The Curse of the Wounded King

She spared him a bandage and spirits to clean the wound. Brill slipped the glove back on his wounded hand and retrieved his crossbow. Discarding it had jostled the weapon, but not damaged it. Thankful for that, at least, he clipped it back to his belt.

He was alone when he left the fellowship, passing from their sight between the ruined homes and discarded bodies. The tiger's snarls faded with his distance, and only the still of death surrounded him. Here, he took the shield from his back and the sword from its sheath, turning in slow measured circles. A mercenary learns his trade step by step. Few old mercenaries are good ones, and their bodies tell the stories of their worth. Long ago, Brill had learned the distance between a killer and a mercenary.

He was a mercenary. Xavior was a killer.

Eventually they would strike at each other's throats.

Of course, he couldn't prove any opinion about the quiet archer. It was just in the way he walked, stalking on the balls of his feet, more an assassin than a warrior. It was how he spoke, measured, quiet, never a word out of place for their boss or companions. Of them all, Xavior was the only man who had not shown his spirit in his words.

He might have just been a quiet man, taken more to listening than speaking. But Brill felt a chill when he looked into the killer's eyes, a sort of enmity barely shrouded by the playful ruse of what he wore. Paranoid or not, Brill would trust the coarse barbarian before the archer could prove himself.

Leaning near a bloodied home, Brill took the time to kneel and close the eyes of the little girl dead and impaled to the wood. No child should look upon the ruination of her home like this, and if her spirit lingered, it could certainly see.

Desmond was a fool, but music might be a welcome sound on this dead hillside. Even the tassles and colors that girl (Juliet, was it?) wore was a welcome color save the drying brown of thick blood and the pallor of corpseflesh. Tristan had chosen them poorly, almost desperately. It reminded Brill that the man was more a boy than anything else, driven by singular purpose and minimal experience. Kendrick would be an asset there…but not he.

No. He'd had his fill of commanding men.

Reaching into his breast, he pulled out the crossed swords of the Southern territory, Lomass now. They felt heavy there, as they always did, hung on a tarnished silver chain and glinting by the noonlight. He only afforded them a glance, letting it fall back into his armor and swinging around, sword up, shield raised.

Nothing.
Maybe he would not be killed so quickly then.

Sighing, he sheathed the blade and put the shield back on his back. The Tarthas oath might have been too much, then. He invited more questions than answers, but the day had seen enough blood…and there was no gold for taking the life of some wild youngling. He wouldn't make Tristan a murderer for impotent revenge, and in that, perhaps he had adopted the monkling as his own.

Lomass taught brothership, the warrior's pact. All men would stand together or apart as no man, and your brother was the man beside you who bled the same color as the rest.

His father spoke of mankind.

And he had been cast out for insulting the gods…no, for sinning with the lives of humanity in spite of the gods.

His sin to bear.

They were done here. They had their guide and nothing but mourning would be left.

He turned for the camp.
 
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Sable stood quietly and stared at the dead village. "Tristan, I'm not afraid of these people. I've killed stronger men than them before, and I can do it again. For some reason, I wish to continue this journey and see where this will all end," she said quietly with a smirk as she stared out at a cemetery. She sighed and touched her scar. "I'll be on the east bank. Send Kinicki after me when you're ready to leave." Sable walked down the hill and through the dozens of dead. When she came to Tristan's bestiary, she sat among the blood-flecked stones. It was now that the tears came - now that she was away from the others and the full weight of this massacre came upon her.

Friar Jaime... the monk who had passed the scroll to Tristan before he was killed... lay among the animals.

Jaime was Sable's former master and trainer. He was the truest of all devils in sheep's clothing. Sable--having been only a child at the time--walked straight into his web when he told her that he would be kind to her and promised her shelter at the Caldane monastery in North Spire. What she got was a grass mat in a basement with stagnant drinking water and rats she had to kill herself. Then at night the bastard would come into her cell and rape and sodomize her until she fell asleep from exhaustion. He beat her and trained her to be the "perfect weapon and slave". That was how she "earned" that damn scar. He beat her with a stick until she was unconscious and left her to die or be dragged off.

And none of the other monks realised. None of them knew that this man amongst them was perverting everything they stood for. A paedophile and torturer, in the ranks of the sacred, smiling at prayer and meal times before returning to his abuse. She wondered if they found his torture basement, after he died.

"Master," Sable whispered as she closed her eyes. "The night I killed you was the happiest day of my life. You came into my cell as I hid and I stabbed you until I could see the pale white of bone. When you died, I swore I would desecrate your grave as you desecrated me," she said and drove her sword, hard, between the corpse's legs.

Sable smiled at her work and felt at ease for the first time in years. She sat against the ruined wall and looked at the world around her. It was a beautiful landscape despite the murder that had occurred. The world seemed to be at peace. Sable shut her eyes and began to hum a song that she learned in the orphanage. It was about a fox that searched the world for a hound that killed its kit. The fox got its revenge, but it had nothing left. Then, the fox discovered that it could start life over, making one big circle.

The sound of a twig snapping pulled Sable from her thoughts. She opened her eyes to see Kinicki, and behind him Tristan. They had followed her out here.

"I couldn't make him stay, I..." Tristan stopped speaking when he saw what had been done to the priest's body. A frown came, but the tears on Sable's cheek gave him pause. He stepped into the ruins of his old home and looked down at her. "Why have you done this...?"

The girl's shoulders shook and she buried her face in the flank of the tiger as it came to soothe her. "This man wronged me... an age ago." It was all she said, and there was silence as smoke and ashes danced.

It was a long time before Tristan spoke again. He crouched the other side of the tiger, stroking it as she did. "We became friends in those last weeks. Friar Jaime would come from the dig sites and bring me messages to relay to the other towns. It was always he who came. He paid well. Sometimes more than he owed."

Their eyes met, tearshot to tearshot. Tristan turned the scroll lightly in his other hand. "I did not know him as you did, Sable... but in those few days what I saw was a generous man. A man almost desperate in his kindness." He put the scroll away. "The barbarians must have chased him for four leagues that night before he reached me. And when he passed me this scroll, there was hope in his eyes. Hope that everything could be made better. Perhaps even in his own soul."

There was a mocking sniff from Sable. She looked up at him, a smirk returning, angry and resentful. "Men cannot change," she snapped. "He died a fool, thinking his deeds would excuse him. Jaime was a monster and I only wish he had suffered more."

The outburst brought deadlier silence. Kinicki purred lightly, laying his head between their laps. There were calls in the distance as the herb-gathering party returned. Tristan sighed. "Yes. Perhaps men cannot change..."

His hand lingered in Kinicki's fur as he got back to his feet.

"...But even tigers can be trained."

And with that he left Sable with her ghosts.
 
xav.jpgXavier simply chuckled and shook his head at the naive barbarians comment. Obviously this scum was an idiot, daring to talk back to the person with his petty little life in his hands. But Xavier also felt slight sympathy for the ignorant fellow as well. And he also couldn't blame him, it was in his nature to pillage and rape. If you are brought up to be a bloody thirsty rapist, then you are going to grow up and be a blood thirsty rapist. He tucked away the poison tipped dagger back in its sheath. He then smirked at the barbarian before walking past him and up to the oak tree that lay a few feet away. He then turned back to face the captive before leaning back against the tree.

"Even though I have been in this group longer than you, that MERCENARY Brill put that oath over you. I do not understand why he would do that, considering you were one of the people that helped in this disgusting massacre.

He kicked at a rock at the ground. The rock then flew up before landing against the side of a dead body, close to the head. Xavier was already bored. He had nothing to do but watch this oaf, and he knew he would rather be off checking the bodies for valuables instead of tending to a child, and he would do just that.

"Brill made that oath, so why should I watch you? If you shed anyone elses blood, yours shall be shed ten fold..."

He then left the barbarian with those words. Besides, the barbarian could not do THAT much damage, considering the injuries that he has taken. Xavier was also wondering when the foraging party would come back with the herbs so that the apothecary could treat the barbarians wounds. Then they would be off to really start their adventure across the lands. Who knew, Xavier might actually have fun on this trip. He might make ... friends.

No, that was a naive idea that needed to be pushed out of his mind forever. He was on this trip for a mission, and that is to make himself the Second Wounded King. All he needed to do, was not let people in on his intentions, and this journey would be perfect. As Xavier traveled down the hill, he squinted to see a house that resembled his in the Southern lands. He shrugged before walking down to the entrance. The door was hanging off its hinges. Obviously the barbarians had caused more damage than he had thought. He entered the burnt home before looking around. Nothing of value was really around, and he sighed. But then, he noticed a small body in the corner of the room. He slowly walked up to it, and noticed it was the body of a young woman nude. Her face was bloodied up as well, with a hole in the center of her forehead. It seemed as if she was raped, and then killed.

"Disgusting..."

He felt as if he spent enough time looking around. Obviously the barbarians had took every single thing of value, and left nothing for himself. He sighed before walking out of the home and back up the hill, and noticed Sable talking to Tristan. His mind slowly lit up. He needed that woman to be her ally. She seemed to have a violent nature within her, and also seemed to have a bad past as well. He also saw tears on her face, which were not there before. Obviously something happened while he was off.

"She will be my ally somehow, especially because of her tiger..."
 
Corinne's luxurious blonde hair waved behind her in the crisp wind. Eyes of glass shined green and full of dignity. She carried herself well, walking strongly and at a pace that defined her as the woman she was. The sun had shown bright through the giant maple leaves. The succulent heavy weighted bark coated the massive trunks of the maples. The Burch trees had turned ash white. Scabbing and peeling away, revealing their summer skin.
Daffodils were scattered among tulips, Gold on purple. The grass seemed sharp, tiny knives, killer green. As she walked past the scenery filled with mint leaves and flitting ruby finches.

Corinne had been instructed by Tristan to search for a certain type of thistle, though she was unsure why. The whole concept of the wounds was a bit farfetched to her, but she had agreed to come along. After all, there was not much adventure just sitting around…
Tristan told her the thistle would be found somewhere in the glen not too far from Argeria, the city where she had first met the man who single handedly changed the atmosphere of society. It wasn't as much Tristan himself as it was the news of the wounds, apparently they had been discovered and Corinne wanted in on it.

It didn't take long before Corinne found herself kneeling over a rough patch of grass, plucking prickly thistles from their place atop the long grassy stalks. The wind was gentle against the side of her face, rustling her hair in front of her gleaming eyes. Corinne drew in a deep breath, expecting a calming floral scent, but something strange wafted over her; the smell of horse feed.

----------------

The dark, damp basement smelt of sickness and bitter air. Concrete walls were all that she could see. A petite fireplace in the back corner of the basement was cracking and molting with age. The sudden creaking of the ceiling above her made her jump; her eyes were fixated on the floor. Other women were holding each other close like scared rats, quivering in the darkness. They were no longer crying; none of them could spare the tears. Staring blankly into the seemingly endless darkness of the furthest corner they all waited on deaths sweat arrival.

She wondered what was up above, what happened, why she could only hear creeks in the floor and not the people producing them. Sometimes she thought she heard the sound of pain and suffering, a sort of moan that was certainly unpleasant to the ears. Was it the sound of physical torture or was it the sound being produced in her mind as some sort of mental trickery?

She looked around, scanning the visible walls and the shuddering, skittish women around her. They had no faces, though Corinne knew them all personally. Tifaa and Dorinna had all been travelling with Tristan at one time, though they had all disappeared in their own mysterious way. The basement was too bleak to tell who was who or what was what. Neither of them spoke; they were too afraid. Corrine took a couple whispering steps further away from the couple. She could feel her heart beat in her chest, some sort of unnatural calm to her soul. The time in this decrepit, unsanitary place was unbearable. She would never get used to the smell, the sour taste it left in her mouth to breath. She would never wash the dirt off her skin.
__________________________________________________

"Wake up" A deep dangerous female voice bellowed from somewhere within her mind.

"You don't deal with pain very well…" There was a certain monotone emptiness to the voice that forced tears to rim her eyes. "Wake up you worthless-" the woman yelled out more aggressively, but Corinne's body refused to wake. It took only one more jab to the ribs with the sharp, cold object for her eyes to snap open. At that moment she knew exactly what they were using; fishhooks. Her eyes widened and she looked around; eyes squinted because of two small oil lamps that were pointed directly at her. They burned her skin that had not felt the warmth of light in so long. She could see absolutely nothing around her. The oil lamps forbid her from seeing the danger so close in front. She tried to move, panicking when she realized her arms, legs and neck were all bound to where she lay. A long slender table made of hard wood held up her starved weight. The splintering wood stung the soft fleshy pads of her fingers as she scanned her surroundings; frightened. Her body screamed to be free.

The woman, who had fallen silent with Corinne's awakening, took a step forward, the oil lamps illuminated her features just enough to so how terrifyingly beautiful she was- an angel of death lingering at Corinne's feet. Only soft whimpers escaped her mouth as the smiling face stepped forward out of the darkness completely and stood by her side. She felt another hook penetrate the soft skin that held so firmly to her ribs. Her legs tried to free themselves but she did not scream. She refused; an involuntary line of urine streaming down her leg and trickling off the hardwood table.

"Where is Tristan Faulkner?"
 
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Having left Sable to ponder his words, Tristan crossed back to the roadside where Kendrick and Scar had readied the horses. By the look of the two Northerners, some words of passion had passed between them, but Tristan could not discern their nature. An uncertain silence held between them as Tristan arrived.

Running a hand along the mane of his horse, which seemed much healthier now that Arlette had soothed its colic, he spoke to Kendrick. "I can't be certain, but there at least a dozen missing. The women and children would've been cornered in the church. The marauders took them."

"Twelve?" the Northerner answered as he secured his equipment. "One for each of the alphas our Barbarian friend mentioned."

Tristan frowned. He had not made this connection. "If there's a chance we can save them..."

"Really?" Brill was suddenly by the horses too, securing his own saddlebag. "And the fact that these barbarians may know something of the Ancient Wounds is just happy coincidence? Are you sure it's your women and children you seek?"

"I do not ask for your counsel, street rat!" Tristan shot back, and received only a chuckle as Brill mounted up. Beyond him Xavier was returning from the lower fields, and when Tristan saw him any anger at Brill was immediately forgotten. He glanced around, looking for Marrow, his hand on his sword hilt.

"Where is he?" He moved from the horses and confronted Xavier at the roadside. "Where is the Barbarian?" He looked beyond him, down into the field, but saw nothing. Then his eyes shot back at Xavier. "You left him alone?!"
 
By the time Brill had returned, he'd found his smile again. No worse for wear, it pulled up the corner of his mouth and folded into the bruise darkening his right cheek. The healer and her crew were still out gathering, but Tristan was newly arrived with Sable left behind. He'd seen her alone in a garden of graves. She wore rain on her cheeks, but Brill had only snorted to himself. A girl and tears was to a fool and his money. Easily parted and never ending. Patting his horse on the side of the neck, he became aware of Xavior, a shadow slinking between broken alleys and leaning buildings.


"Ho, Xavior," The mercenary called out to the archer, "Lose our guest already?" He grinned, but his eyes glared. If Xavior was here, it meant the barbarian was either on the loose or dead. Both spelled equal measures of punishment on the quiet murderer's part had he a hand in either. Running a glove through his hair, he looked back at Tristan. The brief scowl on his face was replaced by a tentative smile.

"I'll go find our guide," Brill said, rolling his eyes and turning his horse from the others, "Considering your hired help seems ill fitted to do more than draw arrows and forget duties." He went past Xavior, pausing beside him only to murmur in a quiet, lilting chuckle.

"Your presence here means you are either an incompetent fool or a dead man. For your sake, let us hope the best of you smeared your mothers thighs when your father saw fit to make you." He passed the rogue, moving between houses at a stiff trot.

Marrow was not far, a hulking oddity among the burned and moldering dead.

"Ho! Barbarian," Brill called out to him from a distance, quickly closing the space between them, astride his horse "I see you've lost a retainer already, did he take offense to your odor?" He was smiling, joking, but it was hard to parlay with these hillfolk. A joke was insult enough to die in battle and an insult just made them chuckle. "Have you a name, boy?" the mercenary asked, holding up his second wineskin, "I like to know the man I drink with."
 
xav.jpg"I am sorry, I went off to go look around the remains of this town. I do not know why he would run away though, considering Brill was the one who welcomed him into the group, and the others are off getting the herbs and things to treat his wounds." He sighed and ran his hand through his hair.

He noticed Brill on his horse coming by, and knew immediately that he would be getting an insult from him, and which he did.

"Considering your hired help seems ill fitted to do more than draw arrows and forget duties."

To show that he was not worthless, and an asset to the group, he called out after Brill.

"Aye, wait for me, to atone for leaving the barbarian, I shall come with you and help you find him."

Obviously Brill could not hear him though, or may not have wanted to hear him. Either way he wanted to seem better in the eyes of his companions so he swiftly jogged over to his steed before mounting it. He pulled on the reigns to get the horse to move its head in the direction of Brill. As he saw that Brill was getting farther and farther from him, he slapped the behind of his horse before looking back over his shoulder to yell towards Tristan.

"I will go off with Brill and search for him, and due to his wounds, he should not have gotten that far!"

On this mission, he would also need to gain Brills trust too. Xavier did not know why, but he felt as if Brill was onto him, considering all the looks and comments he made towards him. And this was a calamity.
 
Marrow had indeed not gotten far; he'd only headed back into the town proper in order to find a better-shaded place to sit and continue drinking. Much like Xavier had said, he wasn't getting very far with his shoulder the way it was; Barbarians could handle pain, but no man was immune to bloodloss or infection.

Brill's approach and greeting earned the man a smile more akin to a wolf baring it's fangs. "I offered to show him a better use for that knife'a his, but for some reason, he refused!" he said, putting on a mockingly 'polite' voice. "Thought your lot were supposed to be mannerly or some shit," he continued, dropping back into his usual gruff tone before taking another swig of the wine.

"I'm called Marrow," he replied after wetting his throat, wiping his mouth and beard on his arm. "I suppose you're gonna tell me yours?"
 

Dusting a little of the dirt off of her clothing, Arlette watched Juliet through the rather short and concise explanation. Not much one for talking, or keeping something a secret? Either way, there was no need for grudge. It was perfectly normal for someone naught more than a stranger to want to keep their past more or less to themselves, her explanation was more than Arlette would have demanded. Arlette was still absent-mindedly brushing dirt from the knees of the trousers when the man accompanying them spoke up.

Unaccustomed to such contrite behavior from lecturing a grown man, Arlette was a little taken aback, her wide eyes locked on his bashful expression. Both parents teachers and the boy a fool - she was nearly disheartened by the statement. Still, she tossed her hair a little and affected a smile after his words, discarding that he'd asked Juliet to explain her presence once more. Was he hoping for a more detailed account, or perhaps for her to expound? Arlette had no such expectations.

"I'm an apothecary by trade, having lived in a town not far from this one. Tristan was a patron of the apothecary I owned and I offered my aide to him in his travels." This was also a slightly short response for her reason in joining, but she was also not wont to divulge more about her past or her present motivations. Waving the other two forward, Arlette walked quickly to rejoin the group, aware that the injuries were not lethal, but the more time they spent exposed the worst they could fare.

The first group that she caught sight of was Tristan, Kendrick, and Scar with the horses. Tristan seemed just short of furious, and Arlette caught a snippet of the cause. The barbarian had been left unattended? It was all she could do not to cast an accusatory glance in search of the one he'd left to tend the man. She instead suppressed a sigh before turning toward the town, her eyes scanning the scene in hopes of spotting Brill or the barbarian. They both needed tended to and she cared little which one she took to first.

Spotting a figure on horse resembling Brill, Arlette gave a small nod to Tristan, whom she'd originally been approaching, and turned instead to try and catch up with Brill. She was lucky he seemed to have drawn to a stop. She was in no mood to run in order to catch him, instead just taking intent strides. When she was near enough to be heard, though still a fair distance away and not having yet seen the barbarian, Arlette called out.

"Brill, hold a moment if you want treated."
​
 
Tristan had been expecting another retort - another argument from some cocky coast-dweller with no respect for fellowship. But Xavier had surprised him. The man had simply apologised and taken action before any conflict could erupt.

It brought a memory of his father. As Brill and Xavier searched for the Barbarian, Tristan was left by the granary, the only stone structure besides the church. The stores had been raided and the insides gutted, but the sloped roof was still intact. It was where he would perch as a child. His father would place him here, then go to the mill on the other side of town, and between them they would send the three falcons of the bestiary, relaying practice messages. His father insisted on the drilling, but Tristan bored quickly. He smuggled books with him, the ones Juliet would bring from her travels, or the ones found in Argeria whenever he accompanied his mother there. Tristan would sit on that roof and read the Sagas of King Ranthos, the Turoc Tragedies, the Romance of the Northern Gypsies, and pause only to raise his arm and let a falcon land. He would decode the message, scrawl a response, then send the falcon back to his father, before returning to his place on the page. And like that he would continue till his mother called him to supper or his father discovered him and confiscated the books.

And like Xavier, Tristan would apologise immediately and set to his chores, before his father could grow any angrier. It always, in time, won him back his father's kindness and before the week was out he would be allowed his books once more.

He would read of this world, of Deluvian, and dream of one day leaving this village behind.

Now his wish had been granted, in the bloodiest and most horrifying fashion. And he thanked the gods his parents had not lived to see this day. Their graves were by the lake, past the east fields. He would not visit them... not until he brought back the women and children the barbarians had taken.

Not until he had done his chores.


Soon enough Brill and Xavier had found the Barbarian near the village well, drinking his fill of wine. As Tristan arrived he saw Arlette and the herb-gathering party had also returned and were attending to the wounded. He stalked past them all, without a word, and seized a length of rope from Brill's saddlebag. Unfurling it, he circled the man's horse. Arlette had barely finished dressing Marrow's shoulder wound when Tristan set upon him with the rope, lashing it around his wrists.

"Wandering dogs must be leashed."

Marrow could easily have resisted. The others could easily have intervened. But no one did, and in moments Marrow's hands were tied. Tristan returned to Brill and slung the other end of the rope around the gullet of the man's saddle. He locked eyes with Brill as he secured the second knot. "He stays tied. He stays on foot. This killer deserves neither hand nor horse."

"He'll have Kinicki for company," said a voice, and from the bestiary ruins Sable approached with her tiger in tow. The girl seemed ready to move out with the rest of them. Only a slight soreness in her eyes gave any clue that she had been crying. And as she joined them Scar and Kendrick arrived with the rest of the horses. In moments the party were saddling up and preparing to ride. The smoke from the funeral pyres now smothered the village and choked the trees of Clendale Forest.

"Which way, Barbarian?" Tristan demanded as his horse circled Brill's.

Marrow, his hands lashed to the saddle, was squatting to flex his leg muscles. The prospect of sprinting five leagues did not seem to phase him. "The mad chieftain would have taken the Colrun Pass. It's the quickest way to the Tors."

"I hope you see him again, Savage. So he knows it was you who betrayed him."

"I hope you see him too." Marrow smiled up at the falconer. "You are much alike."

The insult hung in the air for but a second. Then Tristan lashed out with his foot, catching Marrow in the jaw. The Barbarian was staggered, coming down onto one knee and pulling Brill's horse with him. The mount snorted and Brill resumed control, glaring at Tristan while his Barbarian charge straightened up again. Blood trickled from Marrow's mouth and down his chin.

"You had better pray the women and children are still alive."


* * * * * * *


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The ride south took them over foothills and marshes - the sodden borders of Elswich Valley. At times they would find evidence of the Caldane Order - upturned soil, piled rocks, tracks of cart and oxen. It seemed the monks had been digging in many places, moving up and down the valley. Sometimes the dig sites were miles apart. They had been searching, far and wide over recent months, but always staying close to Elswich so they could relay messages to the other monastic orders.

What had they found out here? What had they almost stumbled upon? And who had bribed the Hill Tribes to descend and slaughter the Caldane Order?

An Enemy was at work here - a manipulator dark and unseen. He was behind the massacre, behind the Western steel put in the hands of the marauders, and behind the religious visions that compelled the Barbarian Chieftain.

And he had yet to reveal himself.


Likewise, they found evidence of the Barbarians they pursued - the occasional campfire, animal bones, footprints in the marshes. But they were few. The Chieftain was force-marching his men and his prisoners. But what compelled his haste?

The mysteries loomed like the midday clouds, pregnant with the threat of rain. They hung darkly over the landscape, pierced here and there by sunlight. It was growing cold as the party crested a hill and, after five hours of travel, saw at last the sacred stones of Braedun Tor.

brae.jpg

A fire had been lit between the rocks. Horses and roasting spits stood in outline. The Barbarians were camped. And between laughter and song were the whimpers of women and children. They carried across the valley and Tristan drew his sword as he heard them.

"Gods..." he muttered as he beheld the distant foes. "There's more than fifty..."

The others came around him, and as one they observed the camp, each wondering what chance they stood against such odds.
 
"Marrow," the mercenary repeated, nodding thoughtfully, "Appropriate. You can call me Brill, and I advise you pay close attention to what I ask. I'm the only friendly face in this outfit." He would have said more, but Xavior approached from behind. Brill's mouth closed, cutting off what he would have continued to say, to explain he had massacred too…once, and that every man deserved a chance to square away with the gods. Instead, he looked over his shoulder and grinned.

"Hello, Shepherd," He called out, "Found your lost sheep, safe and sound. Best keep a better eye in the future, aye? Our friend isn't so scary."

Xavior shook his head, smiling with little mirth. He kept his own words, his own council, but had stalwartly endured the mercenary's barrage of insults. Brill shrugged, not really looking for another fight and thankful the quiet killer remained at least civil. Perhaps he had misjudged the man, but first impressions rarely left him worse for wear. The man smelled of blood and slaughter. That was enough for Brill to keep his distance.

Healer was next to catch them, arms laiden with herbs and linen. Sighing, Brill dismounted his horse and let her tend to his hand. She was careful, applying poultice, spirits, and bandage to his hand wound, wrapping it gently. "Soft hands, lass," He commented, watching her fingers move, "Not much combat in your past, is there?" She looked up at him, sharply, almost looking for the threat of violence in his words. Brill was only smiling, "Aye, a healer's hand should never smell of blood she's spilt." There was a gentleness to his voice that caught her off guard. It was almost unnerving coming from the usually crass man's mouth. He put a hand on hers as she tugged the bandage snug and she reflexively jerked them away. "Easy, girl," Brill murmured, pulling his glove over the wounded hand, "I'm not who you should fear." He turned from her without elaborating, letting her go to start treating Marrow.

"Healer!" he called out to her, kneeling near a patch of wild cloves, tinted pink on their leaves, "What are these?"

"Horse Mint," She said with a glance, "Leave them be. If the horses eat them, they'll be ill for a day or two."
"Still mint," Brill snorted, "And I'm no horse." Kneeling, he gathered tufts of the plant, three handfuls, and put them in his saddlebag. "You'll change your tune when we run out of salted meat," he chided the girl, "Till then, more for the merrier."

Tristan arrived later, quiet and seething, tying the barbarian and throwing the rope to Brill. The mercenary caught it and held it near the saddlehorn, frowning. When Tristan kicked Marrow, Brill bit back a retort and hissed. A quick glance in his direction revealed a smile, though, rather than an expected frown.

They left Elswich, the dead swinging a forlorn farewell and the smell of cooking flesh thick in the air. They rode following Marrow's instructions, finally in wait above the Barbarian camp. The darkness was an effective cover, even cloaking the ludicrously bright tiger in shadows. Brill drew up sharply, dismounting and tying his horse to a scraggly, squat tree growing from the dry ground. For a moment he only observed the Hillfolk, counting their number and measuring the stock of the remaining marauders. Whistling between his teeth, low, he turned back to Tristan and the others.

"About five to one odds, not odds I like. Personally, boss, I'd tell you we're fighting a losing battle here…but I have some options." Rubbing his hands together, he pointed out toward the edge of the grassland they'd come from. "Our benefit is in the weather. Spirits saw fit to give us drought this season, leaving this land wild with tinder. We have Sable and her cat circle behind them. Horses are jumpy things and if our misplaced animal here roars, it'll send them scattering our way through the field. He pointed to the flat expanse of grassland between them and the stones. "We use our oil and set lines, stay low in the grass. Enough will come after the horses. We set fire to the grassland."

Tristan jerked back from the plan, affronted, "Even if we kill most of them, the smoke will kill the prisoners as well!"

"Fair," The mercenary conceded, "But if they're valuable enough to take, they'll be valuable enough to protect. While the Hillfolk are dealing with arrows," he pointed at Xavior, "Bolts," he pointed at himself, "A tiger" he pointed at Sable, "And everything else our group can add, they'll be too scattered to rejoin. A smaller contingent of the barbarians will make for the mountains before the pass, get ahead of the smoke. We can pick them off on the way or make a valiant charge. There really aren't many better options." Straightening, he put out a hand to steady his mount. "If Marrow here wants to play turncoat to his tribe, he could drag one of us into camp and claim he was tracking a Caldrane monk to the area. Ten silver his fearless leader sends half or more of his marauders out to comb the field and hills beyond looking for our boy Tristan, and we set the grass fire then, or attack when they're scattered to give the survivors cover to run. But" He glanced at Marrow, "That depends how angry you still feel about your kinfolk leaving you to rot in a dead town." Taking a last swig of his wineskin, emptying it and clipping it back to his belt, Brill rubbed his temples and chuckled.

"Nine and a tiger against more than fifty Hillfolk marauders." He looked back out at them, between the stones, and breathed through his teeth, "You know how to choose your battles."
 
xav.jpgXavier simply shook off the mercenaries comment. Obviously he was not in the mood right now to make any responses to the insults he was getting. He understood why the barbarian would make crude comments to him, considering what he said to him. But what he did not understand is why Brill had to be so hostile to every member of the group, or make crude comments that no one enjoyed.

"I guess this is just how mercenaries act..."

He yawned slightly before scratching the back of his head and then noticed Tristan trotting by on his horse, and got off of it before tying up the barbarian by his hands, and then handed the rope to Brill. Xavier turned his face away from the others before smiling. Finally Brill would be held accountable for his new "friend" and Xavier would not. After Xavier was done with his moment, he turned back and noticed Tristans foot leaving the face of Marrow, who now had a bloodied and bruised jaw, and also noticed Brills growing hostility towards Tristan. Xavier was quite confused as well, as to why Brill cared so much about the one who partook in the murders of Elswich.

But why did that matter now? He could have cared less for what Brill thought. But he was suddenly highly interested in what Marrow had to say when Tristan asked him which way they should go now. And Marrow responded by saying they would have to take the Colrun Pass, which was the quickest way to the Tors. Finally there adventure would unfold, and finally they would start searching for the barbarians who attacked Elswich. This fact put a smile across Xaviers' face.

As they took the Colrun Pass, Xavier noticed some of the areas that the Caldane Order picked at and dug up. Obviously they were searching for something, and to Xavier it was most likely the Wounds of the King. He also noticed animal bones and the remains of campfires, which obviously meant that the barbarians were around these paths before, camping out.

"Interesting, so they stayed closed to Elswich so they could tell the others about their findings... or at least this is what I think."

So did the barbarians go to Elswich to attack the order and see if they had any of the Wounds? Or was it something more than that? Obviously Xavier would not find the answer here, but they may find it further down the road, and the Tors.

After a few hours of travel, they finally reached the area which the Druids once used. In between the two largest rocks of the area were over fifty barbarians camped out, laughing and having a good time, while the women and children were suffering. His mind then flashed back to the comment made by Marrow, about raping cunts or something around that genre. He hoped that the disgusting act of rape would not happen to the captives. He watched the others as they dwelled on their thoughts, before Brill spoke about his idea.

"Our benefit is in the weather. Spirits saw fit to give us drought this season, leaving this land wild with tinder. We have Sable and her cat circle behind them. Horses are jumpy things and if our misplaced animal here roars, it'll send them scattering our way through the field. He pointed to the flat expanse of grassland between them and the stones. "We use our oil and set lines, stay low in the grass. Enough will come after the horses. We set fire to the grassland."

Obviously Xavier was not very fond of this idea due to him being trained in the skills of thievery and infiltration. Its not that he did not have faith in himself or in his capabilities, but he would rather destroy them from the inside out. He was weary to state his idea, for he thought that it would not be that popular amongst the members of his group, but he blurted it out anyways.

"I have an idea... And I do not know if they come up to par with Brills, but this are just my suggestion. Now the idea is since the barbarians only took the women and the children, we could have one of the women from our group seem as an escapee, and Marrow would come back with said woman to the village and be congratulated by his old Chieftain. Now this said woman would have access into the village but also be a captive. Marrow would then have to break this woman out, but only when it seems most of the barbarians are asleep, so this obviously means my plan would have to take place during the evening. Obviously there will be a few posted out for watch, but not many, since they will probably want to have all of their warriors rested for the upcoming day, for it seems that they will not just stay here at the Tors. Now while Marrow is breaking said female of the group out, some of us would have to enter in without being seen by said look outs. I think that I would be suited for that, as well as Desmond, since we are both the silent ones of the group. We would obviously have to take out the look outs after we infiltrate the camp though. While these assassinations are going on, Marrow would have to go and well... Assassinate his old leader, while said female of our group is rounding up the women and children. Then all of the others would have to secure a back way out of the camp, while keeping them silent of course. The supposed resting barbarians would all have to be killed in their sleep as well, while some people are being guided out of the camp. And this is why no person escaping should turn back and look, for if they did, one of them may burst out screaming at the sight of the killings. It is basically returning the favor for the things that happened back at Elswich. BUT, my plan has a very low chance of success. What if Marrow just killed the Chieftain and threw the barbarians into a state of panic?"
 
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Desmond nodded at Arlette at what she said and began searching for more plants or herbs that would help the group. This was rather odd for Desmond, he thought he would have a more important job than picking flowers. It was important by all means, but it didn't seem to fit Desmond in his mind.

After he picked a couple more roots and flowers placing them into his small leather pouch on the right side of his belt he walked off and readied his horse. Over his shoulder he looked at Xavier, Marrow, Tristan and Brill all arguing. Desmond didn't want to argue, this would just tear the group up into faction then we would all feud. This wouldn't be good for any of us. The group began to move and trace the barbarians. Desmond looked upon the animal bones, and burned out camp fires as they passed with curiosity and wonder. How many of these barbarians were there?

Soon the group reached the barbarian camp, Desmond was horrified at how many captives they had. They had to come up with a plan. Xavier was fast to make a plan that will involve killing which didn't sit well with Desmond.

"Why do we have to kill or hurt any of them when we could spook the horses and have some of the barbarians go after them. That would decrease their numbers and give us a better chance at fighting. If that doesn't work we could try to make them scatter. I'm sure we could come up with something that could weaken their defenses and give us the upper hand. Rather if we just march in all high and mighty we may be cut down faster than you think."


 
Brill put a hand up to his face, as if he wanted to expel something viscous from his skin. When he removed it, that same sickly, smile glimmered in the night. Before anyone could comment on the other offered plans, the mercenary added in his opinion.

"Aye, Xavior, aye, send the barbarian in with another woman, increase their captives and, weaponless, our sacrificed companion can rally the survivors into a state of escape. Meanwhile, you and Desmond, the man who throws a sword meant for swinging, sneak into the camp and kill the ten or so posted watchmen, maybe more. All silently, mind you, and then we walk the people out, but not before stopping to soundlessly murder the rest in their sleep, one by one, as they snore like babes." He choked back a quiet chuckle and ran a gloved hand through his hair, "Bard, I'd take it as a kindness if you considered your words before speaking them. No hunting or killing? Are we to dress as grim shadows and chase the suspicious folk from their camps? Our only chance to free the people is to scatter the forces and slaughter the rest. Even then, we'll have the Hillfolk on our trail, and with their superior knowledge of the terrain we'd be battling ambush parties all the way back to Elswich, or Argeria."

Sitting back, he shrugged. "But there is some sense in your thoughts, Xavior, would be nice to have more on the inside to play merry with their perceptions." He shrugged, "Let the others speak their piece, see if we can't salvage something of this cobbled nonsense." He cast a sidelong glance at Marrow. "Besides, do you really feel up for tramping, wounded, into your camp, taking up arms, and slaughtering your chief? And you," he looked at Tristan with a raised eyebrow, "Would we trust our guide and prisoner to dance to our ditty without compunction?"
 
Prianne had just made her way to Elswich, following the direction she had pulled from Tristan's unfortunate travel companions. She managed to figure out that he would be heading back to his hometown, which had been reduced to a wafting stench pile of rotting bodies and tragedy. Prianne was not immune to the sadness of it all, but she kept her head up, trying her best to ignore the smell; despite the tears rolling slowly down her cheeks. Always watching, the assassin kept her distance, mounted on Marduk and taking the long way around every time the group seemed to split up and re-convene in a different location. They had managed to find a lone Barbarian, who from what she could tell by the shouting- was abandoned by his people. </SPAN></SPAN>

The day continued on with an awkward thickness in the air, tense body language and physical violence being common in the group, especially between Tristan and the large mercenary who somehow seemed to protect the Barbarian from the northerners rage.</SPAN></SPAN>
When the group finally took to travelling again, tying the Barbarian to the saddle of a horse and taking directions-Prianne trailed along.


_______________________________
</SPAN>
</SPAN>The dry sandy air clung to the inside of Prianne's nostrils. She was feeling fortunate that the long brown cloak she packed matched the surrounding area well enough to camouflage her in with the dead grass and brittle foliage. It seemed the seasons unfortunate drought took a toll on the land, making it harsh and sensitive to any traveler. There was a change in the sky though, </SPAN>midday clouds hung darkly over the landscape, heavy with the possibility of rain. It was growing cold as Tristan's party crested a hill and Prianne followed from a safe distance behind. The sacred stones of Braedun Tor were so large that even she could see them peeking out over the hill, though the hired assasin had no idea of the Barbarian camp within their shadows. As Tristan's group seemed to stop and converse, Prianne let her head turn, casting her vision back in the direction she had come. Behind a withering tree was her stead; Marduk. </SPAN></SPAN>

Marduk was the embodiment of her passion, The prized war horses she raised for the Assassin order were her only source of happiness in life. The Order made sure she had what she needed, and in return-she did odd jobs for them by night. Her talents were vast, though no one who knew her by day had any idea. They had made it very clear to her that her double life was supposed to be an illusion-and that it was.</SPAN></SPAN>


Prianne smirked with pride as she watched her prized stallion stand perfectly still behind the tree. She had outfitted him in a similar cloak to her own, though due to his massive size, she had added in some dried foliage to blend him better. Marduk was smart, knowing from experience that when his mother was still and quiet, he should be as well.

His image reminded her of the day she left ranch, which was located on the outskirts of Argeria; a city she rarely needed to travel to. </SPAN></SPAN>
She remembered that day well, and as she turned back to watch Tristan's group, she reminisced.</SPAN></SPAN>

______________________________________________

As she watched</SPAN></SPAN> a newborn foal take his first clumsy steps, It was entertaining to think that this wobbly babe would one day soon become a stead of destruction, carrying a fierce warrior or assassin on a back supported with thick, gleaming silver armor. Just as she once was a meek, fragile child- this horse would see many battles and too much blood.

Prianne made her way to the stallions, untying the foal's father and saddling him. Marduk was a fitting name for a stead so powerful. He had seen more battles in his years than Prianne had raised horses. The "blood bringer" as they called him, was a gift from the order when she had successfully murdered her own father, who was wanted dead by a very powerful and wealthy ally. For her ability to keep herself distant and murder her only living relative, the order gave her Marduk- an even trade in her eyes.

Prianne walked Marduk to the main house, where she instructed him to wait. It was something unique to her horses, the ability to listen to human command and actually fulfill them. The thick stead nodded his head in confirmation, just like he had been taught to.

Once inside, Prianne readied herself, dressing in her typical 'go out and kill someone' attire. Her armor was a bit strange for an assassin, which gave people the impression her profession was more of the 'personal pleasure' type. Requests from men for sexual favors wasn't uncommon, especially in the city. Her armor was lightweight and tightly fitted to her battle trained body. Her dominant arm was free of any plating, while her defensive arm was covered in thick metal scales-like an attached personal shield, easy to deflect oncoming attacks. Her breasts were covered in the same type of armor, but it ended scantily at her rib cage, leaving her entire abdomen and navel exposed. Something only a seasoned fighter was comfortable doing. Seeing as her stomach and hips were clean of any scars, one would know she was successful at dodging any attack toward that exposed area.

It wasn't the most pride bringing fact of her lifestyle, but being a woman assassin, Prianne was trained to use her feminine features as a distraction, giving her the upper hand in battle with lecherous and fantasy prone men. She flipped her head over, tying her shiny black hair up into a tight bun fitted atop her head with a bit of leather. She took some charcoal, drawing thick black lines under her eyes to somehow conceal her true appearance. She added a venomous looking green lipstick to the disguise, knowing how distracting the slightest out of norm appearance was to most people.

Once she was fully dressed, Prianne went outside, mounting Marduk and taking off in the direction of the city. Her orders were simple; hunt down the man with news of the scroll. As easy as it might have been, the events that took place in Argeria ended up being much more complicated than she expected and now she found herself tailing him all over the gods creation.
_____________________________________</SPAN></SPAN></SPAN>

Prianne's memories were interrupted by the sudden grunt coming from off in the distance. The swift assassin was down on the ground instantly, looking up to see where the sound had come from. To her right, there was a small hunting party of large men dressed in leather and furs. Great…Hillfolk, this is perfect… Prianne thought sarcastically to herself, staying hidden among a small bushel of dried shrubs. She looked back and forth from Tristan to the Barbarians, trying to figure out the best course of action. Tristan's party was too distracted by their own company and the hunting party was heading her way- simply out of coincidence. There was no way that they had spotted her, especially in her cloak. She lay silent, laying her head flat on the dead, itchy grass. The heavy footsteps of the men grew nearer until finally, the unthinkable happened. </SPAN></SPAN>

The brainless oaf tripped…</SPAN></SPAN>

In a flurry of confusion, Prianne popped up, shedding her cloak and throwing it at the remaining Barbarians, who were still in shock from their companions sudden stumble to the ground. It was an amazing streak of luck that Prianne managed to fan the cloak over their faces and turn to sprint off in the other direction. Marduk stood still, waiting for the signal, but Prianne knew better- She was better off on her own.

She turned around and bit down on her bright green lip, staring down the men as they began charging at her in anger. No words were exchanged as they began trying to subdue her, reaching out and swinging their giant arms to grab hold of her in any way they could. For some reason, they hadn't reached for their weapons- wich mad Prianne curiously nervous as to the reason they were just trying to get their hands on her.
She dipped and dodged her way around them, flipping back with such speed that is seemed to confuse the larger enemies, though the way they didn't try to kill her immediately seemed to cover an alternate plan of some sort.

Something just wasn't right...</SPAN></SPAN>
 
A pair of bolas caught around Prianne's ankles. She fell on the hillside, rolling and twisting as the barbarians advanced. Her arms were still free and, having left her weapons with the horse, her only choice was to strike out in savage blows, finger-strikes hitting eyes and throat.

She repelled three of them, but the fourth got hold of her shoulder and rolled her on her front. A knee slammed down between her shoulderblades, pinning her in the grass, and in moments the other marauders and brought her wrists together and the fourth began lashing them. Between them the hunting party got the wild woman under control and pulled her, savagely, to her feet.


* * * * *​


"Over there!" Tristan hissed. The party took cover, flattening themselves on the hilltop grass, or behind trees and rocks. Over to their left, about a quarter-mile away, they spied the hunting party dragging Prianne towards the camp. The woman was bound and hunched over as they moved her, dark hair masking her features.

"Must've caught a runaway," Kendrick mused.

"At least we know they want them alive." Tristan turned and looked back at Brill, and Marrow who was still bound by the wrists beside him. "The barbarian would betray us in a heartbeat. He has found us the camp and we have no further use for him." The messenger's eyes were bloodshot, a memory of the tears he had shed. "Renounce your oath, Brill, and kill him now."


* * * * *


brae.jpg

Prianne, her arms pinned behind her, her hair twisted in another's hand, her ribs jabbed by a third man's spear, was jostled between the rocks and led into the camp. The other marauders sat around in campfire groups, recounting tales, sharpening blades, stringing necklaces of teeth and ears. Their stares fell on her, hungry and stoic all at once. Some even spat, the old hatred between Hillfolk and Heartlander sharp in their memories.

There were grunts and punches. The man dragging her had claimed his right, and would let no one stand in his way. Prianne was dragged towards the crest of the tor and flung onto her knees.

And there she beheld the horror of what was happening. Around the central stone - a menhir-like protrusion - the survivors of Elswich were lashed. Two great ropes encircled the rock and held the dozen captives in place. Women, of child-bearing age, and children not yet in their teens. A few had had their throats slit, their blood dousing their naked bodies and soaking the rocks. Others thrashed and wept as they awaited the same fate.

Before them stood the Barbarian Chieftain, a giant of a man in bear furs and horned helmet, thick grey beard and manic eyes. He was looking skyward, a sacrficial knife gripped in one hand and swathed in blood.

"Another innocent, my chief," the man holding Prianne declared. "To stoke your power."

The leader turned, still looking upwards, as if distracted by phantom lights and voices. It took a moment for him to focus. He looked down at Prianne then approached, running a callused hand through her hair. In one instant his eyes were filled with terror, then in the next he smiled. "She will please the spirits."

"Oh no, my dear warlord. Not this one."

The next voice that spoke was cultured, educated, subtle - everything that was at odds with this barbarian camp. It cut through the savagery like the keenest blade. "This one is no innocent. There is blood on her hands - more than you could ever stomach."

The chieftain whirled, to the shadow that sat, cross-legged and cloaked, on nearby rocks. "You speak for this woman, Shiv?!"

"Of course." The figure twirled a blade in one hand, glinting in and out of the light. "A soul as tarnished as hers would surely anger the spirits. And besides..." The blade came up to balance on its tip, in the center of Shiv's palm. "...she's one of mine."

"We caught her watching the camp," a huntsman yelled.

The chieftain snarled. "She violates this sacred ground!"

Shiv stood suddenly, and in a single dextrous flip landed on the grass, emerged from shadow. "I'll violate it more if you touch her."

The Chieftain snarled again, but moved no closer.

"As I said, she is one of mine. And she has report to give." Shiv moved over, between the huntsman, and gazed down at Prianne. A patch of flesh could be seen above the left wrist sheath, showing a small tattoo. It was the mark of the assassin order... the ones who had armed the barbarians. "Prianne, the Horse Fucker! So good to see you again. A messenger escaped from Elswich and you were ordered to kill him. So tell me..."

Shiv lifted Prianne's chin and they regarded one another, woman to woman. "...have you completed your task?"
 
Prianne's jaw clenched with the sudden appearance of her superior. Lady Shiv was no doubt a godsend in her eyes. It was obvious that Prianne would have been murdered if she had not been accompanying them. The assassin let her head fall out of respect, and if it were possible, she would have placed her fist over her heart. Prianne parted her venomous green lips to speak, narrowing her eyes and lifting her head once more to look Shiv in her deadly eyes.</SPAN></SPAN>

"I request quiet council milady…If you should have it…" Prianne looked nervous, knowing that Tristan's group could spook easily if she did not warn Shiv well enough. She feared them overhearing the conversation and if nothing else, trying to escape without being noticed. Prianne pleaded with her superior, flicking her eyes to the side and struggling against the man who still held her tightly against his body-almost too tightly. </SPAN></SPAN>
 
Her voice was undulating and calm, like poison creeping towards the heart. "Nonsense, little one. I'm sure we can speak in front of our new friends. It is the custom of Hillfolk to turn deaf ears to women. Is that not so, dear Chieftain?"

Shiv peered over her shoulder at the barbarian, but he had returned to his rituals, weaving the bloodied knife in intricate circles.

"I doubt they even hear us. Our screams, our polite refusals, our reason." She chuckled softly, then looked back at Prianne. "Oh, very well then. Let us retire to the drawing room."

The huntsman holding Prianne only pulled her closely. "If her blood is not to be shed, then I claim her as my own!" His eyes shot fierce, daring any to forsake his demands.

Shiv eyed him beneath her veil. "Now now. Be a good little rapist and hand over your toy. The spirits will not like us quarrelling."

"FUCK THE SPIRITS!" the man spat, and seized Prianne by the hair once more. The contact lasted for but a half-second. The man jerked. Blood splashed on Prianne's forehead. The huntsman fell back on the rocks with a resonant thump, a handaxe buried in his collarbone. The Chieftain had turned and thrown it, the moment his gods were insulted.

Shiv had not moved an inch. She smiled at Prianne, then helped her up. Her other hand took the rope that bound Prianne's hands, but she did not untie it, only led her like a sex-slave. They stepped over the dead huntsman and moved between the parting ranks of the barbarian alphas. Stares lingered on them for a moment, and then the barbarians fell upon the body of the huntsman, stripping it off furs and weapons.

The two women continued between the rocks, till they found a nook away from the fires. And there Shiv tugged sharply on the rope and flattened Prianne against a rock. Her other hand stroked one finger up her neck, dabbing at the venom on her lips.

"Now, Prianne. What have to say for yourself?"
 
The death of the huntsman came as a relief to Prianne. As Shiv helped her stand, she shook her head slightly, letting out a crack from her neck as she twisted it from side to side. The blood bothered her little, as well as the way her superior led her to a secluded area. It wasn't the first time she had been led to a quiet corner with a leader, sexual or not.

As Shiv pressed Prianne into the stone, she smiled, more out of pride than to hide the discomfort of the sharp rock-edge digging into her exposed back. She closed her bright green eyes as Shiv traced her finger along her venomous mouth, enjoying the familar touch of the woman she had grown to know and admire.

"The man is named Tristan Faulkner-He is right above us...I was trailing him for some time, though he has kept the company of many a strong warrior..." Prianne straightened her back against the rock, not minding the small prick of blood that was now forming on her skin. "I do not doubt my ability to kill Tristan, as I have been ordered... But alone, I find it hard to apply my skill while facing mercinaries and bowman...He is accompanied by a woman who shares a bond with a tiger, this too has held me from my goal..." Prianne saw it only fit to tell the truth. There was nothing else valued more than the honest word to a superior, no matter how deep the failure.

"My failure is apparent, for I could not vanquish the messanger, but fate has brought him to us; and I would like to finish the job."
 
"Hmph.. hah hah hah!" Shiv's laugh sound strange behind the veil, her eyes not matching the sound she was making. She twisted the rope, making Prianne's back arch, her body lower. "I told them the horse-fucker would fail. A simple task, Prianne - to kill a half-dead boy riding into town on a tired mare. Tell me, did you fuck your father to get close to him, before you killed him? Was it the only skill you had?"

She threw Prianne down onto hands and knees, letting go of the rope.

"Forgen!" Shiv yelled across the rocks. "We have guests. Send out your men!"

"The ritual must be completed. Be silent, whore!"

Shiv's hand moved to her throwing daggers. There was a curse under her breath. "Then give me two dozen. Your camp is under attack, fool!"

The pause and curse was mirrored by the Chieftain. Then his voice barked out to his champions. "Gars! Lorjak! Remhold! - Ride out with the steel-bearer."

Warriors began rising from the campfires, donning helmets, drawing weapons. Horses were readied, dogs corraled and torches lit. The others remained with the Chieftain, smearing the blood of the captives across the central rocks. Shiv tightened her wrist sheath and looked down at Prianne. "Good. Now where are they, girl?" Her murderous eyes narrowed. "Where are these mercenaries?"
 
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