Book VII, Part 46
But the next day provided no ready answers. The storm had continued its onslaught unabated throughout the night, dumping a more or less constant downpour upon the mountain valley until its lower reaches were transformed into a hazardous maze of overflowing streams and slicks of treacherous mud. Several rockslides over the night had transformed the landscape from what they had seen the night before, but the hobgoblins had chosen a sound campsite and their vantage was not directly threatened, an island in the storm.
The new day broke in a gray haze, the rain continuing in a steady drizzle as the companions and the refugees woke and took stock of their situation. They had no supplies, but after a morning of prayer Dana was able to conjure enough magical food to sustain them all, at a heavy cost to her regular selection of divine spells. Those of the townsfolk who were best able were put on work details to fetch wood from the ready supply of deadwood nearby; in this the storm had aided them by uprooting several of the scrub trees that clung to the valley slopes and dragging them down closer to the valley floor. With warmth, food, and freedom, the townsfolk were beginning to show signs of engagement once more, although it was clear that it would take considerable time for most to come to grips with the personal devastation that each had suffered. The companions, each of whom had been faced with similar losses, understood and gave them the space they needed.
By the end of their first full day in the valley, every member of the mismatched company was tired and filthy, with mere distinctions in race and gender obfuscated by a universal coating of sticky brown mud. Dana had taken an hour from her ongoing care of those townsfolk who were still ill to join her friends in another probe of the cliff complex, but despite their best efforts the mysterious stone guardians continued to confound them. With some experimentation they found that Benzan was able to advance the farthest, but that he too experienced an implacable barrier directly before the two statues. Attempts to dispel the effect were to no avail, and nothing stirred from the dark tunnel at their presence, despite their light and the noise of their conversation. Thus defeated, the companions returned to their campsite. Despite the effects of the bad weather the place was starting to look more substantial, the townsfolk managing a great deal in just a day’s work. Drains had been dug to allow runoff to escape the stockade without collecting in a sea of mud, the gate had been reinforced, and guards holding hobgoblin weapons posted around the perimeter. Only a few of the survivors had been in the militia, but after what they’d been through all held their weapons with hard determination, and it was better than nothing. Still, the companions knew that any determined attack would likely fall hard upon their shoulders.
But with nothing stirring in the valley save themselves, it looked increasingly as though they were alone in a washed out, empty wasteland of drab grays and browns. They could not begin the difficult journey back down to Sunset Vale as long as the storm held, but it was clear that the townsfolk were growing increasingly eager to begin, and as the day began to ebb it seemed as though the rain eased as well, offering the hope of a better day tomorrow.
Benzan crouched alone on an outcropping of mud-slicked stone that overlooked the valley, a stone’s throw from the stockade. After spending much of the day crowded into the company of almost a hundred bedraggled refugees, he appreciated the chance for solitude. He wasn’t assigned to watch duty just yet; with his darkvision he and Lok would both be on the walls for a goodly part of the night, he knew all too well. He’d spent a busy day, not only helping with the work on their camp, but accompanying the second expedition to the cliff tunnel and conducting a scouting sweep of the valley with Lariel. By all rights he should be in his bedroll now, grabbing what sleep he could, but still he lingered at his vantage, his face creased with thought. He caught sight of another woodgathering party heading up the slope behind the stockade, a half-dozen townsfolk armed with axes, accompanied by Lariel. The elf spotted him and waved, and Benzan waved back absently.
“Hey,” a familiar voice came to him.
He turned to see Dana walking toward him. Her clothes were stained by mud, and her hair was slicked and mussed, but to his eyes she looked beautiful. He smiled, and she returned the gesture as she came to join him. For a moment she looked dubiously at the muddy stone, then, looking down at her own sodden clothes, laughed softly to herself and sat down next to him.
“You should get some rest,” she told him. “It’ll be a long night, and Cal said we’ll start back down to the Vale tomorrow, if the storm breaks.”
“What about the tunnel complex?”
“Whatever’s in there, it doesn’t look like we can get past that ward. It seems deserted, anyway.” She looked around the valley, the wind catching loose strands of her hair and flapping them around her face.
“I’m sorry about before,” she said, finally. “I... it’s just, sometimes, it’s hard. What we do. Somehow in the stories of ‘adventure,’ they manage to leave out the parts with the cold and the wet and the blood and the suffering.” Her gaze traveled back toward the stockade, at the people she’d been caring for.
“I love you, Dana.”
Her gaze came back to meet his. “I know, Benzan. I love you too.”
They embraced, and for a time the warmth of their feelings for each other beat back the cold and darkness of the world around them. Finally she drew back, touching his face in a tender gesture. “I’ve got to get back. Three of the townsfolk still have a fever that persists despite everything I try to do...”
“Go,” he said. “I’ll be along in a few minutes.”
She nodded, and both of them rose. With a final kiss she turned and headed back to the stockade, her magical boots carrying her rapidly across the uneven terrain, like a fey nimbly rushing through a gray wood. Only this blasted landscape looked nothing like the kind of place one would find a merry forest spirit, he thought grimly, taking a final scan of the valley. Darkness was already starting to settle, although it would not hinder his ability to see, at least to the limits of his darkvision. Another constant reminder, not that he needed it, of his mixed heritage.
He’d intended to start back after a final sweep along the upper reaches overlooking the valley, but he hesitated. When he’d glanced up at the slope in the direction that the woodgatherers had gone, he thought he’d seen something, a dark shadow creeping though the rocks that had vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Frowning, he took up his bow—unstrung, the string protected against the wet in his pouch—and took a few steps in that direction. It might have just been a trick of the light, but he’d learned to trust his instincts in such...
“So. You didn’t waste any time, did you?”
The voice caught him up short—it had come from just a short distance away, from the far edge of the outcrop, among a maze of huddling boulders. A cold chill crept up his spine as a tall shadow emerged from the dark, wrapped in a concealing cloak that thoroughly covered his features. The chill wasn’t for the sudden appearance of the other, but it was for the familiar sound of a voice that was the absolute last that he’d ever expected to hear in this place, in any place.
“What...” he said, fighting a surge of mixed confusion and unease.
“You know,” the shadow said. “You know, you treacherous bastard. I always knew you wanted her, and now, it looks like you have gotten what you want.”
As the cowled figure drew nearer, Benzan got a good look at his face, and his own grew white.
“Delem...”
). Do you want it tomorrow, knowing that you won't find out what happens until Monday, or do you want to wait till Friday? 
)
