#exile's path

Itene

The chimes were ringing, and I was trying to focus on the chiming as I let myself listen to the wind. eventually, my vision blurred, and then blanked.

A woman dressed like Liza was handing Joanna a set of bells on a string, and Joanna was handing over a small amount of money. Joanna started, suddenly, as she seemingly realized I was there and I saw a blush spread across her freckled face.

"What're those? Remember, you're the only one who can hear me, so wait til no one else can see to answer."

Joanna jumped, then smiled shyly to the Wanderling. "Thank you." Then she wandered off, and cursed. "My lady, my girl, don't scare me like that. And you weren't supposed to see those. They were a present. And I'm not done trading honey and mead."

I could feel a blush spreading in my actual body, beyond the wind I was projecting into, at the idea of Joanna getting presents from her. "I got you some presents too. Some treasure, jewelery, mostly."

Joanna smiled. "You're too kind."

"Looks like you want me in bells of some kind…"

"You weren't supposed to see!" Joanna objected.

"If I could show you what I got you I would!"

"Exactly, but you can't, so just…"

I felt a hand on her shoulder and jumped. "Love you, have to go."

The connection broke as I started out of the trance. Neith stood over me. "What do you need?" My voice was harsher than I meant it to be. I wasn't happy to see the woman, but honestly I mostly just wasn't happy to have my scrying of Joanna interrupted.

Neith's face was somber, and then I saw something even more startling - Baldor came into her field of view, covered in his full armor. "What's going on?"

"We need help. There's someone who needs work done with magic. Daemons may be involved. Mostly what is needed is help purifying a set of curses."

I paused. "I can use my magic here?" I heart pounded with excitement. "Actually? With full permission? No one has a problem with it? I get to actually use more challenging stuff in ways that matter?" I was going to learn how to really use my newfound abilities, beyond just the scrying I'd been able to use thus far, beyond the basic earth magic that I'd only been able to use in surges of desperation so far.

"Let me grab my things!" I grabbed the candle, the vial, the chalk, and clay, and the chimes.

***

I followed Nieth to the strange cottage, spotting glyphs of the sort I'd seen near Vixen's - and feeling my insides twist at the sight. "Are we sure we can trust whoever lives here?"

Neith gave me a gentle smile. "She's very different than Vixen. She takes care of people who get cursed - no charge. She needs the help of a mage. She also needs a priest and a paladin. Apparently there's going to be daemons floating around, and I'm needed to cleanse some of the curses. there's things that a dedicated Meloran can do."

"And…can you do it? I thought Melora listening to you wasn't a guaranteed thing."

Neith scowled. "I can only hope. But I can still feel her."

I thought about that. "Okay. So I'm supposed to be doing rituals to help break curses on people that need elemental magic while you work miracles?"

"Correct. And Yaga will be casting daemons out of people for Baldor to dispose of." Neith said it as if it was all normal.

"Okay. So…Where do we start?"

A voice spoke from behind me, and I spun around. A spindly woman with weblike hair that had probably been a richer shade of yellow at some point and whose color now looked like nothing so much as dirty straw. She wore a longcoat that reminded me of a noblewoman's riding jacket from the Empire, but her legs were covered in ragged skirts that looked more eastern in origin, and beneath those, legs that reminded me nothing so much as the sticklike legs of a bird.

"There's a few I'll want you to help. There's a place, near the garden in the back. I'll clear space for the rest."

Not knowing what to do, I wandered around. I saw a girl, only a year or two younger than I was, who looked skinnier than I'd ever been. Even so, she didn't look hungry - there was food in this house, and there was food in a garden that I'd seen on the way in. When I tried to offer her something, she flinched from it, and spoke, in a voice barely above a whisper, "Not without her helping. I can't." I didn't want to know what that meant. A boy, barely six, wandered around the house as though in a daze, in a smock, wrists and ankles adorned with bells that looked like they hadn't been taken off in a long time. He clutched them protectively when I looked, and the smell on the cords smelled like healing salves.

There was one girl who approached me, quiet. She was about eleven or twelve, to look at her. She touched my shoulder, gently, and I almost shouted - it felt like she'd slapped me. I looked, and a bruise was forming on my arm where she touched me. It didn't feel like she'd meant to hurt me, she'd also jerked a hand back at the contact, hiding her eyes behind mousy hair and apologizing, but I shook my head. "No, it's alright. I just…what happened?"

"I…I'm cursed. Something was…burned into me, Yaga says. Poison that isn't poison. Magic. I was taken from my parents cart when we were ambushed on the road."

I paused. "Your parents were wanderlings?"

She blinked. "No. Traders. I think. It's hard to remember them, now. They were…Their blood was part of it, I think. What happened to you?"

I tried not to laugh. "I was put in a cage and used to soak curses for seven other people, then purified and cursed and purified again, I think. I don't know that I totally understand it. But…I use magic now. I'm not here for sanctuary. Yaga asked me to help. I'm with a priest."

The girl looked at me, an expression on her face I couldn't read. Hope, maybe. Fear. "I'm not going to hurt…"

She backed away from me, but the witch spoke behind me, and I jumped. "She's telling the truth, Neva."

The girl - Neva - took another step, then nodded. "As…I trust you. I just…is it possible? To finally have it done?"

Yaga paused. "I believe so child. For almost everyone here."

Neva's mouth moved wordlessly, and Yaga told her to take me to a spot behind the house where it would be easy to work. I was fairly sure I had some kind of idea what to do, and I began placing clay into the cracks in the cobbles, forcing my will into them as I splayed my fingers on the ground. I didn't know what I needed, and for a while nothing happened.

I needed something that would…I needed a circle that would let me purify people. That would let me use magic to draw curses from them.

I heard a series of cracks, and opened my eyes, slowly. The clay had seeped into the ground, and had seemingly widened, then raced across the cracks it had made.

Almost an hour later, Baldor stood beside Yaga as she placed the little boy with the bells in what looked like a cage of singularly strange weave. "This will let a daemon out - but not back in. I'm going to draw it out, paladin - I trust you to slay it. This poor child has been forced to play host to something I've kept trapped inside him for years because letting it loose would kill him and everyone else here. With you here, that risk changes."

Neith already prayed over another person - the scrawny girl I'd seen on my way in. And I…

I looked into the eyes of Neva as she sat in the middle of my circle and crossed her legs. I lit my candles. And I took a breath, feeling a sickening dread as the chimes I'd hung up around the clearing rang ominously. I had a flicker of intuition about her curse. I didn't really know what had been done to her - I suspected Iris would have been able to intuit what I was looking at better than I would. But it wasn't a magical wound or poison - something was actually woven into her, and I was going to have to draw it loose to break the spell.

I walked over to her and gently poured half of my distilled water over her, apologizing softly as I did so, then pricked my finger with a dagger, and put a droplet of blood into the water, and into the clay I'd made the circle with.

Then I pressed my hands to the circle and started pitting myself against whatever was in her.

And I almost blacked out. She screamed - but that wasn't what scared me. There wasn't a conscious mind behind it, only a swirling force of malevolence, of hate, of pain, and something sealed using her as a lock or anchor - but I forced the water covering her to ground the energy that she increasingly crackled with, forcing it down from her and into the dirt.

An ominous steam rose from the ground as something attempted to rise as vapor, and I pushed more force into the candles blazing around her, rage at whatever it was I was fighting - if I was even fighting a thing that could be fought rather than just struggling against a force of nature, which seemed increasingly likely.

As if through a long tunnel, I heard Baldor cry out and the clash of a hammer striking something solid, the sound of blades scraping across a shield…

I was lost in what I was doing, though. I heard ethereal screams, and the world blacked in and out around me. I smelled storms brewing, and I dug my fingers into the earth as something rent the air around me. Curls of smoke rose from my clothing, but I lived, not sure how, and Neva continued to writhe in the middle of my circle.

Power coursed through my body, and I could see heat coming off her as though from a stove. The sounds in my mind rose to a crescendo, and for a moment it almost formed words, ones I couldn't make out. I doused her with the last of the water, placing hands directly on her to channel the power through the water, and saw something rip loose from her - felt, more than saw, and with a sound like tearing cloth.

Whatever it was, the force of it kicked me loose hard enough to cast me aside to roll across the hard-packed earth. I was dazed, only for a moment, but seized an opprotunity, seeing some vapor trying to fly off and grabbing a candle from the ground and sending fire screaming after it to rake it from the air.

That foul maisma seemed to melt away, but I…I don't know if I got it or not. I don't even know if it had been there.

So distantly, I thought I must have imagined it, I heard a bell tolling.

I do know that Neva sat up, shaking her head, clothing singed at the edges, and smiled.

Then she looked at me the way I looked at Liza.

I swayed as I leaned against a tree, and two thoughts hit me before I passed out. The first was that, absurdly, any semblence of childhood was over if people were looking at me that way.

The second was that Liza had taught me better than to black out in front of people.

**

When I woke back up, Neith was standing over me. "It's okay. You ran yourself too hard but you're alright."

"Neva?"

"She's fine. You got whatever it was out of her. Yaga's looking after her."

"That skinny girl?"

"You would scarcely believe how powerful that curse was. It was starving that poor girl to death. Parasitic, in nature. I was able to sever it. And Baldor…the daemon let loose is still dissolving. It was a strong one. But the boy is fine."

"Anyone else?"

"In truth, I think Neva's the only one she really needed you for. The others Baldor and I can probably handle. And there's a few things that the three of us can probably do in combination that no two of us could do alone. Anything left, we'll ask you for once you've rested."

I rolled over. "How bad was it? What I did?"

Neith thought about it. "I won't lie to you. the curse you broke wasn't the strongest one here. But it was by far the most complicated and the most dangerous. You did something incredible, and you should be proud."

"One more thing. What was it doing?"

Neith paused. "I can't say."

I squinted. "Can't…or won't?"

"In this case, both. I promised your mom. There's things that would…there's horrible things, out there. In the deeper parts of Chaos. You knowing about them, especially with magic, has the potential to get their attention. This is…this touches on one of those things. But you did a good thing."

There was a time that would have made me angry. But after what I'd just experienced. The things I'd heard…

"I believe that."

Baldor

Itene had wept when we left the little village in the woods. She'd done a good job of covering it, but she had wept, allowing us to see her tears. It was a hard thing, I think, on a young girl, or any young person, to realize where they stood with the world, to have to act into a role they might not be ready for. And she was acting - Baldor was no expert in the craft like Liza, but he could see that much. Drawing herself up, posing in the saddle as some storybook heroine would have, riding off - she'd learned from Liza, but she didn't have the older woman's expertise for deception. This had been hard on her.

And yet, the knight could hardly deny he was proud of her.

She'd done something hard, something Vixen had demanded payment for, and asked nothing. And that wasn't even accounting for what she'd done in Sargonny. Baldor drew up alongside the girl, her courier horse alongside his destrier, and spoke. "You did well. You should be proud."

Itene barely spoke in response, but she nodded and whispered a thank-you. He quietly asked if she wanted to talk, but Itene shook her head. He let her have the space.

He glanced around his companions as they made their way down the road. Marcus looked more reflective than usual. The young man wore his saber at his side, and his sword - and new ax - hung from the saddle. Marcus also held an Asgarian-style lance, casually, in one hand, as though simply preparing to charge without worrying himself overmuch. "You've grown."

Marcus shrugged.

"Not physically. I mean…you've changed. That village showed you something."

Marcus bit his lip. "First time in a while….ever, really…I wasn't a soldier. Just some guy, who took care of the horses. Everyone knew I was dangerous, but…that wasn't what people came to me for. They came to me to get their horses shod, or to just be taken care of as they passed through. They asked me to go ride out and gather the herd with that shepherd kid. When I drew a sword on those outlaws, it felt like I was doing something I didn't love, just something I was good at."

Baldor took that in. The thought of Marcus finding joy in something that wasn't battle filled him with relief - he had oft seen a flicker of regret or exhaustion cross Marcus's face before a fight started, before the rush of battle fever took the young man and he began roaring and smiling like a madman. To hear that Marcus was now ready to face that and actually wanted a life for himself that was something else, managing a holdfast or the horses…it was a relief.

"Bringing in that reiver lord - what did he call himself?"

Marcus snorted. "Baron Thorn."

Baldor laughed. "Right. What a pretentious styling for an outlaw leader…no, though. You brought him in when it was harder for you. When it only could have been a headache."

Marcus gave the usual look of arrogance, his mixed heritage giving the expression an almost catlike assurance - if one didn't know him, and if one didn't know where to look for the sign of suprise at the praise, and embarrassment at it being noticed. All his son said was, "It wasn't that hard."

"Harder than slaying him afield though, I imagine. You did the right thing, bringing him to the magisters. Even if they came to the same conclusion you did. It wasn't our land, wasn't our right to pass judgment. It belonged to the folk who lived there. And you respected that - once you'd have slain a thug like that out of hand."

Marcus nodded. "I'm to hold your land. I'm to be the law. I can't start breaking it myself. Even if I want to, even if the person deserves it. You taught me that. And…I haven't taken my knightly vows yet. But I've been told what Faldrea's are. I ought to practice."

Baldor smiled, softly. His son was growing into the role. "You'll be an amazing Sir Torin someday, Marcus. In many ways, you already are everything you need to be."

Marcus averted his gaze. "It never feels like it."

"It never will. Understanding it means constantly holding to your vows, constantly thinking and struggling with what you're doing. Deciding what is virtuous. Doing it, even when it isn't easy, or when you have doubts. But you're already doing that. Weighing strategic viability and the duty to protect against your duty to be honest, and choosing honesty whenever possible. Faithfully keeping your duties. It means something and you should be proud of yourself."

Marcus whispered a thanks, and Baldor called out to Neith. The druid and priestess had been the one who he felt he understood both very well and very poorly.

"We hunt an alchemist. Flesh alchemist. The kinds of men who make monsters. What can you tell me about him?"

Neith thought about it. "I've only met Belial once - and very briefly. It was in a circumstance where neither of us could act - I was separate from Malzan and neither my spear nor my knife were close. I spoke to him, and he exulted in explaining his processes to someone he said might be able to understand it. I was disgusted - the kinds of things he does, the kinds of ingredients he uses - but the passion in his voice as he described some of the foulest things imaginable. I think about it still, and I shudder. I eventually threw poisons directly into his face, and he laughed. Mind you, I got him with enough poison to drop Malzan, and Belial laughed and asked, while trying to run, why I'd assumed he hadn't made some changes to himself."

Baldor grimaced at that thought. "So…he's going to be much harder to kill than we hope."

"At a guess. I don't know what he's done, but I expect he'll take some killing."

Baldor sighed. he missed more straightforward antagonists, but he supposed this one was, at least, not in any conflict with any other duty. "Do you have what you need to take care of us if we catch up too soon?"

Neith nodded. "I have hopes that Iris will get us there fast enough. Incidentally, you know what she did in her village, right?"

Baldor blinked. He did, but it was one of Iris's most closely guarded secrets - even Liza and Thomas didn't know. "She told you?"

Neith shook her head. "She didn't have to. The legendary Iris was always said to have left her home village under mysterious circumstances. Then in Sargonny, she starts throwing around necromancy strong enough to kill a Harbinger? Something impossible for a first time breacher of the Veil? It didn't take much to figure out."

Baldor turned that over. "So, she did kill the Harbinger with necromancy. I thought as much."

"I doubt she even meant to. I think she saw an opportunity and threw everything she had at it, and the force of her khym tore the veil and shoved the daemon back through. She must be incredibly strong, incidentally. Far more than a common Chaos empath."

Baldor took that in. "And…from what you remember of the alchemist…do you think we can triumph?"

Neith smiled. "I think our chance is better than anyone else's. And I think that means we have to try."

The paladin nodded. Such was duty.

On the thought of Iris, his daughter in law was demonstrating her expertise. She'd seemed to thrive in the small village, bringing back sacks of forage and game every day for the common smokehouse and the granary each day. Now, she led the way, pointing out tracks and sign that he'd never have seen, and seemed to impress even Malzan. If anyone could find the Alchemist, she could. And with the barbarian's help, she'd already killed a few of the horrors this madman had created. Still, that wasn't what captured his attention. Iris seemed actually sad to have left the village. Marcus had as well, but where Marcus was reflective and melancholy, there was a sense in which Iris also seemed strangely relieved, invigorated in being on the road again. When he'd asked, all she'd said was, "Once you've lived in a small enough village as a child, had to leave and returned to find that you will never fit again, living in another small village the world forgot is…it's magical and nostalgic and sad all at once, and I could only do it for so long, I think. Before it started driving me mad and wanderlust started taking hold. Having a long journey and a worthwhile quarry is almost a relief."

It made sense, but it raised the question of who Iris was now - not the girl from Ithor, but, according to what she kept saying, not the kind of person who gloried in what she'd become. Maybe she was going to be happy as a Dame Torin.

The thoughts of her hunting companion, though, brought Malzan to mind. The Chimmaeran was Marcus's age, and covered in tribal tattoos and scars, but he moved near silent. Of all their companions, Baldor felt he understood the Chimmaerian the least, even as Thomas, Marcus, and Iris swore they understood him better, now. He seemed eager to come to grips with an old enemy, with the backing of his newfound allies, and Baldor had to admit: that much, he could understand. The abominations that he'd seen as a result of the Mad Alchemist's handiwork defied both the primal spirits of nature that Malzan held and the gods Baldor swore to serve.

And on the subject of gods and challenges to them - he wasn't blind to what Itene had done, even if he didn't understand it as well as Neith. She was going to draw the attention of the dark powers. And yet, she'd done what was right, over and over. As much as it would have been better if she hadn't, he could hardly deny, he was proud of her and she had every cause to be proud of herself. She had more than earned her place here, both by virtue of ability, and, more important, how she was choosing to use it.

And of course, Itene's ersatz parents. Thomas and Liza were talking ahead - Thomas had, for all his misgivings, gone along with Marcus's decision, something he wouldn't have expected. Whether the thief was becoming more merciful, more chivalrous, or perhaps, he was simply too loyal to go against any of the companions in a field decision. Regardless, Baldor was grateful to him for his support of Marcus. The thief was smiling more, but Baldor could see a question in his eyes, one that had clearly gotten into him during the time in the village. He couldn't hear what Thomas and Liza were saying, but Thomas looked pensive, and Liza more than a little sad.

He cantered a little closer.

"I don't know. I don't know where I'm going. The way Marcus was…he'll be a natural Knight, once he gets there. You seem happy enough as Itene's mother. I don't know…I don't know what to do with myself. If I want to try to do what Marcus is going to do, and try to make some city a better place, settle there, or to settle down with you and Itene in Torin's Run."

Baldor grunted. It wasn't his place to answer. Thomas was struggling with a sense of duty versus love. It hardly felt fair, in truth. Thomas and Liza's lives had surely been hard enough, and yet - one could hardly deny how much of a difference they'd made to the world. How much they could. Itene would come of age within the next few weeks, so it was hardly as though she would be unable to live alone once she arrived home.

Still, he did feel obligated to say something. "Thomas, Liza. You - both of you, and Itene too - would be welcome on my land, as long as my line holds sway there." He had no idea if Thomas would take that or not. Whatever drove Thomas was the thief's to answer.

But he hoped that Thomas and the bard, and their daughter, would find a happy end to their road.

And to his own? He saw Marcus's eyes, more and more. Saw himself in a looking glass, or a stream, here and there. Could feel his joints creak and scream when he raised a hammer, or a shield. Felt his bones ache under armor, in ways they never used to. Saw the worry in Marcus's eyes when he stood to battle. He was getting old. It was, perhaps, too much to hope that he would have been able to simply live as he had as a young man forever.

But he was alive for now. He had a duty to do, and oath to keep, his own keep to come back to. Companions to lead.

My son will survive my death, but not my disgrace. Neith's words came to him, unbidden.

That made things easy. Get home. Trust his companions.

Thomas

It was good to smell the bubbling of soup that was actually meant to be enjoyed, rather than just keep you alive on a long march. Strange to see Marcus interacting with animals other than Migisi, too, though he supposed it wasn't that suprising that the man was good with horses. He had spent half his youth with Asgarian plainsfolk. He had been suprised to see Marcus make a good goatherd, but perhaps he shouldn't have been. It was mostly a matter of coralling them, to hear Marcus telling it, and Marcus had kept inexperienced infantry in line during drill. It had been good seeing the guy run around with the livestock, all arrognce and tension gone, his wild riding accompanied by an easy laugh and an easy smile. He'd even seen Marcus give the shepard boy a ride back to the village a few times. A handful of times, watchmen had called him when they were worried about bandits, and Marcus had casually chased them into the distance, but those were the only days the other man had even drawn a blade.

And Iris! that girl had been a marvel for the things she'd taught some of the locals about woodcraft, finding edible plants that the villagers hadn't known where to look for. Rare was the day when she didn't return to the village with a full sack of wild potatoes with an animal of some kind slung across acteon, or with a dozen kids on her heels that she'd taught valuable lessons in foraging. Hell, she spent some days showing some people how to knap arrows from flint or sharpen arrow heads from scrap metal from the forge, or straighten arrowshafts. She swore up and down she'd show people how to carve yew branches and work them into bowstaves for better hunting so they could have more consistent game.

Even Malzan had put in incredible effort, mostly with the farmers, lifting and hauling, pushing a plow. Liza had settled herself in with gusto, performing and helping cook, clean, and manage the tavern, serving drinks and food in the townhouse. Baldor was helping the town council keep track of the granary and work with the stewards, and Neith was splinting broken arms and working on anyone who needed healing. Which left Thomas feeling just…out of place. he could peel potatoes for the townhouse, he could wash dishes - could he ever wash dishes! - he could fetch water from the well, scrub any number of things with the lye that the village made.

But all of that was incredibly boring, and almost everyone else had something exciting to…No, that wasn't it. Thomas forced himself to stop being a coward and confront his actual feelings. It wasn't boredom - or at least, it wasn't only boredom, it was also shame. Marcus was a killer by trade, but a soldier rather than an assassin, but he was also a skilled enough horseman and knowledable about the beasts to be a stablehand, and his riding made him an invaluable aid to the herdsmen here as well. If he didn't wind up winning back the keep, he could find work in any village as an honest man without issue. Baldor, even if he never regained his title, was strong enough and knew enough of law and justice to find work as an arbiter, and he knew enough of assessing quality metal to find at least some work in a forge. Neith…healers were welcome anywhere, priests or not. He'd always known that Iris was by rights an honest woman who'd have preferred hunting to feed folk rather than slaying for coin, but this was one of the first times he'd seen it, and seeing the others alongside it really drove the point home. Liza could find a home, or at least a respectable occupation anywhere that needed a bard or a singer or even a historian.

But him? He had nothing. There was no worthy or honest skill he had, and what he did know was almost all applicable to the arts of theft, skulking, lying and murder. What else he could do was mostly drudgery. For years he'd assumed that was enough for him - after all, he had never believed he would grow old - but now, for the first time, Thomas Grey was forced to reflect that he wanted something else from life if he ever did live to get too old for a life as an interent treasure hunter and cutthroat. And especially now that Itene was part of his life, he wanted her to be proud of him - oh, the tale of the dashing thief made for a great story, but it was just a tale, and Itene had seen too many hard things to be overly impressed by knowing her father was a thief and murderer with nothing else to offer the world. Maybe Liza could look past it, but he didn't want her to have to.

The woman who ran the townhouse, a stout matron with short, coal-black hair and a Nistrean countenance, pounded him on the back and shoved a tray into his arms. "Get out there. Dishes are done enough, and more will be dirty soon. Your woman will be singing, you can serve drinks."

Thomas rolled up his sleeves and started laying drinks out for people. It wasn't hard, and he didn't mind it, swiping a few coins off tables and replacing them with mugs of ale, or bringing platters of food. Today there was apparently a merchant in the town, which meant that there were coins to be gathered. He had been told this before - the townhouse normally took a cut of everyone's crops as a way of baking its bread and making the stew, but anyone could eat there, for free if they lived here. Even people who lived here only for a short time could get the free meal, as long as they were working consistently in the town. Thus, Thomas scrubbed dishes and served food. Marcus and his herding. Iris and her hunting. Merchant caravans paid in coin for everything they wanted, or they offered the town a selection of whatever they were carrying, with the magisters and the traders negotiating a reasonable rate for their stay.

This group had apparently agreed to money, and Thomas wasn't complaining - though he could have gotten the town a better rate without negotiation, since from the frill these people were swathed in they could easily afford it. But that wouldn't make sense, he knew - after all, a theft from a travelling merchant by a pickpocket didn't hurt the pickpocket but could well hurt the town, if word got around. So he couldn't just go around theiving as a fast way to make money for the poor workers in the village, as it would lead to a greater shortage in the long term.

As the merchants shouted in the room, he approached and took their money, bringing back a set of tall steins of frothing ale. His eyes flicked around. Itene was still rushing back and forth between the kitchen and the taproom, bringing more things out, and Liza was strumming her lute in the corner. The matron was also working with guests, as was her daughter, who had struck up a conversation with Itene as the two girls worked.

Thomas gave a faint smile. Hopefully, Itene wouldn't get herself into trouble here.

Iris and Marcus had been in here earlier, but he could already see that they'd left, leaving a heap of meat and forage in the kitchen, one that Iris had helped cook. He was busy, now, serving quickly, and….

Hang on.

One of the merchants - not the eldest, actually; younger man, couldn't have been older than twenty, but well dressed - was talking to a young woman from the town. The girl was one he knew - she was around seventeen summers, and she had asked Liza for stories when Liza walked the town, had sometimes spoken with Itene, and was the eldest of four. Her family had come here as refugees from some kind of war in the east. There were things in the merchant's carriage that Thomas didn't like, well beyond the mere fact that he was a rich boy - the tailored doublet was haphazardly worn, as though it wasn't cared for as well as a merchant's ought to be, and he wore fine-tooled leather boots. A merchant of Xerxes' age, so dressed, would have merely been showing off wealth he'd earned from a long life of hard work in the trade, but this boy was little older than Marcus, and was travelling with a man of obvious family resemblance. Spoilt, in other words, used to fine things without worrying overmuch if he was caring for them properly.

The boy also wore a sword - which in itself Thomas could hardly fault, except that he'd listened in on Marcus lecturing Itene about swordplay often enough to recognize a few things. "'I don't care how it looks,'" Marcus had told the girl, "'you belt it on at this angle rather than the one that people say is the soldier's uniform or the duelist's style because that is the fastest way to draw your blade, and any advantage keeps you alive.'" Thomas had been careful to watch after that, and careful to make sure Itene had worn her sword the way Marcus said. This boy wore his sword in a fashion that Marcus had scorned. Even through the peace-tie, Thomas could see that the leather wrappings on the grip were still fresh, even as the pommel was bright and worn from being grabbed, the way some men did when they wanted to rattle a blade to threaten someone. The arrogant pup walked around with a swagger, as though he was used to getting his way, and Thomas had already heard him speak before the girl got in, complaining about the backwater he and his caravan were now staying in.

Which meant that while this merchant's brat spoke to the girl, Thomas watched him like a hawk. He wasn't much for honest work, but he knew how to spot trouble ahead of time.

It wasn't long before trouble came. The girl's younger siblings came in, and she looked up at their voices. The young man's hand traced the rim of her cup, and Thomas, with practiced eyes, saw something fall in. No one else would have seen it - but Thomas knew what faeling powder was, and he hated the sight of it. He walked over as the girl stood up, shouting as he did so, and the boy looked in his direction - as he passed their table, he switched the cups without breaking stride. If he was wrong about the merchant's intent, no harm done.

The matron clapped him on the shoulder as he dropped the plates back in the sink and whispered to him. "Now what was that bit of ledgermein I saw you doing?"

"Saw that merchant kid put something in Marashi's drink. That's all." he said, quietly. "If it's nothing, it's nothing. But it looked a lot like faeling powder. Don't know if you've ever seen it, but it's a drug from Eleria, pretty commonly used by…"

"I know what it does, wanderer." the matron spat. "You don't get this old as a townhouse keeper if you don't. Good eye, and good trick. He'd have to be stupid if he just slipped that in in front of this many folk, and in something as mild as red ale as well."

Thomas shrugged. "See the shape of his clothes? Doesn't strike me as a bright boy."

The merchant slumped, abruptly, and began slurring his speech. The girl teased him, lightly, asked if he had a hard time holding his drink. She wouldn't know how much danger she'd been in - though some of the other patrons were giving dark looks. Thomas smiled as the merchant boy's father grabbed him and shook him. It was perfect - no one was hurt, and the little bastard's father wasn't going to be taking issue with the village, either. He was shaking his son and calling him an idiot. Whether he knew what had actually happened or not, he wouldn't say anything, nor spread bad rumors about this town's safety. He may just assume the boy was an idiot and a fop, and choose to believe he'd poisoned himself by mistake.

Wasn't terribly heroic, but it did get the job done with no collateral damage. As he quickly grabbed a flagon off the bar from where Itene and her new friend had placed it, to pour a few more drinks for a couple of the other traders, he grinned and let himself be satisfied for a moment. The other traders he served tipped their caps to him - these were more humbly clothed, and had greeted the innkeep with respect, offered the townsfolk their wares and taken goods in exchange after a decent days' barter where they'd found good bargains to be struck. One was even laughing at the little fop.

"Glad to see it happen. Hopefully that miserable little prick gets sick enough tomorrow he takes a tumble under the wagon wheels."

The vehemence of the trader's voice surprised him. Thomas let out a neutral, "Oh?"

"Boy's been in plenty of trouble, but his father owns half the caravan, ain't going to do anything about it. It's not like the old man ain't bad enough himself, but he's got some restraint, and his worst days were in his youth. Wishing I could find another caravan to hook up with. If that boy winds up sick enough, could be the old man will finally discipline the little shit for slowing down our progress. If not…accidents happen, and this run is riskier than most."

Thomas shrugged. "He didn't just get drunk?"

The merchant gave him a shrewd look. "No one gets drunk that fast."

"That clumsy, eh?"

"You wouldn't believe how stupid that boy is."

Secure in the knowledge that whatever happened next would be easy enough, as the boy staggered out and his father berated him, Thomas collected the boy's cup from him and palmed something off his belt - and exactly as predicted, grabbed a small pouch of powder that he checked as he slipped behind the kitchen door. The boy would mention it to his father, sure, but his father would likely be just as relieved to not run into this sort of idiocy for a while, if what the others said was true.

And it wasn't like Neith couldn't make more use of a drug that destroyed someone's inhibitions than that entitled snotling.

The townhouse matron saw him tuck it away and nodded to him. "Saw that. Why didn't you tell me you were slick?"

Thomas paused. "Whatcha mean?"

"Slick. Good eyes. quick hands. Good judgement. That kind of skill, you'd be decent in this business. Keep drinks flowing quickly and easily. Keep food on tables, collect money. Memorize faces so you know whose a local and who isn't. Remain unseen to listen to gossip, though I'm sure that's a better skill in a city than a small town - but you'd be surprised what you pick up from merchants and wanderers, even here…" She waved a hand. "And keep an eye out for trouble. Keep it redirected, subtly, without causing a fuss. That isn't you?"

Thomas paused. It did sound like things he could do, he supposed, though he wasn't sure he had everything else he needed.

It was a start though. Maybe not a bad one. "Thank you. But…what do you mean, about things you've heard?"

Neith

Neith walked with Baldor as he left Liza with Itene.

"Marcus returned earlier." Baldor said. "He brought back an outlaw leader. With Thomas. Said he had the chance to slay the man in the field, but needed to do his duty by the law, if he was going to represent it as my heir. Said he felt a fool when the magister told him they'd have been fine with him slaying the reiver bossman in battle, but I told him that he couldn't have known that - that it was the right thing for him anyway."

Neith raised an eyebrow. "He learned then. What's right for a warrior isn't right for a ruler. And Thomas?"

"Went along with Marcus. He seemed troubled. I'll ask his mind, at least."

Neith thought on that, but decided she'd speak to the theif as well. "And…"

Neith broke off as she saw Iris and Malzan emerge from the woods, near the edge of sight, past Baldor. Malzan splattered in blood. Iris carried something in her pack, looking drawn and her quiver was near empty.

"They found what they were hunting." Baldor said when he saw them. "And they won."

She didn't ask how he knew. Malzan wouldn't have withdrawn - and to guess, neither would Iris. Baldor walked over to look at them, and Neith ran. She saw Baldor hug Iris out of the corner of her eye, and Malzan winced at her minstrations. "Caustic venom…nasty work here." She was already applying a salve that would take the worst of the burns out. The hydra hyde jacket had already absorbed much of it, but the beast's claws had scratched some of it, and through the rents, the venom had come. Malzan's own remarkable constitution had actually managed to resist it, but the venom had left harsh blisters in his skin that now wept blood and pus as the salve drew the venom out.

"I found something important in its den." Iris said. "Notes, scrolls. Someone bred the thing on purpose. Belilal, Malzan said. He spoke it like a foe you two had encountered before."

Malzan snarled beneath her minstrations, and Neith grunted. "Softly. You're still hurt." Turning to Iris, she said, "Yes. Belial, the mad alchemist. He's one of those people who roams around and works with all sorts of evils - the Cathedral of Sargonny, the Zammorean Empire, probably the vampires in the far west, the Fomor, he's probably created warbeasts for the Pikar or some of the really weird cultists in the Jadehorn Jungle. He's been all over the world and experimented with creatures from all over. Malzan and I have seen his work here and there - seen him once, but he got away. We heard his name in Sargonny, and thought we might catch up."

She pondered telling the truth. Neith hadn't dared say it in a long time. "And…I believe he might have been the one to create the blight that ravaged my home. Was the reason Vixen was able to entrap me. She helped create a smoke censor, one that helped cleanse it, but…she demanded a price. That I swear myself to her. And…So many had died by then. Almost a third of us. From what I know of him, I doubt he'd have done it there just to do it. I don't doubt he was just…testing it." That had always enraged her. That the mad alchemist had dabbled in plague magic and then cast a curse upon her village just to test it out. The herbalist didn't want to know what he had done to make that spell work - but in truth, she could guess all too well, and didn't dare speak it aloud.

She stitched closed the wounds on Malzan's chest, and dressed them. "Careful with these. They'll heal fast. You always do." Her tone was affectionate. "I could read some of his notes for alchemical formulae, maybe, but if he's written some kind of journal with plans, I doubt I could read any such thing. Liza would be a better bet. And I need to wash my hands first, anyway. Don't want to stain them."

She checked over Iris, and determined that the archer was unhurt to her satisfaction. "I'll go check the infirmary and wash my hands. If you can get those to Liza, I'll be back."

The other two nodded, and Neith walked off. It had been a good time, here, a time to recover. But if they had a lead on the whereabouts of the Mad Alchemist, it was coming to an end.

The young woman she'd been training saw her in the healing house and started talking to her - then saw her face. "Miss, are you alright?"

"I've gotten some news. I'll be here a little longer, but I'll have to go soon. I don't know when I'll be back. You've learned in the time I've been here. And you'd already coem a long way since the last time I was." The leaves outside had been yellowing when they'd arived, now they flamed crimson from the branches, some already browning at the edges.

The young woman paused. "Why…why now?"

Neith paused. how much to say? "An old enemy resurfaced. One who makes blights with dark magic. We have a chance to track him down and kill him."

The journeyman healer stopped, then simply nodded. "I understand. Then…gods go with you."

**

When Neith returned to her quarters, she saw Liza pouring over the tight-rolled parchment that Iris had brought. The bard looked up and glared at Neith. "Quick question, did you get a look at the parchment?"

Neith winced. "Is it human skin?"

Liza nodded, curtly. "How did you know?"

"The last set with him was. And you're happier not knowing about the ink."

Liza let out a breath from between her teeth. "When we're done hunting this one down, we're looting whoever sheltered him, and buying some time in a very isolated, very hot bath house. I can tell already I'm going to need that. And turns out that won't be too hard - he's gone east. Towards Zammorea and Hansea, near the border, this says." Her tone took on the timbre of someone reading out a narrative. "No idea if Zammorea wants another go at ressurecting some dragons and can pay for some of the materials, or if the Hansean emperor wants a potion to prolong life, but in either case, someone will hire out that way."

Neith sucked in a breath. The kinds of potions that would prolong life beyond natural limits had truly horrific components. "So. Sounds to me like our first priority, no matter what, is to chase him east. See if we can pick up his trail."

Iris sucked a breath through her teeth. "It's almost winter. And it's a long way to Hansea. You realize that, yes? A long way, on foot, or on horse. And winter won't be easy on us."

Neith shivered. "But can you and Malzan make it work?"

Iris thought about it a long moment. "I don't dare go over the Ghulian mountains - not in winter. The southern route might work, if we can skirt the edge of the desert. Malzan?"

"Even the southern route takes us over the moutnains - but there's a low-lying pass we'd have to get through. As long as we can get there before it closes, we should be fine. If not…we'll be stuck." He shrugged a shoulder larger than Neith's head. "And no getting around it - I could scale those rocks, sure. Thomas, maybe. Iris could survive the trails on the back way around if she didn't have to babysit anyone else. You, or the rest of our companions? No."

Iris nodded. "I've never been that far east, but I've seen maps and spoken with people who have, and that sounds about right. Winter is going to be more dangerous to us than any enemy we meet along the way. If we are actually doing this, we need to get packed and get moving. I'll get a list of what we need - do not skimp, and do not pack more than what I tell you, either."

Neith looked at Liza as Iris began moving around the room, and Liza shook her head. "No. We share decision making - Baldor might lead overall, but when it comes to politics, everyone does what I say. In battle, Marcus makes decisions. In matters of stealth, it's Thomas. When it comes to staying alive in the wilderness, Iris is the one in charge. You're the one we listen to about healing or rituals."

"She hasn't been there!"

"And she's going to talk to Malzan, who has, and then translate what he says to what a normal human would need."

Neith worked that over in her head. Iris would have been the one who got this team into the Blasted Lands alive, and had definitely led them back out, and she doubted Iris had been there before. So Iris was clearly good at improvising. Alright, she'd trust what the huntress had in mind. It wasn't like she was willing to let Belial go, and if Iris could get them on his trail before the thaw…

Neith sat down. "It's a pity to leave so soon. But…It does need doing."

Liza sighed. "Itene won't be unhappy. I think she was unsettled once it began settling in for her that the girl she saved saw her the way she sees us. I think that's going to be something she's going to be stuck thinking about for a long time. She didn't have to deal with it from the ailimenta kids in the Empire - and she never did anything too storybook heroine in front of Joanna. Or at least, she only did the part where the hero still needs help, before they become so much larger than life that anyone who didn't already know them could forget. But this time…she's face to face with the fact that she's becoming a legend herself now. And I'm going to have to do a better job preparing her for the other side of that."

"Being lonely?" Neith probed.

"Being lonely in a crowd."

Neith knew too well what Liza was going to say next. "Knowing that you're legend helps you, knowing that people will trust you because of the stories around your name - but knowing, too well, that it's going to isolate you. That the only people who will ever be able to understand you are the people who you share that status with. Because they're the only ones who know how many of those stories are lies, or can guess. And everyone else needs to believe in order to not lose faith. Hell, for that matter, being put on a pedestal is great when you need someone to trust you - but then you need to live up to it to keep that trust, even if you didn't ask to be elevated. Even if they put you there the first time you did something that looked like it."

Neith nodded. "And if they haven't heard of you, the first time you do something they think is impossible when they're desperate, they start making stories up about you in their head, make whatever you did even bigger. She is already doing things that are supposed to be impossible, so any speculation anyone has about her is something she can't disprove even if it would be a good idea." She'd felt it all too well.

Liza looked toward the room where Itene was sleeping. "But she doesn't realize. Or…she didn't. Facing the Regent was one thing. We barely survived it. Seeing a girl her own age look at her like a hero out of songs…that did it for her. I don't think she'll want to stay anywhere she's been reminded of it."

"Best hope that girl in Torin's Run doesn't see her throwing magic around then." Neith had her own response to that, but it would be hollow. But there was one important difference.

"There is one thiing she should know though, Liza. If she doesn't think she can do something, she needs to be open about it. Especially with us. Magic punishes a lack of nerve and a lack of faith - if she doesn't think she can do it, she can't, and she can't bluff Chaos. She'll understand that better than we will - and she'll know herself better than any of us except maybe baldor by the end. Whether she wants to go home with that knowledge is another question."

She'd only been home once since Vixen had taken her, and it had been after she'd found the spirit to the whistle she now wore. And she hadn't wanted to go back once her former friends had seen her wearing a totemic power like that around her neck. Unconsiously, she thumbed the totem, and Liza glanced at it.

"You've been wearing that the whole time I've known you. And I've heard stories about Yndrani heroes wearing artifacts like that. Why not use it in Sargonny?"

Neith gave a wan smile. "Seeing as we are equals, and you're not someone putting me on a pedestal? It doesn't work the way you think it does. The spirit here couldn't have helped there. I'll call it the day we're in a situation in can help with. I promise."

Baldor

From inside the cage, the little boy had looked terrified, but the witch had told him, singing all the while, to take the bells off his wrists and ankles, and the moment he had, he began shaking. Yaga kept chanting, until the boy rolled over and coughed up something, some dark smoke that twisted into a solid form and lunged forth.

Baldor was ready. He caught a glimpse of claws and put his shield between that and Yaga, then swung his hammer around. It hit something solid, with a sound like the hammer striking rotting fruit, and then the claws had lashed out again, and he'd felt something foul tangle around his leg. When grappled, he'd fallen heavily to earth, snatching a dagger from his waist and striking frantically at the beast grabbing him, keeping his shield between it and his body. He'd gotten a glimpse of it though - horrible, golden eyes that burned with a feral hate - and once it had let go from the pain of the dagger in its belly, he'd grabbed up his hammer and struck it again, and again, exhulting prayers to Bahamut as he did.

A sound, like the toll of a bell, and the baelfire eyes of the thing went dark, and the oily form began burning away. He could hear the relieved sobs of the little boy, who left the protective cage and jumped into the arms of Yaga.

He heard something from where Neith was, screaming, sobbing; what sounded like relief, and then the sounds of frantic retching before the sounds of frantic gulping, praying, and…in the distance, he could hear a panicked cry, and the crack of cobblestones.

He rushed over to where Itene had been set up, but nothing was there. The girl she'd spoken with, nearly passed out, and speaking softly. Itene, passed out and crying blood, her magic candles flaring irregularly, and a foul stench in the air, the wind still pierced by eerie whistles from throats he could not percieve. These sounds grew quieter as he approached, but then faded.

The girl shook him. "She did it. Something…Something left me. Some power. I felt it. I don't know how but she's…she's a miracle. Will she be alright?"

Baldor lifted Itene near effortlessly, slinging his hammer and shield as he did so. "She should be. I'll bring her to our healer."

Neith looked up from what she was doing with the sickly girl and shook her head. "She's fine. I'll be with her in a moment."

Baldor stood there, cradling Itene awkwardly, as the girl Itene had healed looked on, and then, seemingly realized she could do something, scurried off, presumably to find Yaga.

Neith shuddered as the girl downed another potion, and then grabbed the girl's hands and prayed, her lips forming frantic utterances to Melora, in the Tamerian that the high churches usually used for sacred litanies. Baldor could make out some of them, though he was unfamiliar with some of the terms that Neith was saying. 'Mother Melora, Faithful of Love and Matron of Arts and Healers, grant now your grace to this lost child and restore her to her health and purity of spirit against the design of the dark powers…'

It wasn't a prayer that Baldor had ever heard before. In fact, the use of 'purity' was one that would probably have pissed off Liza, given that in liturgical Tamerian, that word was also used for chastity. He made a mental note to ask Neith later.

The girl jerked abruptly, back arching, and screamed, then keeled over and wretched up something black, bilious, and then coughed, once. Baldor stepped forward as though to grab her, but Neith stopped him with an arm, and handed her pure water, which she drank down. Neith poured oil into the poison bile, then lit it ablaze, pushing the girl's face away from the smoke.

"It's done. You should be able to eat again. Eat properly, I mean. Go slowly - that curse will have done things to your appetite that will linger." The girl stumbled, but looked up gratefully. Nieth held out a piece of bread, and as Baldor watched, the girl, almost gingerly, fearfully, reverently, took it, and tore a piece off. Then she ate, and the relief that flooded her face was something to behold.

Then Neith turned towards Itene. "Oh, child," she murmured. "No, she will come to no harm. She overdrew herself. Food, rest, water. And she will be fine. A space by a fire. I can give her a tonic, but in truth, she will gain more from being brought back to Liza once she wakes. I will ask Yaga what else is needed." Baldor nodded, but he needn't have waited - as though from nowhere, Yaga appeared behind him.

"The mage child did what I needed - Neva's curse was ever the hardest. I would welcome her back, and she should come if she wishes to grow her skills, but in truth, your power and that of Neith's new connection with Melora will avail me more in the coming hours with my remaining charges. I have a place for your girl to rest. Set her there, then we will finish our tasks."

**

It was some two hours later that Baldor and Neith sat, weary. Neith looked exhausted, hair bound back, breathing ragged, face drawn. Baldor's armor was stained with ash, his breastplate and shield scored with new clawmarks, and in several places, stained with something foul. Sweat streaked the surcoat underneath. The second creature that he had fought was weaker, but had continually changed form to ruin his blows until he'd finally landed a strike on it, at which point it had crumbled. Based on everyone else's reactions to it, it had been doing much worse for them, but his power as a paladin had protected him.

And he'd seen Neith bring one young boy to actual screams, until he glowed and sobbed and was left scarred with what looked like lightning burns, but he was now speaking again, and whatever vile power had been inside him was gone. The boy would live. The boy would heal, and Neith had given him salves and tinctures to treat the burns.

Itene slept by the fire. Yaga tended to her, even as Neva continued to eat and drink her fill, looking admiringly at the sleeping Itene.

"Neith," Baldor rumbled, and the herbalist - priestess - looked to him.

"Yes?"

"I heard your litany over the girl. I've not heard purity in that context before."

She shrugged. "Purity of spirit does not mean chastity - or, rather, not like that. Nor does it have much to do with sin. The girl was impure not because of things she'd done, but because she had quite literally been poisoned at a spiritual level. I was removing the impurity. That is what a curse is to some degree - a spiritual poison. It's why a higher level of healing magic, from Melora, is needed to cleanse it. Then there’s other things, like what Itene undid, where it’s closer to a spiritual parasitism – but that isn’t a curse, that’s a binding, dark power bound to you in a way that leaches from you to self-sustain. There's even more potent forces, but you'd need to be much stronger or much closer than I am to Melora right now to drag them out - things like what we encountered in the Blasted Lands. Vixen could fix it, I couldn't - and even Vixen needed knowledge from a daemonic grimorie so that she could call on the forces involved by Name to drag them out."

Baldor thought about that. "I…see. So then…Liza is chaste in the ritual context?"

Neith laughed. "No, gods no. No, she…she overrelies on her khym, and her power…it isn't one that leaves a person spiritually chaste if they overrely on it. Then again, to be very honest, neither are any of our companions. Except maybe Malzan."

Baldor took that in with a certain amount of equanimity. "I see. That is something I was taught, I think, but I…"

"Khym itself isn't dangerous. The way they use it is. Liza's awoke in the midst of pain, and she's used it again and again to relive that, to use her pain to gain power. Marcus and Thomas too. Iris is a kind soul, you know this well. But you know what she reached into, with that same kind spirit, and…well. Of all of them, I'd say she and Marcus would be in the worst danger. Marcus, because he dances with the darkness every time he fights something actually dangerous. Iris because the monsters we fight are barely the surface of an impossibly deep trench in the darkness of the powers, and forget whatever she did that got her exiled from her little village that you refuse to tell me but that I can too well guess, whatever she did to that Harbinger - there are things staring up at her from the very bottom of that trench now, her and Itene both after what Vixen did."

Baldor saw her hands move and make Melora's dove wings, probably subconsciously, but she added a seperate set of gestures - something that looked like spreading roots.

"So, tell me, Paladin." She asked, "What do you make of all of it? What do you think of the world we've entered? Where daemons are real and we're expected to deal with it?"

Baldor waved a hand. "I've lived in it for a time. Faldrea has challenged Pikar berserkers for years, and every so often they bring sorcerers down. Sometimes with monsters, sometimes with daemons. It wasn't a mystery to me. Facing Abbadon was new to me. Travelling the world and seeing more of them, that was…that was new. But even then…in truth, Neith, facing daemons, like today, is sometimes easier." He turned over his next words carefully. "I saw an honest woods witch draw an evil force out of a child, one that was put there by a band of cultists to one of the dark gods. When that evil force coalesced into a daemon, I struck it with a hammer until it went back to hell. When we find whatever cult infested a child with a daemon, I'll take part in slaying them too. No issue. Happy to do it, in truth."

Neith's raised eyebrows invited him to continue.

He did, and he saw the priestess listen without much judgement. "What I struggle with is the other things I've come to since I began travelling. Overthrowing kings. A negligent fool who was going to lose his throne regardless, yes. And to be sure, the war was going to happen regardless of what we did. But us gathering up an army of our own definitely led to more blood being shed, more lives being lost, more cities burning. Marcus almost slew his blood father, and his father was a terrible man, who was trying to kill him, but it was a situation Marcus never should have been in, and I never should have allowed Marcus to have to come close to it. Even if the end result was good. The result was good, I know - we put an honest scholar on the throne, saw him married to a brilliant politician, and then left him to his own devices with all the knowledge of statebuilding he already possessed to apply to the real duty we'd taught him." Neith stayed silent, clearly letting Baldor continue.

And he did. His oaths tugged at him, duty to Church and Crown and Keep vying with his oaths to Bahamut and commons and what he knew to be right. "And that's not getting into what happened with the Witch Hunters. I believe I did the right thing with Vixen, and I know full well that it would have been wrong to hand Itene over to the Witch Hunters. But I think I abandoned my people again. And even though the Witch Hunters clearly overstepped, having seen the ritualists of Sargonny's Dark Cathedral, having seen what foul powers sorcerers can call upon, I struggle to argue that they don't have a place. I know what my oaths obligate me to do - defend the innocent. Protect the weak. Stand against the darkness. Uphold justice. But I took oaths to my people as well. To protect them - and now I'm at the other end of the world." They were the words he hadn't dared say to anyone else, but Neith was near his own age - only eight years younger or so, at a guess. And to look at the way Malzan looked at her, she had half-raised him as much as he'd raised Marcus.

"You saw to it that they were taken care of - your alliance with the neighboring fiefs. You've found ways to keep your oaths. I wouldn't say that you have forsworn yourself."

He shook his head. "No. I know I haven't. But I…I miss the simplicity. Perhaps…Perhaps that was the arrogance of my youth. Things will never be simple again, and…"

"And you'll have to keep your oaths regardless, Sir Knight? What a terrible nightmare." Neith's voice was sardonic, but there was a kindness beneath it. "Your steadfastness is the core of your son's courage, you know. Not his valor - he'd stand and fight against a Harbinger with or without you - but his willingness to stare down the darkness within himself and try to do the right thing even when a dishonorable thing would let him claim a faster victory," she jabbed him with a finger, one that skidded uselessly off his breastplate but that he felt more surely than a dagger stroke, "that comes from what you've taught him. It will survive your death, but not your disgrace, I think."

Baldor thought about that, and nodded, wondering what that implied of Marcus. "I can believe it. I don't mind continuing to be what he needs me to be. But you, Priestess? Herbalist? Do you intend to stay on the path set by your goddess, or are you going to resume fighting as you did?"

"In truth? I think I'd prefer staying on good terms with Melora, but…for the most part, I don't feel comfortable over-relying on the good will of a goddess rather than doing good myself. I'd rather heal with potions and the power of the earth, as I was taught to do."

"I can respect that. So…most of what you do is just herbals, right?"

"Correct. I can do more if I have something consecrated, like a proper healing circle, now, but they take time to set up, and I won't always be able to consecrate ground. Proper altars take time and energy to construct, and while Melora is now willing to hear me enough that I can purify people of certain kinds of curses…yes, in truth, you'd be better trusting to my skill as an herbalist when we're in the field." Her gaze drifted towards the bed where Itene slept. "She did a wonderful thing today. I think she should be proud."

Baldor frowned, and he felt his heart pound in anger and worry. "She should. I think, though, that there is some cause for us both to be ashamed. If what you say is true, we put her in danger again, today. I can't imagine Liza will be pleased - and more importantly, Itene should have been warned about what kind of attention she'd get, and from who, or what."

Neith shook her head. "It would have happened regardless. She's strong - and Vixen had a plan for something like this for ages. Centuries, maybe. You heard the Regent - the Cathedral did something to him to make him similar. Vixen made Itene what she needed to be to grow into someone who can manage the power he can call up. She needs practice. And…" Baldor could feel the tension in the woman, even as she looked at the girl. "Don't pretend you don't know it, Sir Knight. That one is no more a child than your son was when you met him. Is, and isn't. To coddle her would not be to truly protect her. She needs guidance more than she needs protection. And it is my job, and Liza's, and yours, honestly, to provide that."

"Even though I know nothing of…" He paused, and grunted. "Hm. What I knew of swordsmanship, Marcus rapidly surpassed. He needed guidance as a man. And to know what to do with the talent he developed."

"As does Itene. I have some ideas of how to use magic - at least, Vixen gave me some ideas of how it works and there is somethign of magic in using a Meloran healing altar, and I can teach her some of it. We'll speak to Liza about it. But she should be proud."

Baldor turned that over. "She should have had a choice, though. I had a choice, before I took my oaths. Marcus had a choice - he could have fled from me, and I'd not have run him down."

"Would you truly? A young man that dangerous, with no guidance? No, though, she did - as much as you did, anyway. She made a bargain with Vixen. She was under duress, sure, of needing to help you and your companions. But she made a choice as free as any of us do - at least as freely as I made my choice to work with Vixen after dark power hit my village that my mother died trying to heal, before she and I both learned it was the wrong sort of dark power to be challenged on an altar. Certainly, she made a choice as free or more than either your thief did in becoming a thief and cutthroat, and more than your bard did in selling her body. We all make choices, and fair, just, or otherwise, we live with the consequences of the choices we make."

"But isn't it our place, Neith, that of those who already have made those choices, to keep others from making them at sword's point, literal or otherwise? No, I suppose…I suppose it is. But without us ever having a chance to stop it, I think we got there too late, or at the wrong time. She's on this side of the line now, isn't she? The side whose job is to protect others, rather than be protected by the world as a whole. Even if I intend to keep shielding her where I can."

Neith gave a sad smile. "Yes. She is. And you should." Neith, almost hesitantly, nudged his shoulder. "It's good to talk to an honest man near my own age. Thank you."

Baldor nodded. "I can say the same. Thank you for your wisdom, priestess." He turned his gaze on Itene, sleeping soundly on the cot by the fire. He'd bring her home once she woke, but for now, as Neith placed another skin of water by the girl, Baldor placed another blanket across her, said a quiet prayer over the girl, and let her rest.

Iris

She was in the woods and remembering home. It was simple, honestly. Her job wasn't to actually do anything spectactular, slay anything too interesting, just to find food that would help fill the townhouse's food stocks. She crept forward, half crouched, an arrow fitted to her bowstring.

Her roan, Acteon, was behind her, but he nickered slightly as she approached him again. He wasn't much of a hunting horse, but if she was going to hunt at scale, she needed a horse to help haul some of whatever she got back. When she'd been a peasant, she'd accepted that you could carry the choicest cuts back in a sack and write the rest off as a loss if the deer was too far away. She didn't have to do that anymore.

She crouched over a patch of ground and pulled her trowel - wild onions like this were a good find, and this many would go a long way to filling a stew pot, even one as big as that of the townhouse. There were tracks, deep and wide - this close to the Wilderrun, it meant that there was a reasonably good chance that a Great Stag was going to be wandering around, and if she could get one of those, she could practically fill the townhouse larder. They weighed nigh three hundred pounds - she'd have to haul the onions, roots, the blackberries, and the mushrooms she'd found back on her own, since Acteon would be nigh totally occupied with any such beast, but it would be worth it.

Acteon plodded after her, pawing the ground with a hoof. She smiled faintly – the small town had been a healing stop to make. It had brought out another side of Marcus, one she’d always liked seeing in him. The man who loved working with horses and talking trade with stableboys. She stopped dead in her tracks, the thought trailing off as she spotted the trail in the mud. It was fresher, here – the beast had come through no more than a few hours, and either it had done so in a hurry or it was big.

Eagerly, Iris chased her quarry, following the trail. Mud barely sucked her boots, the young woman too experienced to even have to think about where to place her feet, and knowing that Marcus would handle the hooves of her horse. She paused but a moment to dig for a handful of wild tubers, throwing them into her pack along with the rest of her finds, before continuing on. The path was blocked by brambles - on foot she could have simply pushed through, but with a horse she'd need to find a way around, or widen the path. She drew forth her hatchet and hacked the trail wider and tossed the extra aside, widening enough for Acteon to come through. Iris didn't bother stopping to listen to the area - the strikes of the ax would have caused most animals to leave, as axwork meant people and most of the things she'd want to eat - or even things she'd have to fight - would leave at the sound of people. The handful of things that wouldn't would already have made more noise - bloodvelds, especially, would make more noise approaching through this much brush, and those things were known to hunt in these woods. A displacer or a direwolf might not, but Acteon would have been panicking if either of those had gotten anywhere near them.

There was something special about this chase, she supposed. It had been a long time since she'd hunted for the purpose of helping feed a community. Acteon nickered, nervously, and Iris snapped an arrow to her bow, sighting in the direction of the sound of a branch snapping.

She sighed at the sight: A grotesque creature, easily the size of a pig, huge eyes, almost buglike in proportion, with a hide covered in hair similar to that of a spider. The beast's face, snout, and mouth were more similar to that of a badger, with dangling tendrils coming off the nose that seemed to twitch at rhythmic intervals, like those of a spider. The legs ended in claws clearly meant for digging, though experience told her they were sharp: a bugbear. The creatures were unfortunately at least somewhat common, even if they were nearly worthless. Not unnatural, though, at the very least. Just good for mauling livestock and digging up crops. Occaionally they'd eat lost children but for the most part, they were more scavengers than anything. It raised its ugly, heavy head to glare at her, as though assessing the threat, and knowing all too well how thick the skulls were, she fired the arrow right beneath the jaw, into the hollow of the throat.

It wasn't really the same as actually bringing in food, since the meat actually had some kind of toxic oil in it, one that caused them to take ages to even rot, but slaying it did deal with a rather nasty pest. She retrieved the arrow as the beast quit twitching and kept going, finding the trail again. "Come on, Acteon, relax." She rolled her eyes. The stallion was a fine travel horse, but as hunting steeds went, he could stand to be less skitish around absolutely common beasts. She used to feel bad about slaying them, sometimes, but they had few natural predators. She didn't know if that was because they were from another part of the world that had been brought here by mistake, or because they had been bred by someone else for reasons long forgotten. They did bear every sign of having originally been a cavedweller, so it was possible they were dwarven livestock, originally, bred to fill the cast-iron bellies of the hard-rock mining race, but however they'd come to be loose on the surface, they had nothing to restrict their breeding or their predations, and they had a bad habit of digging up fresh shoots of new trees as well. In short, they were a problem for both people and the lands they wandered into, and…

She'd spoken to Marcus about it. He hadn't understood, but he'd respected her enough to trust her. She hadn't spoken to Liza or Thomas, even if she believed that Liza might be understanding. It was a peasant superstition, she knew, or had been told by enough city people. The nameless gods, the Spirits of the Wild. You had to know them, but anyone who lived long enough in the wild places of the world knew them well enough, knew to leave offerings to them. Knew to respect them and learn all you could about their domain, help keep things in balance with them. Many people gave credit to her knowledge, her skill in the wild, and that was all true - but Iris liked to believe she had at least some favor with the spirits as well, simply for knowing them so well. She swore she sensed them, sometimes. Not like the malevolent power of Chaos that they had been fighting - just…the life out in the forest. In the mountains. In wild places. Maybe she sensed the souls of beasts that the established churches denied, but maybe the wild also had a presence in Chaos - one that was neutral, one that wanted only to be kept in balance. It made as much sense to her as anything. It was part of why she sought out bloodvelds to slay them. She hadn't spoken to Neith or to Malzan, but she suspected they'd agree with her.

It wasn't long before she spotted the trail - and she had to stop herself from crowing in triumph. Based on the fact that the soil was upturned and not disturbed since, this was fresh. No more than a few minutes. No sense in getting impatient. She strode after it, unhurried, nocking another arrow. The sun was starting to sink - it was well past noon, which meant that she was going to get back to the village right after sunset if she found it soon. Smiling in determination, she followed a little further, murmuring a quiet prayer to both the spirits and to Melora for good fortune.

The spirits seemed interested in taunting her - for a while, the trail seemed to go cold. Iris swore and put the arrow back in her quiver, bending low to examine the trail. She looked around, thinking. The tracks were definitely deep enough to confirm for her this was a Greatstag, not a common deer. But the way they lay here, it had leapt - but in what direction? The trail stopped fro a moment, and the direction the tracks pointed din't have any clear indication of a creature that big landing. Iris paced several yards in the direction to confirm it for herself. Then she spotted something from the corner of her eye. some of the brush was bent, as though something had come rushing through, and Iris jogged over to examine it more closely. The beast had come through, she saw the hoofprints, though she'd never seen anything jump at that angle. Then again, she'd only hunted Greatstag twice, so it was totally possible that they had a few tricks she hadn't seen before.

She got Acteon trotting after her, and rushed after the trail, then drew him up short. She could hear something big moving up ahead. There was something up ahead. Drawing forth a heavy broadhead, she crept forward, barely breathing with excitement. In the clearing, she saw it. It was a greatstag, just as she hoped. Where a common deer rarely weighed more than ten stone, a Greatstag could easily weigh twice that. This one was a beauty, huge, sweeping antlers. For a moment, she almost felt guilty about slaying it.

But people needed to eat. And no part of the beast would be wasted.

Her arrow flew forth.

The beast bellowed and fell. Iris approached, carefully, and slit the giant stag's throat. The beast was immense, but Iris had lifted things no less heavy before. She heaved it up, all the strength of a lifelong archer used to hauling bows with tenstone draws now aiding her in the task of slinging the beast across the back of her horse, tying it into place. Her arms burned at the lift, as did her back, her legs, but she finally got it slung over Acteon's back and tied into place and smiled in triumph.

Every part of it could be used - the hooves for glue, the meat for food, the hide for leather, the antlers and bones for pins, arrows, leatherworkers' tools. This was the kind of windfall that would help the entire town that had sheltered them.

A patch of blackberries caught her eye, and Iris quickly seized dozens of them. Not long after, a patch of wild onions - that would go in the soup. Acteon nickered, as though impatient, but Iris hated to do a job partway.

The sun was setting the by the time they'd arrived back at the village, and the people were gasping at the sight of the massive haul that she'd brought in - the farmers did, as she passed them.

When they got back to the townhouse, she got a few people to help her carry the deer inside. She handed the forage sacks off to Thomas, who had been put to work in the kitchen, and he began peeling tubers and throwing them into the pot.

She butchered the stag with practiced efficiency. The antlers went to an awlmaker, and she hacked the hooves off to be ground into glue for the cobbler. The hide she sent to the tanner. The meat she rendered into cuts, steaks, ribs for roasting, shreds for stew. The matriarch who ran the townhouse, a stout matron with greying hair and burn scars on her arms, nodded her thanks to Iris.

When the ranger shoved extra meat, otherwise useless, into the intestines for sausage, along with a handful of herbs, she had siezed the heart. That alone, she wanted to keep. The innkeep raised a brow, but didn't speak. When they'd sorted out everything, and when the matron began cooking, Iris slipped out, holding the massive heart, and buried it beneath a tree. Supposedly, supposedly, it was just a peasant superstition.

But no one else she knew wandered the places she did without fear. Hunted the things she did. And there was something right about doing this to feed a village or families again instead of just a small group on the march.

And as she looked up at the stars, Iris let herself relax, just for a moment. The people of the town, those who hadn't built full houses, began heading towards the townhouse. She hiked back and let herself enjoy the fire, the warmth, and the shouts of camraderie as Liza began to make the night lively.

She spotted Marcus walk into the inn, eyes distant, and sit down next to her. "How was the hunt?"

She gave him a soft smile. "Got a greatstag. How were the stables?"

"Helped a farmer with a ploughorse. Helped the shepherd boy retrieve some of the flock when they bolted. Had to chase off some bandits." Marcus's voice was soft, and his hand was rough in hers, the fighter's calluses easy in her hands. "I see what you love about this. The routine. Feeling like you're part of a place. If…if we never go back to Torin's Run, I could see us finding our way back to Ithor, hanging up my swords…"

Her heart started racing. "No. I don't…I don't think so. Settling somewhere, maybe. But not Ithor. We've grown too much to go back to my own village. I don't want to live with people who remember me as a little girl and see me as a stranger because I don't match." It staggered her every time she went back, in truth. Another land would be better, if they were going to live as commoners. but what he was offering, if they never made it back…He didn't look bad, in the leather jerkin of a stablehand, hay in his tawny hair and on his boots, smelling like horsehair and leather rather than metal.

"You've seemed happier here," Marcus said, as though reading her thoughts.

"I have been. Like you said. I think it's what I needed after Sargonny. Being part of building something, of a community again, rather than just…than just murdering. I miss doing honest work of feeding people, that's all."

Marcus smiled. "I can tell. You've looked happy, every day, coming back from a hunt or a forage run. I love how you are here. It's…a big part of why I'm asking."

His eyes were fixed on her and she leaned in and kissed him. "We'll figure it out when we find out if going back to Torin's Run is an option. But I'm not staying cooped up like a proper Faldrean dame. I'm going hunting and putting the results in the larder."

He smiled. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

Iris went into his arms. "You didn't really have an option."

Marcus

He spoke softly to the plowhorse. He felt like swearing, but he needed the poor beast to stay calm. "Come now, come now." He said, approaching gently. The creature raised a hoof and Marcus dipped to one side as it raked down, and caught the offending limb. "Come now, come now." His voice was gentle, but urgent. He pulled the tool he needed, and began working in the hoof. It was hard to spot. If not for the old woman in his tribe, he'd never have found it - but he found it. A hidden space, in the hoof, where stones very rarely stuck, but caused pain when they did.

He slowly pried the rock free, cursing as it came loose, and gentled the beast a bit more. "That's happened with Migisi too," he said, to the horse's owner, "and she's a throughbred Asgarian courser. He'll be fine. Genuinely. It can sometimes happen. Powdered willowbark, and a thick wrap - it'll offset the bad gait til she heals."

"What do I owe you?"

Marcus thought. "For that? Two clips, at best." The copper coin was a pitifully small fare but it was common enough out here and that was a terrifyingly easy procedure if you knew how to do it, so charging heavily to a peasant in this region seemed wrong. She gave him the money and blessed him, and he stroked Migisi's flank with an easy hand.

Baldor was going to stop by the stable to talk to him today, about a new shield - maybe a new weapon, as well. He'd 'lost' the mace during the madness of the sack of Sargonny - in truth, given it away to a rebel slave. He'd realized quickly enough that he despised the glorified club, and wanted nothing to do with it.

Still, the village was peaceful. His swords - both of them - still hung heavy on his side, but he hadn't drawn them in days except to go out to the woods and practice, make sure he'd healed properly. Not since they'd gotten here. Had checked in with Itene a few times, but she'd been eager to work with the village weaver, where she was mostly eager to learn. She'd said something about wanting to learn more, 'in case she needed to know,' and it had been obvious she'd been thinking about another career, another life. Maybe one where she lived in Torin's Run with a certain young beekeeper and hung up her sword.

And it hit Marcus for the first time that he wasn't certain how he felt about that concept.

He'd been the son of an Archmargrave and an Asgarian war chief. Now he was the son of a knight, and on the path to knighthood in his own right. A warrior, through and through. But…working as a stablehand had been suprisingly easy. Riding off after the goats that had wandered off had been suprisingly calming.

Iris had always questioned if she wanted to actually be a warrior, or if she was happier hunting and foraging, but until the last few weeks, coming off of the horrible madness that had gripped him in the sack of Sargonny, he hadn't actually…

He hadn't seen why.

He still tried not to think about the Sack. Everyone had gone their seperate ways during it, leading bands of people freeing themselves. He had dreams - nightmares, or memories, he wasn't sure - of chasing people down, people trying to run. Scenes lit by the fire of a burning sword. Screaming for blood in a voice that wasn't his.

Marcus forced himself to focus. Baldor wanted to talk to him about his new gear before they had those built by the blacksmith, and then he needed to go ride to check on the herd.

He found Baldor outside the smithy, and the old man glanced at him. "So. You need a new shield, and I wanted to ask. Are you certain you want a new targe for your shield?"

"What do you mean?"

"You had practice fighting with the targe, but the way you fight with a shield seems to lean you more towards striking with the edge of the shield rather than punching with the boss, and the way you block doesn't seem like that's the most natural for you."

Marcus shrugged, slightly defensive. "It was what was a available for a Freidriechsarch infantryman, so I figured it out. Have more practice with that than anything else."

"Right, but if you don't have it now, you should learn how to use a shield that works for you. And besides, strapped heater or a kite is traditional for knights, but….I want you to actually pick a weapon that is right for you rather than traditional for someone else."

Marcus paused. "You use a heater, right?"

Baldor nodded.

Marcus thought about it. He could see the advantages. Slightly less flexibility, but it would weigh on your arm less, since it was strapped instead of gripped. slightly more options for how to move a sword, even if you lost options in your stance, and while he didn't love that, he did see the better maneuverability that Faldrean knights had - or even the northern duelists from Fiorenz over Friedriechsarch.

"And…how is it strapped on?"

"Hold your arm up like you're doing a legion salute. Bring it out."

Marcus snapped a fist to his chest, mechanically, then moved his arm out. Baldor kept talking. "Now, change the angle until it feels natural and comfortable."

Marcus brought his arm slightly steeper and paused.

"There you are. When the shield is made, we strap it at that angle. Next question. What happened to the mace?"

"I…got rid of it. It fit me wrong. And I only got it because I needed a way to smash through armor and I saw Faldrean knights using them, but…"

Baldor blinked. "Marcus. You've been hamstringing yourself with a sheild that never fit you because it was more the style common with your birth father's armies, and now you're picking up a weapon that doesn't fit because you thought it would suit me? No. Fight the way that works for you. A living man who fights his own way is always a better son than a dead man who fights the traditional form."

Marcus took a breath. He thought about making a smart remark about how often Baldor had urged him to do stupid things or fight more chivilrously than he preferred to. But then…

"Right. It makes sense that you would say that. And I am more comfortable with a Friedreichsarch ax."

"Good. I suppose I should ask: are both of your swords comfortable for you? You didn't pick those to please anyone?"

Marcus grinned. "No. My swords have always been mine, and mine alone. My saddle style was something I picked in Asgaria, and I didn't think I'd like it, but I really do prefer their method to anyone else's. I left my ax back with the master-at-arms in Westgart, so…"

Baldor thumped him on the shoulder. "Good man. And do you actually hate lances as much as you say, or was that to appease your birth father?"

Marcus held up a hand. "Yes and no. I'm better with them than I ever let on, at least the Asgarian style 'light' riding lances, but in truth they're not my weapon of choice. They rip through just about anything you stab them into, but they tend to splinter after one or two really hard runs into something, which I don't care for. I like weapons I can rely on a long time."

Baldor looked pensive. "I understand. Let me measure you for a moment, I need to know what I need from you for a sheild in size."

A few moments later - measuring shoulders, arm length, handspan, torso hieght, and length of hip to knee, Baldor nodded. "Alright. Thank you."

Marcus grinned. "I'm going to go get the goats." He unbelted his infantry sword and kept his cavalry saber, mounting up on Migisi. The moment he was out of the village gates, he undid the peace tie on the saber hilt.

Migisi galloped, easily gaining speed and distance, and the wind blew across his face, soft and edged with the sharp scent of the pines. He felt the sunlight - and for a moment, wondered how Iris's hunt was going. She'd get something, of course, but his thoughts turned to her - he was excited to tell her that he understood now. That if they never got to return to Torin's Run, he'd be happy to carve out a home full of other misfits and outcasts and find a place to take care of horses and go use his skill as an equestrian to herd whatever livestock needed retrieving.

Then he heard the scream, and he swore to himself.

Right when he was starting to get comfortable.

He grabbed the saber off his belt and rode in the direction the noise had come from, shouting out. "Do you need help? I'm coming!"

A young man's voice shouted again. "Rievers!"

Rievers. It wasn't a word Marcus had known when he'd come here, though he'd had it explained to him. Roving toughs, men employed in roving warbands who occupied themselves in the petty squabbles of border lords when they could be hired and banditry when they couldn't, sometimes occupied ruined forts. Usually led by experienced mercenaries and trained to a degree of competence. A harder form of bandit, in other words, and not uncommon in regions with little in the way of law.

Migisi burst into the clearing where the shepard left the herds, and he spotted a young man backed against a tree, half a dozen men in jackets of hide facing off against him, with a mix of gear and equipment.

It was the nearest man, an archer, who died first, Marcus's saber slicing cleanly into the back of his neck and severing his head as migisi galloped past. Marcus swept the sword free and directed a blow towards the head of one of the axmen as he continued the pass, one he knew would be blocked but would keep the man from striking. He reined in sharply as Migisi wheeled around. One of the rievers looked at him, a little more nervously, and Marcus sized them up, coldly.

Their gear was poor quality, but better than most bandits, and Marcus analyzed it with the practiced eye of a professional, finding himself calmed by the familiarity of the routine.

Two of the men bore large axes, hafts clearly re-headed or ground and re-whittled for different balance in a way that suggested somewhat competent smithing. Two of them bore shields, broad pieces of wood sawn off of a log and bound 'round the edges with rawhide, straps of leather binding them to mens' arms, and those men clutched a shortsword and a handaxe, respectively. The dead man bore a powerful hunting bow, an arrow fitted to the string, and the last, the only man wearing a proper helm rather than what looked like a brass bound leather cap, bore a bastard sword. They wore jackets of hide, with sections cheap iron and poor quality steel riveted to the insides to cover vitals. The leader wore a mail vest, belted across his chest, and on his face was an ugly grin.

"Ack, this is who the boy was calling to?"

Marcus glanced at the boy and grunted. "Get out of here. I'll handle them."

The boy tried to run off, only to find his path blocked, and Migisi surged forward at the barest signal from his knees, rearing up and lashing out with her hooves. The man who had stepped forward fell with an indentation in his skull, thrashing, blood leaking from his ear, and Marcus kept riding, wheeling around again to sweep across the side of the haphazard group and slash savagely at one of the men holding an ax. He hadn't struck the man down - his saber instead laid the man's face open and left the man clutching it, wounded and howling.

With half of their number dead or wounded, the rievers looked at Marcus with hate in their eyes, even as Migisi reared for another charge. One of the men started moving to go grab the boy, and Marcus rode the man down without hesitation. "These people can't afford the loss of sheep, I'm afraid. They're hardworking, and I'd hate to see them lose their livelihood to a group of roving toughs." Marcus's tone was conversational, but clear, and easily heard above the whimpers of the wounded man.

The leader looked at the injured man with a cold expression and brought him to his feet, snarling something. Marcus internally winced - tough bunch. "I wouldn't say you ought to be throwing your lives away over sheep, myself, and I can't imagine what some pimple-faced shepherd boy said is worth getting killed over."

The rievers with shields tried to lock them against him, and Migisi surged to one side, Marcus barely having to direct her - a trained thoroughbred Asgarian charger knew how to react to locked shields. He was troubled though - brigands, even supposedly trained ones, shouldn't know how to form a shield wall. He swept sideways, and came in for another pass, slaying one man, then coming up and hacking at the leader as he made a j-hook away from the two thugs. The armored man ducked the cut, but couldn't strike at Marcus fast enough to retaliate before Marcus came in again, riding straight past him to strike down the already wounded axman and wound the remaining man with the shield.

Before the leader could even begin to get what was left of his warband in order, Marcus charged again, trampling the wounded riever and charging straight at the leader of the mercenaries, whose hard facade saw him staring down the charging young man, even as Marcus approached. His blade stayed in high guard, the thing that gave him the best chance to strike Marcus down even as he died. It was a mad choice to make for a raider, but perhaps the man recognized he was already dead and wanted to simply strike down the lone man who'd ended his career and life before he died.

In a way, Marcus could respect that.

Not that it mattered. Marcus swayed in the saddle as the man's broadsword passed over his head and swept his saber out in a perfect arc near-parallel to the ground. Leather, flesh, muscle, and sninew parted. Blood fountained, and the riever's head hit the ground behind Migisi's hooves a moment before the body did.

Marcus turned his horse in a slow trot to survey the chaos, and cursed. The fight had been easy - but the mayhem had scattered the goats. Beasts lost and taken by wolves were no less lost than ones stolen by rievers. He called to the shepard boy, even as he dismounted.

The boy came running, and started talking rapidly. "Sir, you saved my…aw, I mean…"

"Don't worry." Marcus cleaned his sword, unceremoniously, on a dead man's cloak. "I think the herd scattered. Can you find them if you have my help? And Migisi's?"

The kid looked around. "Aw, shit. Yeah. I need you go go ride hard east. Dodge probably took a whole bunch of ewes towards the barrens, he's known to do that when he panics. Buncha lambs probably ran off that way too. And that whole bunch are mountain bighorns, hard to catch up to without a horse. I know Mijishi is a warhorse, can she…"

"Migisi. And yeah. Straight trail?" Marcus's words were careful, swinging back into the woven leather saddle tied carefully to Migisi's back. She'd kicked the last stablehand who'd tried to put a buckled cinch on her, you tied something on and went with a bridle that went around her head, not in her mouth, or you rode bareback and no tack.

"'Cept the end, but by the time it turns you'll see them. Clear open."

Marcus nodded and rode off. the trail was mostly straight, and he cursed himself for the flashy horsemanship. He could have simply dismounted and fought on foot - no, that would have been foolhardy. He hadn't worn his armor out here, and fighting unarmored would have been foolish. it was just…

The fight had been perfect. A fast, light skirmish on horseback, and Migisi had shown her skill as a warhorse for the first time since the war. Easy, effortless. The rievers hadn't had a chance. But unless he could bring back the herd, it wouldn't matter, because without the herd, the village would wind up going hungry anyway.

Marcus found the ram that had bolted, and swept right around the edge of the thick brambles that even this herd didn't force itself through. He whooped and began driving them back up the trail. Dodge, the obstinate ram himself, began trying to wander off, and Marcus nudged Migisi up next to the goat to cut him off. Dodge saw the warhorse, snorting her irritation, and bleated in annoyance, but steered himself back to the trail. Marcus rode a slow canto around the herd until it made it back to the pasture, just as the sun went down.

The boy was waiting for him.

"Rounded up the last of the few that went off. You look like you got all of them. Have to wait til sunup to do a full count. Thanks for the help. Rievers and the herd, both."

Marcus nodded. "Sure." He nodded at the bodies. "You're going to need to help me out. Strip them of their gear for your blacksmith, and we'll want to toss the bodies away from the herd. If we don't, the scent of charnel will bring wolves."

The boy paled, Marcus could see it even in the dusk. "Not your first time?"

"Not my first time dealing with bandits, no. And I don't need to nearly lose this herd a third time today."

The boy grunted, and the two of them went to work.

***

When they finished, Marcus slung the sack of metal to Migisi's saddlebags. "I'll take it to the blacksmith."

"Is it okay to leave them here?"

Marcus looked at him. He'd never stopped to ask that question before, not for foes. The men he'd slain were no one's comrades - these men had attacked the boy, tried to steal food from him. Had Marcus not been here, the kid would have been murdered by these men, his herd stolen, his family left hungry. And he was asking about funery rights for them, while Marcus was preparing to leave their bodies for the wolves, having stripped them of anything valuable. They seemed more vulnerable in death, not the hardened mercenaries they'd looked in life.

"I'll get someone to give them funery rites.But it's getting dark, and you've had a long day. Get back to town. Rest."

The boy was younger than he'd been when he'd left home.

He brought the boy back to town and brought Baldor to the place he'd left the dead men, saying only, "I need you to do something."

When Baldor saw the dead, Baldor looked at him. "Why?"

"Rievers. They attacked the shepard boy. I…stopped them. He wanted funery rites for them. He's…" Marcus looked away. "He's not like me. So I promised him that these men would get last rites. Since you and Neith are the only ones I know who…"

ThomasThere was, Thomas reflected, something deeply demeaning about fleeing from guards after so many years of being used to them knowing their place. He gestured down an alley for the others to bolt, then slashed an awning tie as they passed. It wouldn’t actually stop anyone, but anyone pursuing them immediately would be tangled in the fabric and give them more space. He didn’t look back. Liza was pushing Itene along, and Neith was attempting to look at Baldor’s wounds.

“Gods damnit, MOVE !” Thomas swore, shoving both of them. “There’s no time for this.” In the midst of everything else, for all he respected the others, this was one thing that not one of them, save maybe the barbarian, would understand. Sometimes you fled and you ignored the pain, ignored everything except the need for escape. They pushed through alleyways, and he flickered down a narrow gap between buildings, one Baldor had to sidle through, one where he got ahead, peered out to either side - there, a watchman stood.

Thomas rushed, no time to waste, and slit the man’s throat from ear to ear. The man wasn’t even one of the properly armored troops, just garbed in Sargonn colors and bearing a sword, so he had to die. He waved his friends forward as people started screaming, and they bulled through everyone, Baldor shoving people aside, seeming as surprised to be doing it as Thomas was to see him do it, Thomas directed people down another cramped sidestreet. He heard that paralyzing, bestial call-response of the Howlers, and kept moving, it was getting further and further away from them every time. The thief took a breath, even as Liza pushed past him. “Thomas, where are we going?”

He shook his head, that howl coming again, only slightly closer this time. He hoped the others were still okay. “Docks. There’s always a place to slip away and hide near docks. And something foul to hide our scent from things like that. Keep going.”

 A squad of men ran closer to them and neith shouted to hold their breaths as Itene and Baldor ran ahead. Neith threw a small pouch into a brazier and the air was clogged with a billious smoke that Thomas dared not look too closely at as it began blowing towards the men following them - he just heard people screaming as it touched them.

 They ran clear of the alleyway, and Thomas, instinctively, bolted towards the scent of brine, shoving over a small market stand and vaulted a wagon, knife slashing the leg of a rich looking man as they passed by, forcing the lordling to kneel, tripping up a pursuer. Itene ran after him, stumbling, and Baldor stumbled after him, shoving a brawny mercenary aside, and Liza tumbled between two soldiers with a cartwheel.

Finally they were near the docks and Thomas spotted a tunnel, throwing himself in it with abandon and shoving the others in. Neith took a breath, and wrinkled her nose. “It’s foul.”

“Hides our scent. I’ll go back for the others. Baldor. If there’s anything foul down here, deal with it. I’ll be back shortly.” He took a rattling breath, and forced himself outside, checking that the coast was clear, staying low.

 Thomas looked at the chaos in the midst of the city as Baldor argued with Neith about whatever vile poison she had cast into a crowd. Their voices faded behind him as he backtracked. Even in this place, bronze-capped buildingings of brick and quarried stone so alien in make to what he knew, structures leaning into each other and streets narrow and air hostile, he couldn’t imagine finding himself lost in winding streets. The trick was to focus, to remember where you were going - anywhere you went, your body remembered the turns as you went - streetsense, some urchins called it. People who ran the gutters too long, they developed a keen sense of where they were and which way they moved.

There were crowds milling ahead, so Thomas took a side street - no one there but a handful of drunk mercenaries puking their guts out. As he snaked around, he saw the aftermath of what Neith’s smoke had done, and winced. A crowd of Sargonns had caught lungfuls of the stuff, and they were still twitching and coughing on the ground, their lips turning blue as their faces swelled, blood flecking their lips.

He slipped broad around it - already, the wind had dispersed the smoke, and someone had smothered the brazier. Whatever these people were, they weren’t cowards. There was a gap in a wall - he dashed into an open window, pausing for a moment to listen for sounds inside the house, then slung himself out of it, passing through the empty building without a sound, and saw where his companions were.

The beasts were dead - he saw one of them, multiple arrow wounds having pierced almost every vital organ. The priest lay slain, an arrow through his mouth, and a few soldiers slain likewise. Most of the soldiers, gutted, hacked, stabbed - in other words, they had faced Marcus - but there was a blood trail leading away from the site of the fight. Marcus had been hurt, and was ignoring it.

He saw signs of a fight - cracked brickwork, a wooden beam shorn through by what must have been a terrifying blow - and, approaching it, the body of a Howler, hopelessly mutilated. He finally found the three of them, staggering along, trailed by someone, daggers drawn. Malzan was wounded, and seemed to be aware of the man tailing them, but Thomas could get there faster. So, he rushed and tackled the would-be assassin, diving on the man, and tangling him before slitting his throat.

“Docks. We’ll get to the docks. To hide. The whole city is like a kicked anthill.”

The streets were still strewn with dead men and chaos, but as they wove through, he noticed fewer and fewer of the soldiery. Something was happening.

Marcus muttered something, quiet. “-mobilizing. Must be.”

“To do what?” Iris muttered, Thomas was still focusing, though he barely cared about where the troops had gone.

“To go deal with whatever else they’re dealing with. If they’ve got other enemies, they’re probably worried about that. Maybe Ali was serious. Don’t know. Probably is.”

Thomas’s eyes flicked to the walls. He hadn’t seen the wanted posters today, but they had been there earlier when they’d attacked the city. Ali was wanted dead for his attacks on the city of Sargonny - if he was serious, they probably would put an effort into killing him.

He saw an opening in the crowds and pushed them through it, pointing out sentries for Iris to drop before they broke for it. The bow thrummed twice as they advanced, and then they ducked into a low overhang and lunged into the little gap.

Neith greeted them and cursed at the wounds. “Melora. I will never understand the kinds of men who feel the need to get that up close with their enemies…I’d bind it up here, but it’d fester for sure. Thomas, can you guide us to somewhere…a little more open?”

Thomas glanced around. “Away from the sewer, sure. If the Howlers are dead. Follow close. Be ready to wash the wounds out.”

He led them, keeping low. Baldor looked pained by how low he had to crouch, and so did Malzan, even if Malzan seemed more accustomed to do it. Thomas ignored it. Itene looked sick at the smell. “How bad is the festering?”

“Don’t worry. Neith will handle it.” Thomas grunted. You couldn’t focus on what happened if. You trusted your companions to deal with their specialities. Ignored your wounds. Did your job. A curve in the trail. Wrap around - the sea was still that way, which meant he needed to head that way, move west. There was a wall there, move north, away from the site of their original fight, then curve west again. There, that opening. Curve back - east, that was fine, then south, then west again - horseshoe curve, not that uncommon, but then - there ! Opening out, more than a bowshot’s distance from where they’d been, and out of sight due to an outcropping of rocks on the harbor.

Neith almost immediately stripped Malzan’s jacket from him, and watches as Iris and Itene began scrambling to remove Marcus’s mail so she could check the wounds under the armor. Almost immediately the herbalist poured a purifying salve over wounds, and Thomas could see the hardened warriors wince in pain as it cleaned the wounds.

 He slowly stood. “Alright. I want to get closer. I want to know what happened in the rest of the city. I’m going back out to cause some chaos. Liza, maybe…maybe we should figure out where everyone went. I don’t think we’re the thing everyone’s paying attention to, and…I don’t know if we should be.”

Marcus shrugged. “The rites are soon. We’ll want them focused elsewhere then. We want them focused on us after that, so that they’re vulnerable for whatever Ali is doing.”

Thomas nodded. “Got it. Liza…should we…?”

Liza unlimbered herself. “Sounds good to me. It’s about time I met this Regent. Think you can steal me one of those courtesan outfits people have around here?”

 Thomas winced. “I hate that trick.”