 – Family Reunion
The fire surrounds the village within minutes, and spreads rapidly
thanks to the trail of starter fuel Bishop had first doused along the
boundaries. He has left only a small gap in the ring of flames, just
enough for himself to escape through.
Someone runs out of the burning house, clutching a small satchel. The
man screeches to a stop in front of Bishop.
His hair may have started to go grey at the temples, his hulking
shoulders may now be stooped, and his face may be deeply lined with
age, but there is no mistaking the hulking giant of a man.
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“Bishop?” the man whispers incredulously, his expression a mixture of
recognition, disbelief and hope. After another moment of staring, the
big man’s face breaks out in a wide grin. “Runt? You’re back!” He steps
forward, arms outstretched. “Heh, look at how you’ve grown!”
For a split second, Bishop is tempted to run into his Pa’s arms, like he
had done everyday as a child when his father came home from work.
Those massive arms used to be what comforted him when things went
wrong.
Biting down on the inside of his cheek, he fights the urge by reminding
himself of how the man had done nothing the night of his abduction,
the night Ma died.
“Stand back, old man,” he says coldly, forcing his voice to remain level
as he holds his blade up to his father’s chest.
The man’s eyes widen in confusion, his smile frozen in place but
twitching uncertainly. “R-runt…what – what’re you doing?” He catches
the look of hurt in the big man’s face.
With a smile, she leans her head over his shoulder, and brushes her
lips lightly along his jaw.
“Just here to give you some moral support,” she purrs. Then she eyes
the man before them critically.
“So this is your ‘father’.” Her voice has taken on a harder edge. “The
coward who let his wife die and who couldn’t even save his own son.”
The old man is looking back at him pleadingly, his eyes shining as
realisation dawns on him.
“Y-you’re not one of them raiders, are you, runt? You can’t be…”
“Now’s your chance, love. He’s been the reason you’ve suffered so
much.” The grip on his shoulder tightens. “Make him pay for what he
did to you.” The harsh tone that Calyx’s voice has taken is not one he
has heard before.
His blade wavers as his throat constricts, his mind battling with
conflicting emotions. He is angry at his Pa, for sure. He resents him for
his cowardice, for having been so weak and pathetic…
He fights to steady his sword arm, taking deep breaths to maintain his
composure. He refuses to try and reply, afraid that his voice would
betray his discordant feelings. His eyes prickle suspiciously, and he
puts the irritation down to the smoky air.
“Look at him,” Calyx snorts in derision. “He’s begging for mercy. How
pathetic.”
“What are you waiting for? Put the pitiful wretch out of his misery.”
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Bishop didn’t think it was possible for his father’s eyes to grow any
larger.
“Runt…I – I…” He stumbles over his words in his haste to get them out.
“I’ve never forgotten about you…I always hoped you were still alive…
w-we all did…”
Everything around him seems to grow louder as the chaos in his mind
rages: the roar and crackle of the fire as it continues to eat its way
closer to them, the ululating screams of terror-stricken villagers, the
increased thundering of his own pulse…all these noises meld together,
creating a cacophony so loud and disturbing that it drowns out all
logical thought.
Almost as an afterthought, she adds, “That will make you look weak.”
He grips his faltering blade with both hands, and bites down on his
lower lip to stop it from trembling, so hard that he draws blood, and he
tastes his own bitterness on his tongue.
“My son…” his father is saying. “We’ve been searching for you for so
long…”
“He’s lying! Don’t listen to him!” Calyx’s voice is more impatient now
as she hisses.
“Kill him.”
His inner turmoil becomes almost unbearable, the noises around him
overwhelming. He covers an ear with his free hand, trying to drown out
the chaotic din.
“Listen to me, son…” he thinks he hears his father saying. Has the man
taken a step forward? Bishop cannot be sure in his state.
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With one hand still pressed to his ear, Bishop jerks his head from side
to side, partly to show refusal, and partly to try and clear his jumbled
thoughts.
“I can show you…” The old man reaches down, moving to open his
satchel.
“Kill him!”
With a frustrated cry, he lashes out blindly with his sword. It hits
something, slashing straight through it without much resistance. He
feels a splash of warm and sticky liquid on his face, and opens his
eyes. His father stands before him with a bewildered expression, one
hand still clutching his satchel tightly
Bishop can only gawk dumbly at the jagged gash running directly
across the man’s neck, and at the torrent of blood gushing out from it,
running down the front of his father’s chest like some macabre
waterfall.
He stares blankly at his longsword, at the drops of red dripping off the
tip. He wipes his own face with his hand, and it comes away streaked
in crimson.
With a watery gurgle, the older man drops to his knees, a hand to his
throat, as if trying to staunch the flow of claret pouring out of him.
Spurts of his lifeblood shoot out from between his fingers as he
crumples to the ground.
The ranger continues to gape stupidly at the scene before him, his
mind still struggling to comprehend what he had done.
Calyx strides over to the fallen man, her hands clasped casually behind
her back, and bends over him, examining him as one would an item in
a shop’s display.
Seemingly satisfied, she returns to Bishop’s side, and kisses him on the
side of his face not covered in gore.
“Well done, love,” she praises him, although her voice lacks any trace
of emotion. “Finish off here and we’ll all meet you later.”
It is the air rushing out through the hole in his neck that is making the
whistling noise he hears.
Then he realises that the dying gasps are actually coming from his
father.
He clamps his eyes shut. Not only has he become the man he hates so
much, he has surpassed him; at least Garrick had slain someone he
didn’t know.
The older man’s wide eyes appear to focus on him, gazing up at him
accusingly as the blood continues to flow. His father’s expression is
sad, pained, and he thinks he also sees a tinge of disappointment.
And pity.
“Are you happy now?” he blurts out before he can stop himself, and
before he knows it, he begins to shout uncontrollably.
“Look at me, Pa!” he screams, holding his hands up to his sides. “Look
at what I’ve become!” His voice is filled with guilt and self-loathing as
he directs his hatred for himself at his father. “Look at what you did to
me!” His eyes dart around briefly, as if only just noticing the blazing
inferno surrounding them. “Look at what you made me do!”
The horror of everything he had just done finally hits him like a pile of
bricks. Tears threaten at the corners of his eyes, and he blinks them
back. His voice cracks as he whispers.
Despite himself, he crouches down and pries the bag out of the dying
man’s hand. Ignoring the stickiness of the pouch, he investigates its
contents.
Where did the old man get all the money from? There is more there
than his family had ever had at any one time. And why is he salvaging
bits of paper?
Curious, he pulls out the parchments, smudging them with his bloody
fingerprints. On closer inspection, they are letters and contracts
between his Pa and a certain group of people – mercenaries, hired by
his father, by what he can tell from the contracts. Their job is
apparently to hunt down two people, and judging by the more recent
correspondences, the adventurers are closing in on their mark. He
finds a briefing with a description of each target.
He cannot read further. His hands are trembling too much, his eyes are
misting up, and his throat is constricting in such a way that he is
finding it hard to breathe. He hears his father’s haunting words:
His breath coming out in ragged gasps, he looks back at his father.
The old man has stopped wheezing. His eyes gaze emptily at the sky
as an ominous rattling reverberates in his unmoving chest.
“PA…!!”
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Dropping the bag and the papers, he throws himself on the old man,
shaking his lifeless body violently, praying that he would at least see
that his son has finally understood.
But the man’s eyes are glazed over, and his head flops limply with
every shake. Even the bleeding from his wound has slowed to a trickle.
“No…”
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Chapter 40 – Those Who Cannot Survive
He hacks dryly a few more times, the exertion squeezing fresh tears
into his eyes. Keeping his head down, he wipes his mouth with the
back of a bloody hand, the bitter taste of bile on his tongue. His mind
slowly begins to clear, and when it does, he experiences a flash of
insight.
His mind races back to the night with Calyx, just days before.
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“What about Redfallows Watch?” she had suggested innocently.
Garrick had told her about Bishop’s past, probably for a reason.
He recalls how she had followed him into the burning village, against
all protocol, and how she had egged him on while he confronted his
father.
“Kill him.” Her voice was cold, calculating, insistent, revealing a part of
the woman she had kept hidden from him until now.
Why else would she care so much about what he wanted to do with his
father? Why else would she be so keen on seeing him die?
He has been a fool, a blind, love-sick fool, and they have capitalised on
his weaknesses, playing him like a puppet on a string. He feels used,
but more than that, he feels betrayed, guilty, remorseful, and
disgusted with himself.
Above all, he feels angry, not just at himself, but at Garrick, at Calyx…
At everything.
The sheaf of papers he had been holding now lie scattered about him,
some of them fluttering in the hot convection currents caused by the
encroaching blaze, others stuck in the puddle of his father’s blood,
soaking up the crimson liquid.
Pushing himself off the side of the well, he gathers up a handful of the
documents, his fingers staining them red.
With one last look at the body of his father, barely a few feet from the
fire now, he turns and runs, past the other screaming villagers, past
the burning houses, until he finds the little gap in the wall of flames,
growing smaller now that the blaze is spreading, and slips through. The
other assassins should be dotted all around the village’s perimeter,
and he heads towards where he knows Garrick is stationed.
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He crashes through the underbrush, a fistful of crumpled, bloodstained
papers in one hand. He isn’t sure what he would say when he confronts
the dwarf, but he figures he will worry about that once he gets there.
Calyx is there.
On Garrick’s lap.
She gasps when she sees him, and promptly retracts her hand, but she
doesn’t leave her perch on Garrick thighs.
Bishop feels as if a knife has been thrust into his chest. He catches the
smug look on the dwarf’s face, not seeming at all fazed by the
awkward situation.
A feral roar escapes his lips as he lunges towards Calyx and Garrick.
The dwarf, reacting deceptively quickly for someone of his stature,
shoves Calyx aside and draws his own weapon, just as Bishop’s
longsword is brought down on him. Their blades throw up a shower of
sparks as they clash, before Garrick kicks the young ranger’s legs out
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from under him. Bishop catches his balance just in time to parry a
counterattack by the dark dwarf.
“Ah, have you finally worked it out then, boy?” he sniggers, his red
eyes gleaming sadistically. “I was kinda hoping you wouldn’t. You have
been so useful to me...”
The dwarf laughs again. “Why not? Apart from the fact that I get my
dirty work done for me?”
Suddenly, Garrick swipes Bishop’s sword aside with his own, and seizes
the opening to drive his fist into the ranger’s solar plexus. The air
rushes out of his lungs as Bishop falls to his knees, winded and gasping
for breath. Moving around, the duergar kicks him in the back, sending
him sprawling forward. Before he could recover, a padded boot lands in
front of him, and he feels a second one on the back of his head,
grinding his face into the earth. He twists his neck to the side, trying to
keep his face out of the dirt, and sees Calyx, her arms crossed in front
of her, her expression unreadable.
Why is she just standing there? Why isn’t she trying to help him, or at
least ask Garrick to stop?
As if unable to look him in the eye, she turns her head, avoiding his
gaze, and Bishop feels a stab of pain in his crumpling heart. He shuts
his own eyes, humiliated by his own naïveté to have ever trusted her.
At that moment, he wishes for the duergar to end his life swiftly.
Garrick must have seen the despair and resignation on Bishop’s face,
for again, he hears the dwarf’s hateful laughter.
“I can’t believe you honestly thought that she could love you! Look at
you, crawling about in the mud, with no future to speak of. Did you
seriously think that would impress her?” The boot presses down harder
on the back of his head. His next words are dripping with scorn.
“You’re just my lackey, a lapdog, and you always will be.” The dwarf
bends closer to hiss cruelly.
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Something about that last sentence makes his blood boil again.
Bishop’s eyes, which until then have been shut in shame, now snap
open, glowing with an angry fire.
All at once, his emotions come to a head. The red haze that was
clouding his vision earlier returns, darker and more malevolent than
before. Somewhere deep inside, a dam bursts, releasing a flood of
pure, unrestrained fury.
Growling lowly, he bucks himself off the ground, throwing off the foot
that was holding his head down. Then, with a savage cry, he bodily
tackles the dwarf, and they both hit the ground heavily, with Garrick
beneath him. He feels the duergar’s rapier biting into his shoulder
blade, but in his anger-fuelled state he barely notices the pain.
Pinning the dwarf’s sword arm down with one hand, he punches
Garrick in the face with the other, again, and again, and again…all the
while screaming like a man possessed, until the blood on his fist is no
longer just Garrick’s, but his own, as his cut knuckles begin to bleed.
When the dwarf loosens his hold on his sword, Bishop prises the
weapon out of Garrick’s hand, and holds it to the duergar’s chest. His
face bloodied and still dazed from the flurry of blows, it takes a
moment before the dwarf’s eyes manage to focus on the blade. When
he does, he glares at the young man challengingly.
The rapier comes down, slashing the dwarf in the face. Bishop stares in
fascination at the long, deep gash running across the man’s eye, as
dark blood wells up and flows down Garrick’s face. The sight seems to
whet his bloodlust. He wants to see the bastard bleed even more. He
wants him to feel the pain. He wants him to pay for everything he’s
done, to watch as his life is destroyed completely, just as he has
destroyed Bishop’s life.
And so he plunges the blade into Garrick’s gut, then withdraws it, and
stabs the duergar, again and again, all the while roaring at the top of
his lungs, in a blind frenzy, relishing the warm blood spraying all over
him with each vicious thrust. The wild glint in his eyes, the carnal
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screams…it is as if he were a bystander, watching as some demon
controlled his body.
Calyx’s shrill scream behind him brings him back to his senses.
She is still standing where he last saw her, but now she has her hands
up to her face, her lower lip trembling, her eyes wide with fear.
He looks down at Garrick. The duergar’s eyes stare blankly into the
distance, the front of his torso a gory mess, his guts dangling outside
his body.
“I said, GO!!” he barks, and this time she stumbles backwards before
running into the brush and disappearing from view.
Left alone now, he stares vacantly at the carnage he has caused, still
letting it all sink in. He must look a sight, all covered in blood and dirt.
His shoulder blade begins to sting. Reaching a hand behind him, he
feels a warm stickiness, and his fingers come away covered in crimson.
The background screams he has blocked out of his mind suddenly grow
louder and more terrified.
The villagers…
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He runs back to the gap in the flames, only to find that it has almost
completely closed up. Huge columns of heat and smoke rise up on
either side of the narrow slit.
With a deep breath, he dives through the tiny gap. The heat of the
blaze singes his hair and eyebrows. The hem of his shirt catches alight,
and he pats at with his hands to put it out. When he looks up, he could
almost believe he had just leapt into the jaws of the Hells.
The entire village, every single house, is now engulfed in flames. The
night sky glows with a flickering orange light. The furious heat is
overwhelming, and the thick, billowing smoke clogs his airways.
Oh gods…
The woman gapes at the blood and gore covering his body, then at the
rapier by his side, and backs off, her eyes wide with horror. He tries to
step closer again, and with a shriek, she turns and runs into a burning
house.
“Wait!”
He grabs one end of the fallen beam, ignoring the searing pain as the
glowing hot wood burns into his palms. Grunting, he tries to move it
aside, but it is too heavy. With a cry of both pain and frustration, he
withdraws his scorched hands. As he inspects his blackened palms, a
whimper somewhere behind makes him whirl around.
A group of villagers are huddled together, shying away from the flames
around them.
All he gets back are scared, distrustful looks. No one makes a move to
volunteer. A few of them even shrinks back from him, a look of
repulsion on their faces.
Only then does he realise that he had been pressing his hands over his
ears.
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Turning around, he starts to run, but it isn’t long before he finds his
path blocked by a crackling wall of flames.
The well…
He bursts through the wall of fire just as his clothes catches alight.
Dropping to the ground, he rolls on the grass to try and extinguish the
flames, all the while biting back cries of pain as his burnt skin protests
fiercely against each and every movement he makes.
With a snarl, he pulls out the arrow stuck in his leg, just as another one
whizzes past his head.
They can’t have discovered Garrick’s body yet. No one was supposed
to leave their stations until Bishop completes his initiation. No one
should have any idea yet of what he has done.
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Unless Calyx told them…
The wrenching pain in his heart at the thought hurts him more than
even his burns and wounds.
Another arrow slams into him, this time hitting him in the arm, sending
him staggering sideways. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he whirls
around, trying to discern the sources of the missiles, to pinpoint where
the assassins could be hiding.
This time, a bolt tears into his side, and he nearly loses his balance.
Limping and clutching his injured side, he dives into the trees, just as
an arrow nicks him in the back of his neck. Breaking into a lumbering
sprint, he runs away from the assassins, away from the burning village,
away from his past. Low-hanging branches whip him in the face, but he
stumbles on, until, in his weakened state, he begins to feel dizzy from
his exertions.
A slight rustle from behind prompts him to gingerly turn his head. In
the flickering light of the burning village in the distance, and through
his haze of pain, he sees a flash of raven hair, and a glimpse of silvery-
grey eyes.
“Calyx…?”
Still looking over his shoulder, a smile was about to play across his lips
when he spies a glint of metal. Too late, he realises that it is a dagger,
an intricate one with a characteristic curve in its blade, and semi-
precious gems set into its hilt.
Calyx’s dagger.
The blade is thrust downwards with force, and he feels it being driven
deep between his shoulder blades. He cries out as his back arches, his
body convulsing in reaction to the sharp, excruciating pain.
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But the pain is nothing compared to the agony in his heart.
“Yes.”
Another wave of pain and a wet sucking sound tells him that she has
withdrawn the blade. With the last reserves of his strength, he turns
around to face her. Even as she stands there with a wicked smile, the
dagger in her hand dripping with his blood, he finds her beautiful
beyond words.
A warm wetness is spreading out from under him, the coppery smell of
his own blood assailing his nostrils. In the cloudy darkness of semi-
consciousness, all he sees in his mind’s eye, is a flash of raven hair, a
glimpse of silvery-grey eyes, and a curved dagger on a downward
arc…
He had been a fool, and now he has paid for his stupidity, for his
poorly-placed reliance on someone else, for his childish notions of
love…
But none of that matters now. Perhaps it is the loss of blood, perhaps
all the pain is making him delirious, but somehow his body feels so
much lighter, as if a great burden has been lifted off his shoulders, as if
the heavy chains imprisoning him and dragging him down have been
broken.
The darkness begins to close in, bringing with it the promise of relief
from all his physical pains and mental torment.
“Ye gods!” From somewhere far away, a gruff voice seems to be calling
out to him.
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Forcing his bleary eyes open, he sees a blurry image of what looks like
a man, a half-elf, by the look of his slightly pointed ears. The stranger
is kneeling over him and frowning.
Too weak to resist, his vision dims as the stranger hauls his body off
the ground. For a moment, his head rests on the man’s shoulder. Just
before everything turns dark, he thinks he sees a second person
standing not too far behind the half-elf.
Only that this being has blue skin and red eyes, and it seems to exude
a sinister, otherworldly aura.
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Chapter 41 – A Deal with the Devil
The one thing that worries the wolf most is the fact that the master
seems to have been asleep for too, too long. No amount of nudging or
whining had stirred him from his fitful slumber.
Karnwyr’s mother had fallen asleep for a long time, too, and had never
woken up.
The wolf is afraid that the same may happen to his master.
The man’s back arches, and the wolf hears the master’s breathing
quicken. That ever-present smell of sadness around the man is now
combined with an even more troubling scent.
Fear.
Please wake up, the wolf pleads fretfully, prodding the master with his
muzzle. Why are you so hot? Are you ill? Where does it hurt?
The old man approaches, one hand holding onto the long piece of
wood he always seems to have with him, the other cradling a vessel of
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some form, with something burning inside it. The purplish smoke it
produces has a strong, bitter smell, and the wolf snorts, making a face.
He remains at a distance as the man places the smoky vessel under
the master’s nose. The last time the strange man had done this, the
master had stopped writhing, at least for a while. The wolf’s tail wags
slightly, hopefully.
But this time the master continues to struggle against some invisible
force, even after he had inhaled every trace of smoke. His hands are
clenched into fists, so tightly that the knuckles have turned white. The
wolf can only watch helplessly as the master tosses his head from side
to side, his eyes clamped shut, his teeth grinding together.
The wolf is horrified when the man merely shakes his head sadly, and
hobbles off, leaving his master still convulsing violently.
Karnwyr yaps. Where are you going? Aren’t you going to do anything?
But the man ignores him, turning his back and returning to whatever it
is he is working on.
After a few more desperate yips, the wolf gives up. The strange man is
either unable or unwilling to help.
It doesn’t take long for the wolf to pick up her distinctive scent: soft
and earthy, sweet yet tangy, with that odd tint of fear. Karnwyr follows
her smell, the trail leading him deeper into the cave. Scampering
through a short tunnel, he comes to a small chamber, and finds the
woman asleep on the floor.
Rushing to her side, Karnwyr emits shrill puppy barks to try and wake
her up. Pulling the covers off her, he nudges her with his nose, and
licks her hand.
But like the master, she doesn’t respond, his disturbance eliciting only
a faint twitch as she turns away from the wolf.
Not you as well! The wolf whined frantically. What could be wrong with
them?
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Bishop suddenly finds himself in a strange but disturbingly familiar
place. The desolate landscape is almost entirely flat, punctuated
occasionally by some rocky outcrops. The sky is an ominous red, and
so too is the dusty earth. A huge, gaping chasm lies to one side of him,
so wide that he cannot see the opposite side, and so deep that the
bottom disappears into complete darkness.
He is back in Baator.
How did he get here? The last thing he remembers is Alya bending
over him, trying to treat his arrow wound. Since then, all he had been
experiencing was one nightmare after another, as his mind relived
every single harrowing memory he had ever tried to suppress.
“Bishop?”
He whirls around at the sound of his name, surprised that anyone else
is here in this deserted wasteland, and even more surprised when he
recognises the soft, tinkling voice.
“Alya??”
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With a strangled cry, he doubles over, clutching at his arrow wound,
and falls to his knees. His breathing comes out short and ragged, as his
lungs begin to burn with each inhalation. As if from afar, he can hear
Alya calling out to him, and her footsteps as she rushes towards him.
Alya had stopped a few feet away from him, and is staring in the
direction of the cliff.
He turns his head to find Mephasm hovering above the sheer drop-off.
“Why are you doing this to him?” He hears her demand, as she kneels
over him.
The pit fiend grins, revealing a row of white, pointed teeth. “You see,
we devils can be rather…inquisitive,” he explains. “And my particular
area of curiosity concerns the matter of what you mortals call…
emotions.”
He begins to drift slowly in a circle, his hands clasped behind his back,
as if he were pacing in thin air whilst contemplating. “What are these
emotions? What is fear, hate, sadness, love…? Why do mortals subject
themselves to these…feelings, when they can cloud one’s judgment,
resulting in rash decisions and actions? And why do these feelings
evoke such powerful reactions?” He stops moving, his gaze alternating
between Alya and Bishop. “Is this susceptibility to emotions just
another one of the many flaws that make mortals inferior to us?
“And then there are some who seek to hide their true feelings from
others, by concealing them behind false ones, erecting wall upon wall
of conflicting sentiments, until they themselves can no longer
distinguish the real emotions from the fakes.” Mephasm eyes Bishop
intently, and despite being wracked by terrible pain, the ranger gets
the disquieting feeling that the baatezu is delving deep into his soul,
and inspecting his very private thoughts.
“From the day I saw you here at the edge of this very cliff, your
emotions, Bishop, have really piqued my interest. Never have I seen
such a complex mesh of feelings. It aroused my curiosity so much, that
I sought to understand it. So, I decided to follow your movements, to
observe you, for a while.” The devil smiles again. “You may be pleased
to hear that I have not been disappointed.”
Bishop glares at the pit fiend, feeling strangely violated. Had the devil
been watching him all this time? How did he do that? What had he
seen? What does he know?
Mephasm’s grave voice penetrates his cloud of pain. “Ah, looks like the
poison’s full effects is being realised. By this time, the dragon’s blood
would have spread through your entire system. You should be feeling
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as if your heart, lungs and guts are being twisted into knots, before
being wrenched out of your body.” The expression on the devil’s face
is almost pitiful, and it enflames Bishop even more. “I am afraid you
will be suffering like this for another couple of days at least before
death finally claims you.”
The baatezu’s evil grin widens. “Believe it or not, mortal, I have been
so entertained while observing you, that I am willing to offer you
some…assistance.”
Mephasm shakes his head, clucking his tongue. “Such mistrust. And
after I have helped you on several previous occasions as well…have I
ever asked for anything unreasonable in return for any of my services
rendered?”
Both Bishop and Alya are silent as they eye the devil cautiously. While
it is true that Mephasm has helped them numerous times, against
Zeeaire, in Ammon Jerro’s haven, and most recently, by transporting
them back to their plane, something about the pit fiend tells them that
he has an ulterior motive.
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“What would you say, Bishop, if I offered you not just relief from your
current suffering, but also a chance to alleviate past torments?”
The ranger’s head snaps back towards Mephasm, who seems quite
smug that he had gotten Bishop’s attention.
“Yes, I can see that my proposal interests you. Would you like to hear
more?”
The sensible part of his brain is buzzing with alarm, warning him that
the baatezu cannot be trusted, that no good would ever come from a
deal with a devil.
But reason and logic at the moment are being drowned out by the
tortuous pain wracking his entire body. He convulses in the throes of
another torrent of searing anguish, one that appears to have clamped
his insides in a red-hot vice, and filled his lungs with brimstone.
Bishop stares in disbelief at the familiar wood and stone houses, all
characteristically clustered around a well.
Redfallows Watch.
“Have you ever wished, mortal, that you could turn back time? To right
a past wrong? Ever had things you wished you had never done, and
some things you wish you had done?” Mephasm’s eyes narrow as he
once again studies the ranger with his penetrative gaze. “It seems to
me that regret and resentment are two very strong emotions within
you.”
“Runt?”
Bishop’s blood runs cold at the sound of the distinctive booming voice,
as his Pa emerges from the shimmering portal. The huge, broad-
shouldered man looks at him tenderly before a smile spreads across
his bearded face.
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“Heh, look at how you’ve grown.” His father’s words send a chill down
the ranger’s spine.
The last time Bishop had seen her, she was lying dead in a pool of her
own blood, gutted like a fish, her body violated…
“Ma…?” His own voice cracks as a flood of old memories come rushing
back.
The woman’s kind eyes are shining. “Son, we’ve missed you so much.”
Despite the burning hot pain shooting through his body, Bishop
shuffles backwards, away from his parents. His heart is aching terribly,
but it is a different sort of pain, not one caused by the poison’s effects.
The devil sniggered humorously. “Foul? That’s not a very nice thing to
call your dear parents, is it?” Almost lovingly, he caresses the pulsing
orb of light, his touch causing the image of the village to distort
slightly, as if it were a rippling reflection in a pond. “I suppose I can
understand your...reservations. After all, not every mortal has much
knowledge of the Temporal Plane.”
“The Temporal…?” Bishop hears Alya blurt out, a look of dread and
recognition on her face. Until then, he has almost forgotten that she
was present.
“Ah, yes, you know of it vaguely, do you not?” Mephasm regards the
monk approvingly before turning his attention back to Bishop. “The
Temporal Plane is basically a plane of existence where time can be…
manipulated. Past events can be replayed, even changed. Future
events can be foretold, and avoided if one so wishes…it is also where
one could find what you mortals call parallel worlds.”
“Love…”
Bishop freezes, almost afraid to glance behind him. For years, that
breathy, teasing voice had only ever haunted his dreams. It has been
so long since he’s actually heard it.
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“C-Calyx…?”
It can’t be her…
But her form remains solid and clear even as she kneels down beside
him, and he once again smells the heady aroma of spring blossoms as
her long hair tickles his face. The excruciating pain gripping his body
appears to lift momentarily when she bends down, cradling his face in
her hands, her touch sending shivers up and down his spine. She leans
towards him, and their lips meet in a soft, lingering kiss, one that
brings a surge of memories rushing to the fore: the recollection of her
flawless, naked form straddling him, her lustrous black hair cascading
down her back, her hips undulating as they coupled feverishly…
The kiss is broken all too soon. Calyx caresses his cheeks for a while
longer, a loving smile on her face.
“I’ve missed you so much, love,” she whispers, as she runs a tapering
finger over his bottom lip, eliciting an involuntary shudder from him.
With that, she stands back up, and walks over to join his Ma and Pa
near the glowing portal. Bishop makes a move to get to his feet, to run
after her.
And the burning pain that appeared to have been alleviated by Calyx’s
touch returns with a vengeance, the searing sensation more intense
than before, rendering his limbs weak and buckling his knees. With an
anguished groan, he again slumps to the ground, clutching at his
constricted chest.
The blue devil hovers closer, his bluish lips turned up in an amused
smirk. “Consider that a taster of what could be, if certain conditions are
met.”
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“Conditions?” Alya’s voice is angry as she interrupts the pit fiend. She
looks bewildered by everything that is going on. “You mentioned
nothing about conditions! You said you would help him!”
“As you probably have found out, and in a rather pleasant way, I might
add, these people before you are not illusions. They are real, and they
exist in a parallel world, one where certain…” He pauses, as if trying to
find the right word. “Traumatic events have never happened.”
The baatezu falls silent as he regards the ranger again in his stony,
scrutinising way. Bishop is assailed by yet another barrage of agony,
this one tightening his airways, causing him to cough and choke, the
spasms further stoking the flames in his lungs.
“This is when it really starts to hurt,” the pit fiend comments casually.
“When your system tries to fight the poison, wreaking more havoc in
the process. But not to worry,” his demonic eyes glow with
anticipation. “Make the right choice, and your pain will be gone.”
“Tell me…” Bishop rasps, his jaw clenched so tightly that the pulsing
veins in his neck stand out prominently. “What I have to do.” He curses
himself for sounding so desperate, for feeling so completely helpless.
Above all, he curses himself for actually being tempted by the devil’s
offer, after having convinced himself so many times before that he no
longer cares about what had transpired in the past.
I still don’t care about the past…he tells himself. I just want the pain to
stop…
All his life, he had imagined what could have been, had he never been
taken from his parents, had he grown up in Redfallows Watch, living a
normal peasant’s life, with no bloodshed, no killing, no bounty on his
head...
He believes he now sees the answer in the liquid depths of her silver
eyes.
“And what if he fails the test?” Alya’s apprehensive voice rings out,
bringing him back to the present. She is standing over him
protectively, her muscles tense, poised for a fight.
Mephasm’s answer is frank. “Then he would simply die from the poison
– slowly.” The devil glances almost sympathetically at Bishop. “And he
will never know what might have been…”
The baatezu’s reply is enough to help Bishop make up his mind, but
another tide of agonising pain slamming into him confirms his decision.
“I’ll do it!” he gasps, as the pain causes him to curl up into a ball, the
dusty dirt sticking to his bare skin.
The devil laughs, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder. “Such
strong feelings,” he marvels, his red eyes glowing. “And I have not
even set you the task yet.” Mephasm drifts even closer, until he is just
a few feet away. Defensively, Alya interposes herself between the pit
fiend and Bishop, but the baatezu ignores the monk, and speaks
directly to Bishop.
“Very well, mortal, I have but one question for you before I set your
task.” His infernal eyes narrow menacingly.
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“What would you be willing to do for this second chance in life?”
Bishop barely hesitates, the blinding pain wracking his body spurring
him on.
“Anything…”
That’s when he realises that the fingers that were clutching at his
chest are now weighted down with something. Glancing down, he finds
a dagger gripped in his hand. Its blade is curved exotically, its hilt
encrusted with jewels. It is a knife that has hounded his nightmares for
years, and he recognises it instantly.
Calyx’s dagger…
“You said you would do anything for that second chance,” he says
ominously. “Well, now’s your time to prove it.”
“Kill her.”
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Chapter 42 – A Difficult Decision
Bishop gawks at the devil, thunderstruck. Alya is staring at the pit fiend
with an equally dumbfounded expression.
Ignoring the blazing pain ripping through his very being, he wordlessly
shakes his head, slowly and uncertainly at first, then with more
resolve.
With a wave of his hand, the figures of Bishop’s parents and Calyx
begin to blur, just as the glowing portal starts to shrink.
Bishop watches in horror as his Pa and Ma, and Calyx, all huddled
together in apparent fear, their saucer-eyed expressions disclosing
their distress, slowly fade in and out, as they begin to vanish right
before his eyes. He hears a heart-rending sob from his mother, and a
frightened whimper from Calyx.
Mephasm lowers his hand, and the three people before him, although
still translucent and seemingly evanescent, have at least stopped
fading away. The pit fiend eyes the ranger questioningly.
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Now what?
Another bolt of pain tears through him, clenching up all the muscles in
his body. He feels his fingers closing around something cold and hard,
and realises that he is still gripping Calyx’s curved dagger.
For the chance to relive his life the way he wants, with the family and
lover he thought he’d lost forever…all he has to do is sacrifice just one
person…
His gaze shifts back and forth between Alya and Calyx. They are both
so different in every way: one is tall, statuesque, mysteriously alluring,
the other petite, tomboyish, unpretentious, probably more cute than
beautiful…
Bishop recalls how Calyx had won him over with her elegant beauty,
how she had plied him with sweet words, teasing touches, sensual
kisses, mind-blowing sex…but above all else, he remembers how she
always made him feel special, made him feel like somebody when he is
in fact a nobody. Whenever he felt sorry for himself, or resentful of how
his life had turned out, she was there, showering him with affection
and attention, making him feel like the most important person in the
world.
He turns her dagger over in his hand, inspecting the rubies, emeralds
and sapphires studding its hilt, and the odd curved shape of the blade.
In his mind’s eye, he sees the weapon arcing through the air, right
before it embedded itself in his back.
No…he shakes his head to rid himself of the memory. It’ll be different
this time…it has to be…
“Bishop, I love you, please come back to me. I’ll never leave you
again.”
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She loves me…
Hot, fiery pain rips through him once again, and he doubles over, his
forehead pressed against the dusty earth, his breaths coming out in
ragged gasps as his congested lungs continue to burn mercilessly. Out
of the corner of his eye, he sees Alya kneeling down beside him, and
feels a comforting hand on his back. She seems to be saying
something, but her voice sounds garbled, as if she were speaking to
him underwater.
While Calyx had treated him as a lover, Alya had always treated him as
anything but, although she was never abrupt or unkind to him.
Perhaps it’s one of the principles she has to stick to as a follower of the
Way: never pre-judge anyone, or something along those lines…but she
had always shown him kindness and patience, more so than any of her
other companions, or anyone else he had ever met, for that matter.
And she most certainly shows him more kindness than he deserves.
Unlike Calyx, Alya treats him as a friend, something no one else had
ever tried to be.
Perhaps that is what enraptured him about her in the first place: that
despite how nice she is to him, she has only ever cared for him as an
acquaintance, and has never fallen for any of his suggestive remarks
or advances, nor has she ever let any of his barbed comments get
under her skin. Her kindness draws him irresistibly to her, and her
apparent imperviousness to his seductions, plus the fact that she
seems more interested in that paladin than in him, are challenges for
him.
But that’s not all, is it? From the first time he saw her, strolling into her
uncle’s tavern with her group of ragtag compatriots, she seems to
exude a quiet courage, never once complaining about her unchosen
fate, about the heavy burden of being the Shard-Bearer. Sure, she had
been frightened at times, and she openly mourned for the friends she
lost, but rather than making her look weak, her occasional battles with
self-doubt, fear and grief only seemed to make her return stronger. As
stupid as he thinks she is for accepting all the crap and responsibility
people dished at her, and as much as he disagrees with her
compulsion to help those too pathetically weak to defend themselves,
he cannot help but marvel at her stubbornness and conviction. Once
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she has made a decision, no one could talk her out of it, and there is
something distinctly alluring about that.
And she had succeeded in the end, hadn’t she? It had nearly cost her
her life, but she had righted what seemed impossible. It sometimes
made him wonder if he could have done the same, if he could have
salvaged some shred of his former life, had he not been so full of self-
contempt.
Hope.
Yes, she almost made him believe that there could be something
beyond his mangy existence, that life could be more than ambushing
and torturing Luskans, repaying debts, and evading bounty hunters,
that perhaps he could make a difference, not just to his own life, but to
the lives of others.
Bishop feels another stab of burning pain. The blurred images of his
parents and Calyx are now as intangible as a mirage in the desert.
How much longer is Mephasm willing to wait for him to make a choice?
After all, one of them has openly proclaimed her love for him.
The other sees him as no more than a friend, if that, and before all this
crap with Garrick and the poison arrow, she was leaving him, and they
would probably not see each other again.
Then what was it that happened between them just a few days ago?
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kind, her hands kneading his bare chest, leaving his skin tingling with
pleasure at her touch.
But then, just when it seemed like he would finally have her, she had
stopped him, stayed his hand just as he was about to dip it into her
trousers. Why had she done that, without giving any reason at all? It
had left him feeling frustrated and unwanted. Even now, just thinking
about how she had played him made his blood run hot with anger.
Bishop growls as a new wave of pain crashes over him, interrupting his
own rambling thoughts. He is grasping Calyx’s dagger so tightly he
could feel the individual gemstones imprinting themselves onto his
palm.
The ranger glares at the devil even as he writhes in the dirt, a haze of
pain obscuring his vision now, bathing everything in a foreboding red
mist. His breathing becomes increasingly laboured, as each inhalation
constricts his airways and sears his lungs. His guts twist inside of him,
and his heart pounds erratically, pumping fresh needles of fire through
his veins with every beat. Clutching his cramping mid-section with both
arms, he cries out in agony.
The pit fiend’s rumbling laughter pierces through his dense miasma of
pain. “Now, I may be able to wait, but I’m not sure how much longer
your body can take all that battering.”
Bishop glances at Alya, but he can hardly make her out through the
cloud that has descended on his vision. All he sees is her vague outline
amid a soupy red haze, as every fibre of his being screams for relief
from the poison coursing relentlessly through him. He hisses again as
another convulsion wracks his body, and his resolve crumbles.
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Only one way…
“It’s so nice and peaceful where we are, son,” his mother says. “All
that’s missing is you…”
But the anticipated blows never come, as the monk appears hesitant to
seize the many openings to take him down. After a particularly clumsy
lurch, he falls to his knees at her feet, the vulnerable base of his skull
practically presented to her on a silver platter, but instead of seizing
the obvious striking opportunity, she merely dances out of his reach.
He sees her shaking her head vigorously from side to side, her reddish
hair tossing about her shoulders.
A hoarse cry escapes his lips as he rushes at her again. He sees her
back-pedalling, trying to keep her distance from him, before diving out
of his way. He hurtles past her, only to see the gaping chasm that
Mephasm was floating over fast approaching.
He tries to dig his heels into the ground to stop his forward motion, but
his muscles are not cooperating with him. He manages to skid to a stop
right at the edge of the cliff, his arms flailing as he teeters on the brink,
trying to catch his balance. The ravine is so deep that the bottom is
obscured in pitch blackness.
His foot slips on the shifting sands, and he feels himself falling forward
into the canyon. For a split second, he feels a rush of panic, but then…
He closes his eyes, almost welcoming his free fall into the fathomless
void.
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Chapter 43 – The Price of Freedom
No…
“You okay?” she asks him, speaking her first words since he had
started attacking her.
Of course I’m not okay! His mind rages, the constant crippling pain
assaulting his body pushing him to the brink of insanity.
Why did you do that? Why didn’t you just let me be? Why didn’t you
just let me fall and die? Why are you prolonging my suffering?
His amber eyes burn with a wild fire as his tortured brain starts to think
illogically.
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His vision still blurred by the red-tinged haze of pain, he lets out a
feral, anguish-fuelled roar as he lashes out at her. Their close proximity
gives her little time to react to his sudden aggression, and as she
tumbles backwards to try and avoid him, he feels the dagger clipping
her, slicing into her flesh, and he hears her gasp as she falls
awkwardly, clutching her upper arm. Thick crimson liquid starts to seep
out through her fingers, and a dark maroon stain begins to spread out
on the sleeve of her robe, as her blood soaks into the material.
Her blood…
Just a few weeks earlier, her blood had done the same thing, on the
same soil.
“The first cut is the hardest, isn’t it, mortal?” Mephasm’s cool, calm
voice snaps him out of his daze. The devil is smiling cruelly. “Don’t
worry, it’ll only get easier now.” He regards Bishop with his infernal
glowing eyes. “And, I am sure you are already feeling the benefits.”
It takes a while for Bishop to understand the pit fiend’s last sentence.
He hadn’t noticed it earlier, but now that Mephasm has mentioned it,
the red mist that had clouded his vision has cleared a little, and the
gut-wrenching pain that had been surging through his body, although
still unbearable, seems to have been dulled somewhat. The twitching
in his muscles appears to have subsided, and he is also breathing
relatively easier, as if the white-hot chains binding his lungs have been
loosened slightly.
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More importantly, the apparitions of his parents and Calyx are now
more solid and opaque, as if his deed had turned them from a mere
dream into reality. Their outlines are much clearer now, the fear in
their eyes now replaced by hope and longing.
Above all else, when he had made the cut, he had felt a great load shift
slightly off his shoulders, as if the bonds chaining him to his wretched
existence are being washed away by Alya’s flowing blood.
From somewhere within his mind, a voice urges, Finish the job…you’re
so close now…
Hesitantly, he looks back at the blue devil, and Mephasm raises his
eyebrows expectantly.
“Are you a little torn, mortal? I sense a war raging within you.” He eyes
the ranger almost sympathetically. “As with all wars, the ultimate prize
is freedom. I’m afraid that one must always make sacrifices in battles.
That has always been the way.”
The pit fiend’s gaze shifts towards Alya, still nursing the gash in her
arm.
Bishop stares blankly at the dagger in his hand. Its curved blade is
coated in a crimson liquid, and he sees a drop of claret forming at the
tip, before breaking off and splashing softly onto the earth.
I can’t do this…
But I must…
He lifts his head towards his Pa. The older man’s eyes are soft and
hopeful, filled with an unspoken love. He sees the same expression on
his Ma’s face, and Calyx’s, as they urge him on:
Need to think…
No…
Opening his eyes, he gazes again at Alya. She is still sitting where she
fell, a hand clutching her bleeding arm.
Finally, his eyes fall on the incandescent portal, the inviting scene of
his home village waving at him from its centre, as if beckoning him
towards it, towards his gateway to a new life.
All at once, he reaches a decision. When he does look back at Alya, his
eyes are steely with determination, his jaw set in resolve.
Kneeling on the ground, his arms still holding her in a vice-like grip, he
pulls her body so close to his that they are almost fused together, until
he can feel her heart thudding against his chest. He gazes into her
luminous green eyes.
This will be the last time he sees them so big and bright. He may as
well make the most of it.
When his lips finally leave hers, his golden eyes are dark with a desire
he knows will never be fulfilled. His hand on the small of her back pulls
her towards him further before snaking around her shoulders, holding
her in a strong embrace.
When he finally lets her go, he looks down at the dagger sticking out
from his own chest, watching with morbid fascination as his lifeblood
starts to pool around the blade and splatter onto the dirt at his knees.
He imagines the poison, his pain, his troubles, all being carried out of
his body by the crimson current.
Now that the pain is over, nothing else seems to matter anymore.
His eyes start to glaze over as he stares up at the angry red sky. A
weak smile plays across his lips when he sees Alya’s worried face
looking down at him.
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“Could this one person really mean more to you than…a second
chance in life…?” Bits of the devil’s earlier question echo in his mind,
even as dark spots begin to fill his failing vision.
Yes…
But why?
Flashes from the past replay themselves in his head: he sees her in her
beloved old robe, the soft green bringing out the dazzling colour of her
exotic eyes. He sees the jagged hem of the same garment, as she tore
the magical healing runes off it to wrap around his injured arm. He
hears snatches of their conversation the night before her trial by
combat, when she had called him her friend…why did that stick in his
mind so?
He sees himself cradling her head gently in his lap, as he waited for
her to break out of her coma after their sojourn into the Nine Hells. He
sees himself stroking her hair gently, murmuring soothing nonsense
into her slightly pointed ear, praying to all the gods that she would be
all right. He hears himself whispering things to her as she lay
unconscious that he would never say if he knew she was actually
listening:
“I love you…”
He recalls how distraught he had felt when she lay so close to death.
Now, in the fading light, she is kneeling over him, a hand to her mouth,
her eyes wide with worry and shock. Her arm is still bleeding where he
cut her, but otherwise she is relatively healthy and alive, and he feels
his heart lifting in relief.
As darkness falls, his body relaxes, and he feels the heavy burdens
finally falling off his shoulders, leaving his soul light and carefree. If he
could, he would have chuckled at his last delirious thought, that in a
way, he was a true hunter until the end.
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