A Sundered Brotherhood
The handle of their cooking pot had broken when Baden had fallen onto his pack, so Amelyssan utilized two iron pitons and a small length of wire – a makeshift device of which the elf was rather proud – to retrieve the pot from the embers. Inside, the water was near to boiling. He stood – slowly – and turned – again, slowly – to walk away from the campfire toward the…the body of their friend.
Amelyssan bent, sat the pot on the ground, and watched momentarily to see if the heat was enough to cause the weeds to catch fire. It wasn’t. He collapsed, crossing his legs, and produced a cake of hard soap from his pack. Behind him, he heard his companions speaking quietly.
Since they had defeated the Cyrics and found Poridel impaled upon the stake, everything the group did seemed hushed, muted, devoid of emotion. Normally, these traits would appeal to Amelyssan – the horadrel had always thought the world too loud – but now…now he realized, with no small amount of surprise, that he actually missed John’s incessant banter.
He looked away from the campfire, allowed his golden eyes to penetrate the darkness, and studied the profile of the bard. John sat upon the top of the barrow mound, crossbow in his lap, just as he had sat for the past four hours. He appeared calm, composed, silent. But Amelyssan knew better. The southlander wrestled with demons – those fiends known as Regret and Grief.
Such emotions were foreign to the elf and those of his ilk. Life was too long to allow past worries to stain the present. Upon the Gruns, one did what one thought was best. Lessons could be learned from past mistakes, certainly, but emotion had nothing to do with it.
Then why, Amelyssan wondered, do I feel such sorrow?
Perhaps it was because Amelyssan, of all the party members, should have recognized Poridel’s goodness. The sage had done an amazing thing – Poridel had known how important the destruction of Margate’s Staff was to the world, and he had allowed Amelyssan and his companions to bear that burden. One who did not understand the deeper essences of trust and confidence might have labeled Poridel’s inaction as cowardice; Amelyssan knew better.
“He will be mourned. Throughout this Age, and the next.”
Amelyssan blinked, surprised that he had spoken aloud. Such habits could prove troublesome – if not deadly – for a wizard. Or…did someone else speak? But who? Were those words his own?
The horadrel stood and made his way toward the barrow. He paused, hands clasped within his robes, and fixed amber irises upon the bard. “John.”
“What is it?”
“The soap is ready, the water warm. We must wash the blood from Master Poriden.”
John squinted in the darkness. “We?”
“Yes.” Amelyssan reached out a hand. “Come. As we cleanse him, so shall we be cleansed.”
“You sound like Kellus.”
“Thank you.”
John reached out, clasped the elf’s hand, and stood. “I suppose it’s time for someone else to stand watch, anyway.”
“It is. Raylin has not been able to sleep. He will take the-”
“No,” John shook his head as they walked toward Poridel’s blanket-covered corpse. “The night is dark. Let the dwarf stand watch.”
Amelyssan was silent for a moment, then nodded. “Of course, John.”
***
Amelyssan watched impassively as the party gathered around the body. They had bound Poridel within a thick blanket – most of the bloodstains were lost in the dark colors of the wool. Ropes and twine had been wrapped about the corpse, tightly, sealing in the burgeoning stench.
The party stood within the barrow’s interior. At first, John had not wanted to condemn the sage to the grave of another. Raylin had argued, convincingly, that to do otherwise would invite scavenging animals. They had not the time to dig a proper grave in the frosty Cormick plains.
And so it was that the Brothers of Olgotha stood, quietly, heads bowed, in the dimness of that tomb that had first been fashioned from Sorrow Elves a thousand years and more ago. Outside, the sky blushed with the coming dawn.
It had been a long, long night.
Amelyssan nodded encouragement at John. The bard – for the first time in the elf’s memory – appeared nervous.
"I am John of Pell, a minstrel and storyteller. I apprenticed to Rhynfrydios d’Margive, and later was journeyman with the Purple Troupe d’Lor.” John cleared his throat, taking comfort from the customary, formal words. “Come, friends, I ask of you - Will you hear me?"
“We will,” answered the party as one.
John licked his lips in quiet consideration. If he was surprised at the party’s response, their apparent understanding of the peccadilloes of troubadours, he did not let it show. With a final, lingering glance toward Amelyssan, he continued.
"Let us honor this man as our wise dwarf has suggested.” John’s eyes remained fixed upon the sage’s swaddled body. "Let us make a pact that we will not speak of the humiliation of his demise, but only of his bravery. For brave, indeed, he was.”
The minstrel looked up, then, eyes shining. He waved an arm toward Raylin, Baden, and Vath. "Poridel Poriden had not the strength of arms to defend himself."
John then gestured toward Amelyssan and Kellus. "He sought not to smite his enemies with sorceries.”
"Nor did he have the stealth to evade his pursuers,” John shook his head, his mask of ritual composure showing seams of incomprehension and sadness. “And yet – still - he came.”
John’s voice went smooth. “Poridel Poriden left the safety of his tower and traveled some four hundred miles to warn us of our peril, of the world's peril. And let it be known that – here, before us – lies what was a good man, an honest man.”
John looked up, measuring his companions with a look that missed little and hid less. “It is unfortunate that it took his death to prove that to us.”
“Friends,” John beseeched quickly, no longer speaking to the corpse but to his fellows, “we have trusted too readily those who would betray us, and been too slow to recognize one who is true. Let us take all he has told us as the truth, and consider his allies our allies."
Amelyssan watched quietly, hoping none would argue the bard’s declaration. He need not have worried.
After some time, John raised his fist to his chest. When next he spoke, his voice was joined with those of his companions, and the Brothers of Olgotha spoke as one. “Poridel Poriden, may avatars guide you to the abode of your gods, where ale and warmth await you…always and forever."
And, as Amelyssan knelt and kissed the covered head of the dead sage, his mind roiled with questions. Whither, now? We are lost, with none to guide our course. For if not Poridel, then who?
The answer, as it were, arrived that very evening, on horseback.
***
Raylin jogged toward them at an easy pace, a brace of Cormick ground squirrels tied to his belt. Baden walked forward, grimacing. “How in the name of the seven clans did you catch them buggers? Ye didna e’en haf yer bow!”
Raylin’s eyes twinkled as he held a wooden whistle between thumb and forefinger.
Baden was incredulous. “They come runnin’ when ye blow it?”
The tall clansman laughed, the sound wonderful. “No, friend dwarf.” Raylin unbuckled his belt, slipped the brace’s loop from around the leather, and tossed the animals to John. He then looked back to Baden. “The silver-tongued ferret hates high-pitched sounds; the call o’ this whistle is very high-pitched.”
Baden placed both hands on his hips. “Raylin mac Larren, I be near as old as your father. If ye be making sport of me, then-”
“I had the good fortune to snare a ferret earlier today – without killing her. I made her my hunting partner.” Raylin held up a hand to stop any further protest from Baden. “I took her to the holes of the squirrels John now guts. Once I dropped her within the den, I’d blow the whistle – from just outside the opening. The ferret would damn near dig another tunnel just to get away from the sound.”
Raylin paused, lips pursed with thought. “Even though we can barely hear it, I think the sound from that whistle hurts their ears.”
“I donna care if it hurts their furry balls – that tells me nothing of how you got them squirrels without a bow.”
Raylin smiled. “Silver-tongued ferrets are terrified of whistles – this is known. What is also known, of course, is that ground squirrels are terrified of silver-tongued ferrets. So when my hunting partner would scramble away from my whistle-”
“-them squirrels would be scramblin’ away from her.”
“Correct.” Raylin showed white teeth. “Each den has two holes, for the most part. I’d drop the ferret in one, and the squirrels would come out another. After I had six o’ them, I let the ferret loose. She served us well.”
“We have company, friends.” Amelyssan called from atop the barrow, where he shielded his eyes with one hand from the dying sun. “A single man. On horseback. Wearing golden armor.”
As the party scrambled for their weapons below him, Amelyssan involuntarily sighed. “By the gods, how brightly he does shine. A beacon upon this dreary plain.”
Baden spat. “A fool, more like.”
“Or a champion.” John did not look up as he flicked a bolt into the groove of his crossbow. “He does not fear being seen, alone, upon these plains. So he is either very foolish, or very capable. Let us hope it is the former.”
Kellus had been quiet with thought. He now spoke. “I am thinking he may wear the golden armor of Lathander. If such is the case, then we may call him friend.”
“Bah!” Baden growled. “Enough with damned priests, I say – whatever their gods.”
Raylin nodded noncommittally. “Let us judge the man, not his armor. Borbidan’s tomb houses several dead Cyrics we once thought Gondians.” The Larrenmen squinted northward. “Still…if he does not slow his pace as he nears, he will die on these plains.”
John brushed unruly hair from his eyes. “How many horses does he lead, Amelyssan?”
“A half-dozen, perhaps. Strung out behind him like a caravan train.”
“Does he quickly come?”
“At full gallop.”
Amelyssan climbed down from the barrow’s thorny crest. “Sunset is nigh. Let us mark this man as friend or foe before darkness. I have no desire to place wolven on one side and a stranger on the other.”
Kellus looked to the south. “They will come tonight; the wolven will be here before morning.”
The party had heard the now-familiar howling almost immediately after Poridel had been laid to rest. The sounds were distant, still, and all came from the south. But none of them held any illusions – they did not expect a peaceful evening.
Raylin drew his swords. “He comes - and he does not slow. Such will mark the end of his days.”
Baden, Raylin, and Vath formed a front rank, shoulder-to-shoulder, perhaps a gap of two paces’ between each of them. Kellus was just behind, curative magic ready on his lips, mace ready in his hand. John was still further behind, the dying sun to his back so that he might better aim his crossbow. Amelyssan stood opposite John, also in the rear, pale features made bronze in the red sunlight.
And, thus, they waited.
***
The rider sunk momentarily beneath a subtle fold of the land. When he reappeared, the sound of his hooves was remarkably louder. He rode hard, and well, a rope wrapped about the high-back of his saddle and strung behind him to lead his train of horses. Even as John placed the butt of his crossbow to his shoulder, the man pulled on his reins. His horse – a massive Cormick war stallion – reared backward, cutting the air with sharpened hooves.
“Vaclava!” The man shouted with laughter, calming his mount with a soft murmur. He eyed the party. “I am Anar von Girval, and I apologize for his melodrama; he was determined to give you a lasting first impression.”
John could not help himself. “Of whom do you speak?”
“Oh,” Anar seemed surprised. “Forgive me. This is Cormalakos.” The rider patted his horse on its flank.
A lengthy, odd silence descended. John did not adjust his aim, nor did Vath cease the rhythmic clenching-and-unclenching of his clawed hands. The rider’s smile never faded. “I am son to Hrothgar.”
Still, the party did not move.
The rider appeared Gordian, certainly. He possessed the large build common to men from that northern mountain island. His hair was the color of ripe apples, his beard similar in hue, both luxurious in their thickness and length. A single braid, bound by gold filigree, extended from the nape Anar’s neck to dangle, finally, near his boots.
Most amazing - his horse and the trailing horses were covered in mud, but not a speck of the stuff seemed to have landed upon the man’s own armor. And what armor it was! Full plate mail, shining in its golden brilliance, unadorned and made more wondrous for its simplicity. The sheen was bright even without much sunlight; doubtless it would be near blinding during a summer’s noon. A thick red cloak, trimmed with fur, was draped across his shoulders, held by a single broach that glinted with diamonds. At his hip, the jeweled pommel of a sword showed itself.
Anar continued to smile, face open and eyes inviting. After a long moment, he twisted, retrieved an apple from one of his saddle bags, and raised the fruit in toast toward the party. “We have not the time, gentlemen,” he announced, quite merrily, between bites, “for you to spend the evening staring at me.”
Anar fed the remainder of his apple to Cormalakos before addressing the party once more. “By your leave, I would very much like to approach.”
Kellus slipped his mace into his belt. “Come then, Priest of Lathander. We offer no harm to those who do not seek it.”
Anar grinned. “I am no priest – no more than you are, Kellus of Rhelm.” Without further delay, the golden-armored knight kicked his heels and his horse bolted closer. He pulled up a few paces from Vath, eyes sparkling with curiosity. “The scars on your wrist, your gloomy tabard – these mark you as a follower of the Suffering God.”
Vath dug between his teeth with a well-bitten talon, eyeing Cormalakos with unabashed hunger. A full eighteen hands at the shoulder, the beast returned the half-troll’s look as one man might to another.
John stepped forward. “A Cormick mount among destriers is a king among paupers, and yet your mount would appear even a king among the finest of Cormick stallions.” The bard laid a hand on Vath’s shoulder. “Still, I think my friend would like to eat him.”
Anar threw his head back and laughed, the sound reverberating around the gray twilight. “I shall remember that, indeed I shall, when next Cormalakos relieves himself on the sacred mosaics of the Dawngod. Do you hear me, you brute?”
Baden did not wait for the horse to answer – such an event may have sundered his grasp of the world. “You’ve got a beard, northman, and a big one. But, at the moment, that’s all I like about you.” The dwarf stepped forward and fixed a bushy eye on Anar. “You talk as if them horses you lead are for our rumps, and I like it none.”
Anar nods. “I know you, Baden Dost of Clan Axemarch. And I knew your chief Droggi Bogensson.”
“Knew?” Baden’s eyes narrowed. “I last saw Droggi during the Midsummer Festival, and he was healthy as a halfling.”
Anar’s face grew somber. “Aye, and I’m certain at the Festival it was as you say. But he is no more. There are not many of Clan Axemarch left, friend dwarf. Not many at all.”
-I am sorry, Baden.
“There never were many of us.”
“No, but there are fewer now. Blood has been spilled in the Balantir Cor – not all of it dwarven. The ichor of morhedrel, dwem, elf-spiders – these fluids stain the halls of your fathers as well. The dwarves sensed the growing evil before most of us surface-dwellers, and many battles have been fought and lost in the deep places of the earth that we have yet to hear of.”
After a look toward Baden, Amelyssan stepped forward. “You bring dark words to us on a dark day, stranger. I had not known the men of Gordia were so lacking in manners.”
“Then you do not know the men of Gordia.” Anar’s smile was kind. “Would that I had the time to be more courteous, sylvan elf. I take no pleasure in spreading tales of woe. But steel your heart if you believe that the worst of it. For your own lands – the twin islands of Grun Min and Grun Prim – are little more than staging grounds for evils that will soon sweep across the land.”
John, finally, lowered his crossbow. “Lord Anar, you have not drawn your blade and as such we deem you a friend - the times are sad when a lack of overt hostility is considered a friendly advance.” The bard paused. “Nonetheless, we have been from battle to travel, and back again, more times than I care to remember. If you ride south, go with our blessing, but cease your dour predictions. Now is not the time nor the place.”
Anar’s horse neighed softly and the golden warrior tilted his head, as if listening to the beast. He regarded the southlander. “You are correct, of course, Master John of Pell. I speak to you as if you were children, and you certainly are not. You have slain three great evils. Indeed, you have allowed me to pursue other missions.” Anar touched his forehead in apology. “My father claims I talk like a Harren whore and make less sense; I beg your forgiveness.”
“You have it.” Kellus bristled with impatience. “Yet we have preparations to make, Son of Lathander.”
“Indeed you do! We all do!” Anar judged the time of day with a glance heavenward. “I hear you have a problem - a wolf problem.”
Vath growled softly. “How did you hear, yellow man?”
“A friend - Dog Bigby.” Anar quickly continued by way of explanation. “Some find him humorous, some find him annoying, but he is a good man. And he is on our side in this.”
“Our side?”
“Our side.” Anar is emphatic as he levels a stare at Baden. “I have come because we are in this together. Yet, there is one thing I must do before we ride.”
“We ride?”
“Soon enough, we shall.” Anar grinned at Baden before allowing the humor to leave his face. The Lathanderite slid from his horse, throwing the reins over his saddle. “Each heartbeat brings us closer to our deaths, should we tarry in this place.”
“Then why do you dismount?”
“Because I could not do otherwise and still call myself a good man.” Anar’s bearded face grew serious. He looked to Kellus. “Take me, if you will be so kind, to the body of the Tower Sage Poridel Poriden. The sun does not shine so brightly now that he has passed.”
Kellus escorted the Gordian through the thorns without preamble. Both men dropped into the hole, disappearing into the barrow’s interior. The rest of the party remained outside, sharing looks with Cormalakos.
***
After but a short while, the pair returned. Anar waved an arm at the party. “It is time we ride, and hard. The wolven and dreth will be moving soon.”
“Dreth?”
“Aye, my dwarven echo. Dreth - the Horned Hunters - those foul beings that lead the wolven on the hunt.”
Raylin arched at brow toward Anar. “And have you seen these Horned Hunters before, Gordian?”
“Seen them? Aye. I have sent a few back to the hells whence they came. But it was no easy task, and one I would rather not do on an empty stomach.” Anar hesitated before looking toward Kellus. “Your father, good Helmite, would have been able to tell you much about the dreth.”
Kellus shifted uncomfortably. “My father is dead.”
“I know, I know,” Anar murmured as he gripped his reins and climbed atop Cormalakos. “And we miss him. Gods, do we miss him.”
Vath nodded as if reaching the conclusion of an inner debate. “Go, then.” The half-troll stepped backward from the train of horses. “Take my companions and leave quickly. I will delay these Horned Hunters and the wolven as best I may.”
Anar’s eyes widened. “You are large, Brother, and doubtless fierce in battle – but facing the dreth and the wolven alone would be the death of a man twice as big, and many times as powerful.”
“Your horses will not bear my scent, nor my touch.” Vath spoke matter-of-factly. “I could run with you, for a time, and for a speed. But not always, and not as quickly as you will want. So, I say, go.”
Raylin walked forward as he tied a leather bracer about his wrist. “He will not stand against these Horned Hunters alone; I will remain with him.” There was no bravado in the ranger’s voice, no emotion upon his face.
“And I.” Amelyssan ran his hands along the length of his staff.
Anar shook his head, eyes troubled. “You cannot do this thing. I regret that Brother Vath cannot ride a horse, but the rest of us must be off. Now.” He shared a look with Vath. “Mor volora tu, half-troll. I honor your valor.”
John appeared pained. “Lord Anar - lend your sword to our fight. We have stood against the wolven before, we can do so again.”
“I have not made it a habit of running from battle, Pellman, but this I cannot do. Your deaths would be a mighty victory for the Darkness, and it must not be allowed to occur. It is not written that you should die here on these plains.” Something in Anar’s eyes hinted that his last statement was not delivered with the same conviction as his earlier claims.
“Perhaps it is not written, bearded man, because it shall not happen.” Baden unstrapped his axe with a quick tug. “I be ready to take a few heads off the shoulders of these Horned Hunters. I grow weary of the incessant howling – makes it difficult to sleep, it does.”
Anar, suddenly anxious, looked toward Kellus. “Sir, I knew your father. He was a wise man. He did what must be done - even in the face of great odds, or though it went against his wishes. I implore you to understand the gravity of the situation. We must ride!” Cormalakos pawed the muddy turf in exclamation.
Kellus frowned as night continued to steal westward across the plains. “I will ride with you, Lord Anar.” The priest turned to his companions and, especially, to Vath. “Do not make a stand here, Brother. You can run fast, if only for a while. Leave this area, and perchance the wolven will follow us instead.”
Raylin shook his head. “Kellus, the lands here will not be friendly to the half-troll, even if he escapes the wolven. These are Cormick lands, and the Cormick riders hunt all trollfolk. We cannot abandon him.”
Vath ran his tongue along the tips of his yellowed teeth. He spoke to all of them and none of them. “All of you. Go, now. Suffering comes, and I shall meet it. Alone.”
“I am not leaving you.” Amelyssan’s voice was even.
Vath regarded the elf flatly. “I will kill any who tries to remain with me.”
Raylin seemed torn with indecision. “If you will not allow us to come with you, friend Vath, then take my boots. I will take a pair from a dead Cyric.”
The clansman sat down in the mud, swords forgotten on the ground beside him, and began to pull off his boots. “They are enchanted, and leave not the slightest tracks. Perhaps the wolven will not see your trail.”
Raylin did not add that the boots, however magical, did not mask one’s scent; that was understood by all.
John covered his crossbow with oilcloth. “I will go with Vath.” He eyed the half-troll with a shrug. “Kill me if you will, Vath, but I am coming nonetheless. What will you do if Cormicks find you? If you reach a city? Grunt at them? Tell them ‘Suffering is blessed’?” John barked with laughter. “You need me, and so I shall come.”
A mournful howl wafted northward through the dusk. Anar wheeled his horse. “Now, friends, or it will mean all our deaths. Let the Pellman and the half-troll remain, but we must go!” With that, he began to untie the trailing rope from the train of horses.
Amelyssan walked closer to John, oblivious to the others. “Let me remain, John. I am light in weight. Vath could carry me as another man might carry a sack of bread. I will not slow him down.”
Vath grumbled, eyes dark and face unreadable. When he looked up, there was an odd emotion in his eyes – one wholly unfamiliar to those bestial orbs. “The elf is wise. I will take him.”
John stepped forward.
“Until next, then.” Pellman and half-troll clasped forearms. John looked to say more, but could not. The bard walked away, even as the howls once more pierced the night sky.
***
Baden clawed his way onto the back of one of Anar’s horses, swearing and sweating by the time he was finished. Raylin held the reins to the dwarf, looking up at him from where the ranger stood. “You made that look incredibly difficult.”
“It was incredibly difficult.” Baden white-knuckled the reins. “The damned fancy, golden guy – he seems to know all about us. Didna he know dwarves prefer ponies?”
Raylin smiled and looked over Baden’s mount toward Anar. The Lathanderite was assisting John with his own bit and bridle.
Baden glanced westward, watched the speck that was Vath and Amelyssan move across the ground. “Do you think they will survive, Raylin?”
“No.”
Baden nodded, his own thoughts confirmed. He shared a look with Raylin. “Do you think we will survive?”
Raylin cocked his head. “No.”
Baden watched the clansman walk away and – effortlessly – mount his own steed. “If that be the case, have ye got any drink left on you?”
Raylin smiled. “No.”
“Well, Larrenman,” Baden sighed, “that’s just a damned shame.”
And, with that, the party – what was left of the party – galloped northward. Away from Poridel, away from the Sorrow Elf, away from the howling, and away from-
***
-the Dreth.
The Hunter raised a gloved hand, its eyes easily piercing the gloom. The hunting grounds stretched before it, seemingly without end, rising and falling like the Red Silt-Seas of Carceri. Its party stopped without a sound. The wolven fell to their haunches, obedient and fearful, drool turning to ice and tinkling against the hardened ground.
The Hunter swiveled its gaze northwestward, away from the golden man that shone like a torch. There – far, but not too far – ran two of its quarry. One carried the other.
It yearned for the Time that had been before, long and longer ago, when it could Hunt during the daylight hours. Soon it would be thus, again.
But not yet.
The Hunter gestured casually toward the distant form, where it ran desperately westward, hunched under the weight of his carried companion.
The wolven threw back their shaggy heads and howled – the tone no longer one of seeking, but of triumph.
For the first time in a thousand seasons, the Hunter was pleased. It looked to its fellow. “Vi tum rey’us.” I go for that prey. “Vu tuma o’rey’us.” You go for the other.
And so they did.
Two bands of wolven, each relentlessly pushed by their dreth masters, shot forward through the night.
Please consider this another vote to not feel to constrained by the unvarnished truth.
