Chapter 12 - The Road

[Cadrius]

Wagons west and wagons south. As fall slips away, but before Winter comes to reign in his court, the last of the merchants leave the northern lands ahead of the snow and the ice and the long dark. Their carts bounce against the hardening dirt roads that wind their way toward civilization.

Soon enough, Karkas, Enderin and all the villages, hamlets, and thorpes like them will be thick in Winter’s embrace. Smoke will curl up out of chimneys while thatched roofs are heavy with snow. Even Tradeholm will be heaped with it. Stores and larders, filled during the autumnal harvest, will be tapped. Most will emerge into the spring thaw a little leaner, and a few starveling, yet none the worse for wear. But some will not emerge at all.

Isac’s body had gone up as surely as a pitch soaked roof. The flames consumed him with a hunger that worked with a purpose and an intensity that exceeded fire’s voracious, but mindless, nature. It had struck Cadrius then, as Skathros screamed and the priest of Pelor became a miniaturized testament to his Lord, that the curse feared not two things, but three: salt, lead, and a cleansing fire.

They had fled back to the safety of the walls. Arriving at the gatehouse at that hour would have aroused far too much suspicion from the guards. So it was that six humans and a half-orc clambored up over a section of the wooden walls surrounding Tradeholm and slipped into the town. They hurried to the inn with many a glance over their shoulders into the shadows.

There was no feeling of shelter or security to be had in Tradeholm. Surrounded by the works of men though they were, they knew what lurked in the dark. At Juni’s behest, they had spread twin lines of salt and lead along the doorways and windowsills of their room in the inn. The blending of light and dark elements was anathema to the cursed minions, but they only had so much of it—and they had nothing for the rest of the town.

Around a fire that did not shed nearly enough light, they sat in silence for a time. Seven minds were consumed by the same thoughts of grief and fear. At last Nicos shattered the dead air and freed the rest to speak in furtive voices about the terror that they had witnessed and what it portended for their future. The shock of Isac’s death had wrapped about them all—a thick, morose cloak that had settled heavy on their shoulders.

Cadrius and Sarra listened as they told a story of the curse. When they finished the fallen paladin sat still for a long time before clearing his throat telling a story of his own.

“I have a seen this before,” he said, glancing briefly at Sarra. “This can only be a sign of more to come.”

And so he told his tale of the villages he had discovered in his journey to Tradeholm and why he had changed course to come warn his former companions. He spoke of the first village he found, full of nothing but bodies that he had sent to the neverafter in a great pyre. Then he spoke of the second village and the men and women whose eyes had turned to ink and had become something else. Of Eadgar and Heleyne, and the rescue of Sarra, he spoke not at all.

“It sounds like a pox,” Juni said.

“Perhaps,” Cadrius said, sensing a ripple of discomfort pass through the room. If that were the case, the fallen paladin and his charge would be spreading it right now. “Yet we had spent a week in the woods waiting to see any effect. There were none.”

“This doesn’t make sense,” Shade said. To Cadrius she seemed hostile. Perhaps it was her brush with death. Perhaps it was something else. “How could that have anything to do with—” Shade gestured into the air “—all of this?”

“I do not know,” Cadrius said, “but I believe them to be connected.”

“Not a disease, but maybe some variation of the curse?” Blarth’s voice was deep and somber.

“Or a poison,” Lynn offered.

Through this, Cadrius watched Sarra’s face. It was ironclad. She had built a fortress to keep her heartache at bay. He could not blame her. She listened, detached, as if it was not her home that had been torn apart, as if there was no question as to why it was her that had been spared and none others.

None save Cadrius.

“You think it has to do with the witch?” Shade’s arms were crossed over her breast. “I’ve not heard of anything like this.”

“It’s not the story you’ve heard,” Nicos said. “It’s the story you’re hearing.”


***


The wagoner is a heavyset man with with a bristly beard and an accent that suggests a childhood spent in the valelands or possibly in far off Cale. While men toil, loading casks and sacks into the wagons that line the outskirts of the market, the wagoner shouts at them in his gravel-laden voice.

“How many?” His voice is slightly less rough than with the men that work for him, but only just.

“Seven.”

“Seven? Many.”

“Yes,” Cadrius says. “We’re looking for passage to the duchies.”

“You are lucky. We are going that way.” He looks at Cadrius, appraising him like a bolt of cloth or a pound of coffee. “But seven is many. Seven is enough to travel on own.”

“The roads are dangerous this time of year,” he offers.

As food grows short and as the fear of starvation during the long winter months grows, more men take robbery to ensure their own survival. Cadrius doesn’t blame a hungry man from stealing, but he would rather it not come at the cost of his own life. Though they are a formidable septet—all it takes is one bolt from a crossbow, one knife to slip past a guard, and they would die there in some nameless bend in the road. He cannot take that chance. There is too much that still needs doing.

The wagoner is not convinced. “They are dangerous for me too. Sometimes travelers sign on and try to rob me.” His eyes narrow. “That is a mistake.”

“I understand,” Cadrius says, smiling, “but it is three women, one girl, one man missing an arm, and my bastard half-brother Blarth. Do you see why we do not want to make this journey on our own?”

He considers it, nodding. “Fine. You pay five each. You can ride in a wagon during the day. Night, we share watches.”

“And food?”

“Bring your own,” the wagoner says.

Cadrius scowls. “For five each? We could ride like royalty for less than that.”

“Could you?” The wagoner cocks an eyebrow. “Who would take you?”

“We will be on watch at night? For five each you had best feed us.”

He grunted. “Fine. Dinner bell is at day end. Breakfast is bread. No stops during the day except for trees in road.”

They shook on the deal and Cadrius counted out thirty five pieces of silver. His purse feels far too light now, but this is what must be done. It is not safe here in this town—not with Skathros lurking in the shadows. The fallen paladin fears what might happen if the witch worked her fell magics on a town the size of Tradeholm. Butchering a few of the shambling dead is one thing, but dealing with this many would be another. He did not like their odds there, especially with the only holy man they knew with a true connection to the divine having perished in a torrent of fire.

He found Sarra looking at a merchant’s stall from a distance. Even with autumn’s chill not yet dispelled from the land there were still many of the denizens of this town bustling about, buying, selling, haggling, and likely a few stealing. The young woman looked on not at the stall featuring bushels of apples and corn, but through a window into the tailor’s shop. There, long silk gloves and scarves and dresses and hats were set up within the window to catch the well-to-do shopper’s eye.

Cadrius would buy her something from there, if he could, but paying for passage left him all but poor. She would love him not at all for the gesture, and it would do nothing to assuage the pain she must feel every day at the loss of her parents. Still, maybe it would lessen that burden for a little while.

But he has neither the coin nor the means, and the wagoner will be leaving soon. So instead he stands next to her a moment, gazing on into the tailor’s shop before clearing his throat.

“We will be leaving soon,” he says. “Come. We must fetch our belongings.”

[Gralhruk]

Things were dire indeed if they were seeking refuge in Tradeholm, a city they'd fled in fear of their lives not long before. She was glad they'd be leaving soon - the smart thing to do was lay low while they were here, stay away from places she or Juni might be recognized. Skathros' departure had likely thrown the Night Eyes into confusion, coming as quickly as it did on Ricard's demise. Losing two leaders in quick succession like that would turn the guild into a pack of brawling wolves. Sooner or later one would come out on top, of course, but it would take a little time.

Shade contented herself with stealing once or twice at dusk, keeping her hood low and staying away from everyone. There had been something she wanted to do while they were here, before they started on their trek to the Duchies. It would be dangerous, but less so with the wagons. She carried the object of her quest with her now, on her way back to the room they had rented, her oblong package wrapped in a green cloth - a narrow thing, approximately three feet long.

Juni was outside the inn as she returned, almost as though she were waiting for Shade there. The rogue shook her head, wondering. The girl did things like that far too often for it to be coincidence. She slows as she approaches, reminded suddenly of how young Arjuna really is. If there was another way, Shade wouldn't even suggest she come with them, but as dangerous as it was, sticking together was probably the safest thing they could do. And if they were stalked by danger . . .

"Hi," she says with a smile as she holds out the package, "I got you something."

[Black Plauge]

A chill wind blew down the street, swirling about Blarth's cloak and sending a shiver up his spine.

"Deal," Blarth replies to the merchant and starts handing over gold and silver. It was a bit more than he had hopping to pay, but the cold wind had reminded him of just how necessary the quilted woolen clothes and blankets he was bargaining for would be shortly. "I imashin that bushinesh ish picking up to the pointch thatch you'll be able to replashe the glash in your windowsh shoon," Blarth comments as the merchant tied the blankets and clothing into a bundle.

"Oh, the windows weren't borken," the merchant replies with a knowing smile, "They've never had glass or even paper for that matter. I'm a fan of the fresh air."

Sniffing the odor of the clothes dyer a few blocks away, Blarth can't help but think that these city dwellers have a strange definition of fresh air. At least they'd be headed for the Duchies tomorrow. Blarth was uncomfortable in Tradeholm, especially under the disguise that Lynn had fashioned for him. It couldn't completely hide his orcish heritage, but it minimized its appearance enough that with his hood up he could walk the streets unmolested. The color paste and wooden teeth were uncomfortable, however, and added something of a lisp to his voice. It was almost easier to stay hidden in the room at the inn than put it on each morning. They'd needed the winter clothing, however, and Blarth had the most experience with such stuff so he had volunteered to make sure they got what they needed. At least he wouldn't have to wear the get up while they were traveling. Lynn had stated that it would be far too difficult to keep the disguise up without the privacy necessary to touch it up each morning and the group agreed that discovery of the deception would be far more akward to explain than just dealing with any tensions Blarth's orc heritage might bring.

That didn't mean that there would be no deception, however. Blarth and Cadrius were going to pretend to be half-brothers; Lynn, Juni, and Shade were sisters (or was it cousins); Nicos and Lynn were paramours; Sara was Cadrius' ward (which, as Blarth understood it was actually true); and there was supposed to be some link between Cadrius and one of the women, but Blarth had really lost track of the whole story at that point. Indeed, he wasn't even sure exactly what the whole cover story was at this point. So many ideas had been suggested and discussed that he'd lost track. All he knew was that the others felt they would arouse less suspicion if they were some kind of family group traveling together rather than a bunch of friends or comrades in arms. Blarth didn't really understand the logic, but then it was human logic and these were human lands so he had let the others handle it.

Arriving back at the inn, Blarth smelled the scent of honey buns comming from the kitchen and stopped to grab a couple before heading back up to the room. As usual, the cook gave him a hard time about it, but after a wink and a silver on the counter, she smiled and wrapped the second, "To keep it warm until the little one gets back."

Munching on a honey bun while he balanced his package of clothes, blankets, and a honey bun, Blarth heads up the stairs to the suite of rooms that the party was renting to get out of the make-up and wait for dinner.

[Kelemyn]

"Something for me?" Juni says, truly surprised. She can't help feeling a rush of girlish excitement as she takes the package from Shade and sits down at one of the outdoor tables to open it. Presents were always fun and so unexpected! "How did you ever afford- " she begins, but then cuts the question short as her thoughts catch up to her tongue. "Nevermind. It's not important," she adds quickly. And I'm better off not knowing, she thinks.

The package is secured with leather string and it takes Juni a moment to undo the knots. Then she pulls the green cloth away to reveal... a bow and a quiver. "Oh my," she says, taking the bow in her hands. The dark wood, carefully carved and polished, feels solid and comfortable in her grasp. "I hope I remember how to use one of these," she says with a laugh, and then sets the bow down, looking over at her friend. She seems so very different now that the curse has been removed, at least to Juni's eyes. Her smile is brighter, her eyes clearer. Even her manner is different. She no longer seems... shadowed. "Thank you, Shade. It was very kind of you to think of me.

"Oh, I almost forgot... " Juni says, her smile fading as she remembers the reason she had come outside to wait for Shade. "Cadrius has been looking for you.. for all of us, I mean. I guess we ought to be getting down to the wagon. It is nearly time to leave."

[Gralhruk]

"Well, we can get some target practice in on the road. Better to have it and hope you won't need it then to need it and not have it. Besides, it's a good match for that fine blade you have - which we ought to practice with some too."

Maybe it wasn't the gift the girl had been hoping for, but Shade was determined to see that she could protect herself. Her face darkens when Juni mentions Cadrius. She'd managed to let much of her anger go in the wake of her brush with undeath, but for some reason the warrior got under her skin these days.

"Yes, the sooner gone the better."

[itches]

Nicos strode around the corner street of the in, boots tucked under his arm with his cloak wrapped around his weapon. He spotted Shade and Juni, flashing a smile at them as he made his way over, trying to appear casual despite the flush to his face that made it seem he had run to the spot with some speed.

"Hey," he said, glancing at everyone nearby or walking in their direction with a look too measured to be casual. "So, um we were leaving soon right? As in, very soon?"

[Kelemyn]

"Hello, Nicos," Juni calls in reply. "Look what Shade got for me!" She holds up her new bow with a smile, but her expression quickly turns to one of puzzlement as she catches sight of Nicos' stockinged feet. "Where are your boots? It's freezing cold out here! Put them on, for goodness sake, before you catch your death!"

Shade rolls her eyes but says nothing, and Juni begins to put two and two together.

Oh?

Oh!

Oh...

"Not again, Nicos," Juni groans, shaking her head. "Who is she? Or more to the point, who is her husband? Not the Captain of the Guard this time, I hope!"

[Gralhruk]

Shade frowns, looking past the bard to see who might be following. It occurs to her that she's seen this drama play out a few times before. Nobody appears to be right behind him, so she withholds her customarily scathing rejoinders. Instead, she just meets his gaze and nods.

"Yes, we're leaving. Juni and I were on our way to the caravan now."

[itches]

"There are some things a gentleman doesn't tell," Nicos told Juni with a wink. "Still as few people consider me to be a gentleman let's just say there is a certain wife of a certain Porter's Guildmaster who may have developed a reputation for being ... indiscrete this week. All just scandalous rumour you understand, I'm sure there's no truth to any of it."

"And that is an impressive looking weapon," Nicos said dropped his eyes to the bow Juni was holding, the bard's eyebrows rising in appreciation before casting a look at Shade. “I’ll presume we have a growing list of reasons to quietly leave town. I'll go grab my gear."

[Kelemyn]

Riding all day in the back of a wagon has its advantages - it is better than wearing the soles of your boots out on the road, for one thing. But after several days of such riding, Juni has decided that nothing in the world is more tedious or more boring. Maybe it is the steady clop clop clop of the horses hooves sounding in her ears; or the rhythmic sway and creak of the wagon itself as it rolls along mile after mile. Or maybe it is the utter monotony of the slate-gray winter sky that looms oppressively overhead. Whatever it is, Juni can hardly keep her eyes open, even though it is the middle of the day. She stifles a yawn and decides that a change of position might be what she needs to wake herself up. She has just begun to climb down from her spot atop a pile of grain sacks, when the wagon suddenly lurches over a rough spot in the road and she goes sprawling.

"Oof!" she says, finding herself wedged between two slightly musky-smelling casks of wine with something sharp digging into her hip. After she manages to get herself free of the casks and into an upright position again, she realizes that the thing poking her is in her belt pouch. She pulls it out to see if she has broken something.

It is a heavy metal disc, a medallion, on a chain. "Isac's holy symbol," she murmurs softly, remembering that she had put it in her pouch for safe keeping after digging it out of the ashes of the fire days ago. When she'd found it, it had seemed strangely warm to the touch, though the ashes were cold. She had put it away in a hurry, not wanting to think about it too much at the time.

It feels warm now too, warmer than it ought to, even if it had absorbed some of her body heat while inside the pouch. "That's odd," she says out loud, turning the symbol over in her hands.

No, it isn't, the voice of her psi-crystal hums in her mind. A priest's holy symbol is usually very important to him, and is often imprinted with his psychic energy. I don't find it at all surprising that Isac's medallion feels warm in a Clairvoyant's hands.

Oh! You always act like you know everything! Juni thinks back, exasperated, but also a little bit irritated that she hadn't thought of that explanation herself. If that is the case, then you ought to stop talking about it and help me concentrate.

She holds the intricately fashioned Sun symbol in her hands, marveling once again at the craftsmanship.

It is elven in design.

Is it really? Juni muses, interested.

It's funny that her psi-crystal knows so many things, things that she couldn't possibly know herself. Wasn't it supposed to be a fragment of her own mind? But then again, it had belonged to her father before it had belonged to her. She is beginning to suspect that the psi-crystal contains a piece of her father's mind as well, which is a little bit frightening.

Are you concentrating?

Juni closes her eyes. Yes.

And in a sudden flash, she feels herself transported to another place and time. She stands in the secluded glade of an old growth forest, looking out through someone else's eyes.

A nearby stream cuts its way through massive, moss-covered boulders worn down by age and carved with ancient runes. Standing atop one of the primeval monoliths is a surreally beautiful woman. Raven black hair flows over the flawless, opalescent skin of her shoulders, and she leans gracefully upon her spear as she gazes into the forest ahead with feral blue eyes. Down her neck and along her bare back are rows of delicate tattoos. Finely wrought golden bands encircle her wrists and twine about her upper arms.

She is an elf, Juni's psi-crystal instructs. And one of apparently high status.

The exquisite creature turns to look back over her shoulder, and Juni is pierced through by her gaze. "Eshaahc," the elven woman calls in a voice like a woodwind instrument, deep and lilting. A wave of emotion engulfs Juni, so overwhelming that she can't take a breath; she feels like she might well drown in it. And yet her heart sings.

The holy symbol falls through her fingers and drops to the floor of the wagon with a dull clatter of metal on wood. Juni gasps, and through a dizzying blur feels herself being pulled from a great distance and dropped back down into her own body again. Her shoulders heave with a wrenching sob, and her eyes burn with tears. She weeps for the unknown elf woman. She weeps for Isac. But most of all she weeps for herself and for that newly discovered pureness of emotion which she has never yet experienced in her own life.

"Who was she?" she whispers to the golden face of Pelor looking up at her from the floor of the wagon. "Oh, Isac. You loved her so much!"

by Kel and J

[Black Plauge]

Wagons are slow. That more than anything was the major conclusion that Blarth had reached traveling with the caravan. The first day, he had ridden in the wagon, thinking that that was what one did. Or at least the day had started that way. By lunch time Blarth was bored out of his mind and had noticed that several member of the caravan were walking alongside the wagons. Deciding to do the same, Blarth had climbed down and walked the rest of the day. Indeed, matching the slow pace of the wagons had actually proved to be something of a challenge and he had found the activity stimulating enough to try it again the following day.

By the end of the second day, however, that was no longer enough to hold Blarth's interest and and on the third day he had taken to walking to the front of the caravan and then sitting and waiting for the whole thing to pass him by before getting up and doing it all over again.

On the fourth day Blarth decided that he'd spent way too much time sitting down and thus tried walking around the whole caravan as it progressed along. He got five laps in before the wagons ground to a halt for the night.

The fifth day was unusually hot and dry and Blarth had found the dust clouds near the caravan intolerable, so when he got to the front of the caravan the second time he kept going and ranged out in front of the caravan, occasionally coming back to the front, for the rest of the day.

By the sixth day Blarth's restlessness had been noticed by just about everyone in the caravan and the caravan master had invited Blarth to join the caravan's outriders as a way to pass the time (and keep him from spooking the draft animals by crossing in front of them). Blarth had accepted, and except for when the weather turned wet, hadn't regretted the decision. At least this way he had something to do each day, even if it mostly amounted to waiting until after the caravan had left to do a final policing of the night's campsite before leapfrogging ahead to the next stop to start setting up the new camp.

[Kelemyn]

"Well, at least Blarth found something to keep himself busy with," Juni comments aloud on their sixth day out. She is still spending her days riding in the back of one of the wagons, although she has taken to walking along beside the wagon in the middle of the day just to break up the monotony.

It is late afternoon and much colder today than it has been on any other day since they left Tradeholm. Juni is bundled up in a heavy cloak, plus two blouses underneath that and a blanket thrown over her lap and her legs for added warmth. Even so, she can still feel the cold planks of the wagon floor on her backside. She tries to comfort herself by thinking about the cup of hot tea she will have later tonight when they make camp.

"Isn't it supposed to be getting warmer as we move further south?" she can't help grumbling. "And it looks like it's going to rain later. Or will it snow? Is it cold enough to snow? Gods I hope not!"

Who are you talking to?

Oh hush!

"Nicos, are you sleeping again?" She can see the bard's legs sticking out from beyond the cluster of barrels where he has lain down to rest, but can't tell whether or not he is awake. She suddenly realizes that she has been talking on and on, just saying out loud almost any thought that comes into her head.

"Sorry if I'm bothering you," she says apologetically. "But I'm just so bored! The days are endless, and the nights are... well, scary. I keep thinking of the curse or the plague or whatever it is that Cadrius told us about. I- "

There you go again.

"Oops! Sorry. I'll shut up now." Juni pulls the blanket more closely around herself and sighs.

[itches]

Nicos dozed in the afternoon, lulled into a semi-slumber by the slow steady rocking of the wagon. With sleep fuddled thoughts his mind drifted back to a conversation from several days earlier.

-----

"It won't work."
"It will."
"Nothing you've tried so far has, we should be focusing on things atleast one of us know how to do."
"I do know how to do this, I've spent many long boring hours planning it and more than that, it feels right."
"It won't work."

"Nicos," Lynn said through gritted teeth. "Are you trying to be an arse about this, or is it just coming naturally."

Nicos looked over at Lynn and bit back a comment. They had been passing the time on and off during the trip, trying to teach her one of the 'tricks' Nicos used that some people incorrectly considered magical. It had not gone well. Either she lacked the knack needed for them or Nicos was a less then able teacher, it wasn't working and out of frustration Lynn had decided to try something new.

"Fine," he said, suppressing a sigh. "Show me."

"Just shut up and pay attention," Lynn replied readying herself. After a few long moments, the young woman began to sing. It was a quiet song, soft and full of breathy constantans that danced at the edge of hearing. The song droned one, sounds blending together and despite himself Nicos felt his eyelids growing heavy.

He was jerked to alertness by the horse pulling their wagon missing its step. Glancing around he noticed the driver yawning and blinking rapidly as if to ward off sleep. Turning back to a smug looking Lynn, Nicos cocked a crooked smile at her.

"Alright, show me that again."

-----

"Nicos, are you sleeping again?"

Pulled from his half doze, Nicos rubbed sleep from his eyes and eyed Juni where she sat near by. The girl was young, clearly an inexperienced traveller and even more clearly bored. The foes of dirt, exhaustion and boredom were familiar to anyone who spent time travelling, and each developed their own way to deal with it. Nicos had taken to napping during the day and staying up late singing for all who would listen and keeping the first watch company. He had spotted Shade slipping out of camp into the night a few times, and had decided he was better off not knowing what she was up to.

"You need a hobby Juni," Nicos said sitting up. "Something to keep you occupied and pass the time. It's only way to stay sane on trips like this."

[Kelemyn]

"A hobby... " Juni muses, trying to think of something she would enjoy doing. She remembers back to when she lived with her father and he was trying to introduce her to high society in Tradeholm. Young ladies of her own age would get together with their mothers in the afternoons to do needlework and to gossip about whichever other young ladies were not in attendance that day. She had absolutely hated every minute of it.

NO, I don't think I'll take up sewing.

Maybe Nicos knows some good gossip.

Juni giggles at that, then has a sudden thought.

Oh gods, do you suppose Nicos ever, um, "visited" any of the ladies in my circle?

It is certainly an amusing notion, and Juni entertains herself for quite some time imagining the bard and one or another of the matrons or maids she'd known that he might have had success wooing.

Which somehow brought her back to thinking about Isac's holy symbol and the intensely emotional vision she'd had of him and the beautiful elf woman. The powerful feelings he'd had (and that she had experienced through his medallion) were unlike anything she'd known before. Was it like that for everyone? Would she ever know it for herself?

"Nicos, you've had a lot of experience," she says quite suddenly. "What's it like to be in love?"

[itches]

"That might be a bit challenging to take up as a hobby," Nicos quipped, flashing his automatic smile at Juni. He held it for a moment while he studied her face, before letting it drop. "Being in love? It's ... painful."

The bard frowned and looked at the floor of the wagon, letting the awkward silence settle between them. When he spoke again it was sudden, flat without preamble.

"At first it seems like ... like you've found a missing piece of yourself that fills a hole you never before knew you lacked. It's a fire that burns through your mind, your heart, your -" with a sly glance -"other places. At times it can warm you and light your way when you’re surrounded by darkness, but it can also be so bright, so hot that you're blinded to other sights, thoughts and feelings.

"And in the end," he finished, looking not at Juni but beyond her to something only he could see. "In the end, no matter what, it burns you."

[Gralhruk]

Shade slipped through the thick brush on the eastern side of the trail, pinpointing the wagons by the slow creak of wheels. Even slowed as she was by the terrain and the effort of staying silent, she moved faster than the caravan. Despite their talk before departure, she and Juni hadn't practiced much of anything yet. Everyone had pretty much kept to themselves thus far, which suited her just fine. She needed the time to think.

Stepping lightly upon a downed log, she stalks its length almost absently, so quiet you might not know she was there - a ghost of blue and grey. And yet, she felt more herself, more alive than she had in years. Isac had brought her back, had restored to her something that had been fading since Ricard's treachery. It still filled her with wonder that he'd sacrificed so much for someone he barely knew. Shade would not claim to know him well, but she knew him well enough to know that there was purpose to what he did, and it pained her to realize she'd never know the whole truth.

Only a fool would think it was over though. Skathros was still out there, and Cadrius himself had told her of the horrible plague that was spreading. Sarra was proof, she thought bitterly. Funny how easily he'd given up on Shade, judging her for things he didn't know anything about. Love was a cruel blade, alluring but deadly. Not that it mattered, she wasn't going to let it bother her, not now, when she had this chance that Isac had given her.

During the day, she honed her skills - woodcraft and stealth, both. But it was at night that she really did her work. Stealing out from camp on any night with a moon, she stalked for real. They were out there, she knew - the dead, eaters of flesh and haters of life. Maybe she was doomed to live alone, to live hunted, to live with the burdens that only a hard life would give you. So be it. There were those she cared about, those she would see live a better life - yes, even without her. She could help them by keeping them safe, by following Isac's way - a better way than her own. Grimly, she smiles. Who better to hunt the dead than a ghost?

[Cadrius]

"Burns?" Cadrius says, climbing in through the back of the wagon. "That it does. Though that has more to do with the company one keeps than the nature of love itself."

Nicos offers him a scowl and a rolling of eyes worthy of the stage. Juni's face is, however, is caught in honest contemplation. Cadrius smiles, appreciating for a moment that she does not understand the jest. There is an innocence about the girl that is to be admired, and, if not protected, then at least minded. Like Sarra.

Thoughts of his ward brings her back to the forefront of his mind. He had left her riding with the wagonmaster and his wife. She had, begrudgingly, agreed to help the woman with some stitching. Cadrius was grateful for the distraction. He had little to offer her when it came to instruction. Would he make her a swordswoman in the vein of Alessandra of Pommerand? No, the life of the sword is not a pleasant one and it always ends far too soon.

"Oh, it's true," Nicos snorts. "The courtly love of nobility is so pure that I forgot it even existed. Apologies, m'lord. Prithee, would you grace us with a lesson in the truer forms of love?"

Cadrius' traveling clothes are comfortable, well-worn, and already dusty from their six days on the road. He shifts the sword on his back around so he can sit on top of a chest of some sort. Cadrius has missed it, the wagon travel, having spent far too many days trudging through the leaves on his own. There is something comforting in the creak of the wood, the sound of many hooves plodding down the road. It is tranquil. There is security.

But most of all, he misses being in the company of people.

"It is far from pure, as you know," he says, taking his turn to roll his eyes. "In the Duchies there is a a Duke that is so well-known for his, hmm, indiscretions that the others refer to him simply as Pox."

"Oh," Juni says. "That's..."

"Disgusting?" Cadrius asks.

"Not surprising?" Nicos replies.

"Interesting," she says.

Nicos grins. "Our Juni is a polite one."

"Yes," Cadrius agrees. "I'm certain the good Duke appreciates your civility."

It is a moment of mirth and warmth. Cadrius recognizes it for what it is and tries to latch onto it, grasping it with hands that are not strong enough to hold something as powerful as this. It flees his grasp, slipping through his finger as surely as water, and dances down the road, capering and bowing.

"We're going to the Duchies," Juni says. "Shade told me you're from there."

Home. It is something he has studiously attempted to keep banished from his mind whenever possible. He has filled these six days with work, or conversation, to keep all thoughts of the land he was exild from, the land he fled, from cropping up. It has been an unsuccessful battle.

"I am."

"What is it like?"

"I..." he lets out a breath. "It depends on which duchy you're in, and who is in charge. Some are small, some are large. Forests and farmlands. Rivers and streams. Hills and dales."

"As varied as its rulers," Nicos says.

"Is it really as turbulent as the stories tell?" Juni asks. "Are the dukes always fighting?"

"Yes," he says. "They are always feuding, or scheming, but outright war is not so common. I would not listen to every story told of the place."

"The nobles are like a big family," Nicos says. "A big, bloodthirsty family, but a family. They're probably all related anyway--no offense intended."

"Please," Cadrius says. "The Duchies aren't the royal seat of the past. We do not marry our kin. Juni, do not listen to Nicos on this. With so many lands and so many families, there is a good deal of intermarrying, but bloodlines are also tracked carefully. We do not want to end up daft like the Mallisters."

"That makes sense," she says. "though I haven't heard of these Mallisters."

"There is a reason for that," he says. "They've kept their lands through sheer force alone. I would not want to be one of the smallfolk that live there."

"So what's Somerest like?"

"Beautiful," he says, "but every man thinks that of his homeland. There is a grand river near the keep where ships ply up and down. And there are rolling green hills and small woods flush with game. It was not a bad place to call home.”

“Then why did you leave?”

The question had lurked in the background, waiting for its opportunity to pounce and rend and devour the flesh of knowledge. He bears no ill toward Juni for asking. She can't know, wouldn't know, why he hasn't gazed on its green and blue for years.

"That is a very long tale, I am afraid," he says. "And unlike our friend here, I am no storyteller. I should tend to Sarra. Perhaps another time."

Cadrius nods to his companions and ducks out under the canopy of the wagon. His boots touch the earth and remind him that they are slowly, inexorably, winding their way back toward the lands of his birth, and the lands of his fall. But this is not about Cadrius of Somerest and the sins of his past. This is bigger than him.

At least, that is what he tells himself.

[itches]

Nicos watched as Cadrius stepped off the wagon, waiting until the man had moved out of earshot before turning to Juni with raised eyebrows.

"I think you scared him off."

[Black Plauge]

Market Day. There were many through out the year, some more important than others, but each shared one commonality: if you had something to sell or money to spend, you headed for the closest town and made a day of it. The result was a merchant's dream.

The crowd would have been bigger back in Tradeholm, but Joarabam said that the smaller communities would have less competition for his goods. As a result, he'd timed the caravan's journey so that it would reach Gouban just in time for the pre-winter Market Day. That was tomorrow, and the caravan would reach Gouban around mid-afternoon today. The extra time would free up some of the wagoneers to start spreading the word, and a few coins of their pay, much of which would then find its way back into Joarabam's coffers when he started selling to the locals the next day.

To Blarth, however, all that was of secondary importance. The primary matter for him was that instead of racing ahead of the caravan to start setting up camp (in particular getting the cook fires going), Blarth and his group of riders were tasked with diverting to Gilgal, a smaller village about half-a-day's journey from Gouban. The idea was to spread the word of the caravan's arrival a bit further, increase the crowds, and maybe extend Market Day by a day or two.

Gruumsh! I hate saddles!

Trying to shift into a more comfortable position Blarth was thankful that the horse required no real guidance from him. He was a horrible rider, when it came down to it, far preferring his own two feet to a horse's four. Fortunately, wagon travel was normally slow enough and the horses heavily burdened enough that he could keep up on foot. Today, however, the outriders were riding light and fast and Blarth had no choice but to ride.

Gruumsh! I hate saddles!

With Gilgal in sight, Blarth shifts again, anticipating the imminent relief from the saddle when his two companions reined in. Confused, Blarth stops his horse as well, and then backtracks to join up with them and find out what is going on.

"...too quiet," Horace was saying, "We haven't seen a single farmer out in the fields, nor on the road. Something is wrong."

"What?" Blarth asks, looking around at the harvested fields. "The crops are in. Why would anyone be working in the fields."

"They still need to ready the fields for winter," Trafan responded absently. "Only the fiercest winter blizzards keep farmers from their fields..."

"No smoke from the stacks," Trafan adds, redirecting his comments to Horace. "You're right, something is wrong here. We best find out what."

Spurring their horses into motion, Horace and Trafan left Blarth to confusedly follow in their wake as they cautiously finished the ride into town.

[Kelemyn]

"I think you scared him off," Nicos says of Cadrius' departure.

Juni looks away, feigning interest in a loose thread on her sleeve. "Did I?" she says off-handedly. "I didn't mean to."

Nicos looks at her, and Juni grows uncomfortable with the silence that falls between them.

"I really didn't mean for him to leave, Nicos. It was a pleasant conversation, and I like to hear all about the Duchies and the feuding and such. But it just seems strange to me that when Cadrius pops up all of a sudden, everyone just decides to follow him wherever he leads. And..."

She looks over at the bard, and he can see that she is genuinely troubled by something. "And have you ever noticed how Shade is... different when he is around? There is something wrong there, and well... it bothers me, that's all!"

[itches]

Nicos thought about it for a moment, rubbing the last of the sleep from his eyes. He was tired, but enjoyed a good gossip far too much to turn down the opportunity.

"Something wrong?" he asked with a grin. "Besides their mutually unrequited love that must-never-be-acknowledged let alone acted on? I wouldn't worry too much about it, some people just enjoy the drama of the chase more than they should."

[Black Plauge]

"Empty," Trafan calls as he exits from another building.

"That's the third, and I bet if we took the time to check the rest they'd be empty too," Horace remarks.

"So what do we do?" Blarth asks, "We can't tell people who aren't here about the caravan."

Rolling his eyes at the statement of the obvious, Horace considers for a moment. "There's no sign of foul play, so maybe nothing is wrong. We'll spend the night here and head to Gouban at first light. Might as well as have a roof over our heads, even if it is self-service."

* * *

"What was that?" Blarth exclaims, sitting bolt upright in the bed he occupied. Listening intently to the silent night, at first Blarth hears only Horace's snoring from a couple of doors down. That had been going on all night, however, and wouldn't have been enough to wake the half-orc. Settling down after several minutes, Blarth is beginning to think it was a dream or some such thing when a thud sounds outside. Getting out of bed, Blarth makes his way to the window, opens it, and sticks his head out to look down into the courtyard between the inn and the stable. Thick clouds prevent any moon or star light to illuminate the far reaches of the courtyard, but Blarth's orcish heritage allows him to make out a human shape against the stable door. As he watches, the figure gathers itself and then slams into the door, creating the "thud" that had woken him up.

With the window now open, Blarth can hear the muffled sounds of the horses banging against their stall walls and whinnying in fear. Concerned, Blarth calls out to the form below, "What are you doing?"

In response, the form gathers itself again and hurls itself at the door once more, exciting the horses even further.

Muttering to himself, Blarth gathers his club and a lamp and heads out towards the courtyard, rapping on Horace and Trafan's doors as he passes and calling out a warning about the trouble.

Out in the yard, Blarth sees the figure hurl itself against the stable door again and the sounds of wood breaking from within the stable. Grabbing the figure's shoulder, Blarth spins it around, demanding, "What in the Nine Hells are you doing?"

By the light of the lamp Blarth sees black eyes staring back at him; not the black of night adapted eyes where the color has simply shrunk to a thin ring, but a deep black that reflects no light and covers the entire orb. Below them, black fluid flows down the figure's face like tears. Startled, Blarth flinches back involuntarily and drops the lamp. The clay vessel shatters on the ground, spreading oil about and creating in quick flare up which increases the light momentarily, revealing the figure's clothing. They are the simple garments of a stable hand, but their front is now streaked with red and black: blood, and whatever it was that was leaking from the figure's eyes.

Screaming in fear, Blarth swings his club, caving the figure's head in and knocking it to the ground. Running back to the inn, Blarth yells for Horace and Trafan.

"GET UP! GET YOUR STUFF! WE'VE GOT TO GET OUT OF HERE!"

Thankful now that they had elected to stay in the town, Blarth grabs his still packed shoulder roll and swings it over his shoulder. Pounding on Horace and Trafan's doors he calls for them again. Groggily the two men demand to know what the shouting is about. Struggling with his fear, Blarth explains what he saw and the two men elect to investigate. Grabbing a bulls-eye lantern they head out to courtyard while Blarth waits nervously for them to return.

Several minutes later they come back in, shaking their heads.

"There's nothing out there," Trafan says accusingly. "You woke us up for some crazy nigtmare. Go back to sleep Blarth."

Stunned, Blarth watches the pair go back to their rooms and is rewarded with the sound of Horace's snoring resuming a few minutes later.

Staggering back to his room, Blarth puts his shoulder roll back down and sits at the end of the bed, his heart still racing as his mind tries to reconcile what he saw with what Trafan and Horace apparently saw. Blarth didn't sleep the rest of the night.

* * *

"A nightmare, huh?" Blarth asks when the three find the slaughtered remains of their horses the next morning.

[Kelemyn]

Unrequited love?

Juni looks at Nicos doubtfully. How can they both feel unrequited love? But the more she thinks about it, the more it begins to make a kind of sense. It certainly explains the stiffness between the two, the secret looks, and the moodiness.

"Love!" Juni says finally, shaking her head. "You've made it sound very unpleasant. I always thought love meant pretty words, bouquets of flowers, and butterflies in your stomach. Now I don't know what to think."

Of their own volition, her fingers find the pouch on her hip where Isac's holy symbol is stashed. She can feel the outline of the face of Pelor through the soft leather, and the vision of the beautiful elf woman seems to dance just at the edge of her mind. She is reluctant to hold the medallion now, apprehensive of being swept away by that devastating tide of emotion again. And yet she is drawn to it too. Is it possible that the holy symbol wants her to know its story?

"You know, I think you are right, Nicos," she says, setting thoughts of the medallion and of love aside for now. "I do need to find something to keep me occupied and pass the time. Maybe I could learn to juggle!"

[Cadrius]

“I need you to go back to camp,” Cadrius says. “Do not tell the others. Speak to Gregor. Tell him very quietly what happened. He will want to see this. After that I need you to go find my companions. Go tell the man with one arm and the woman with the swords where I am.”

The guard replies by spilling the contents of his own stomach onto the ground, his whole body heaving as he wretches. Cadrius pats him on the shoulder. The poor guardsman is little more than a boy and while he has likely seen a pig slaughtered before, it is an entirely different sight when it is a man that you know.

“What is your name, fellow?”

The guard spits, his hands on his knees, eyes watering. “Alan.”

“I know it is a terrible sight, Alan,” he says. “It is best not to look. Are you well enough to go?”

Alan nods and wipes the saliva and bile from his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Then go,” Cadrius says, “and tell Gregor that we have a problem.”



The first blushing fingertips of dawn that morning had grazed past the horizon to caress the frost. They glittered together as lovers not long for this world—a blaze of fire across frozen grass. The cold brought a chill to the world. No birds sang, no creatures moved, no men stirred from their heavy slumber. Even the coals of the fire slept deep beneath their ashen blankets. Only the sun tried to roust them.

The sentries were the first to shake free of the bitter shackles. Frost clung to their eyes, noses, and mouthes as, sluggish, they returned to the circle of wagons. Here, one shook a comrade awake; there, one nudged another with a foot in the ribs. The sleeping men grumbled and groused but awoke and slowly moved about their morning duties.

Cadrius came awake as well, lying in the hold of a wagon. A thick blanket was pulled tightly about him. He rolled over onto his back, heavy eyelids peering at the wood and canvas. Sarra slept on a bench above him, her legs curled up to her chest beneath her own blanket. Crystals of frost marked the outer ranges of her breath. It had been a cold night.

He frowned as he rubbed his hands together for warmth. An early winter was an ill portent for these lands. This frost alone could have killed any crops that had not been harvested and ruined the autumn gardens if a farmer was not mindful to cover them. An early snow would be worse, shutting down the roads to all but the most diligent travelers. And this wagon train had leagues to go yet.

Easing to his feet, he took his blanket and gently draped it over Sarra’s own. She stirred slightly but did not wake. Her face was a porcelain mask of tranquility, untroubled by those last weeks of confusion and sorrow. It was a sad thing that she could find peace only in dreams. Cadrius envied that she could find it at all.

He brushed through the canvas flap of the wagon and stepped into the chill morning air. Cadrius took a moment to fasten his cloak and pull it about him. Nearby, one man tended to the fire, stirring up coals with a stick while another took a small hatchet to a pile of wood, slicing thin strips. Others went about their business, slowly readying the wagons for departure for after they broke their fast. Even the wagonmaster, Gregor, appeared sapped by the cold night. His voice was still gruff, but the bark was softer than usual. One man approached him, speaking in a low voice and gesturing off away from the camp.

“Then go get him,” Gregor said.

The man spoke again. Cadrius busied himself and pretended not to eavesdrop.

“I don’t care. You go…fine. You! Cadrius! Come here.”

Cadrius did his best to pretend that he had only just noticed the wagonmaster.

“Good morrow, Gregor,” he said, walking over to the two men.

Gregor snorted. “Hah. It is as cold as a witch’s tit and this one says ‘good morrow, Gregor.’ There is nothing good on this morrow.”

“As you say.”

“This one,” Gregor jerked his thumb at the man, “says Brenden didn’t come back from watch yet. The fool probably took jug of mead with him to keep warm and got drunk.”

“I always heard it was ‘warm belly-cold heart,’” Cadrius said. “A nip is fine for the cold, but too much can be dangerous.”

“No,” Gregor scoffed. “Spirits are good for the spirit.”

Cadrius shrugged.

“Brenden is drunk, I know it,” Gregor said. “But go with this one and make sure, will you?”

Cadrius glanced at the other man. He was another guard, and a bit young at that, having just the wisps of a beard on his chin. He had an apprehensive air about him and beneath that was the faint mephitic stench of fear. He was worried about something. Perhaps he had a right to do so.

“Of course,” Cadrius said. No sooner had the words escaped his mouth before Gregor moved on, appearing to build vigor with the rise of the sun, as he began castigating the men tending the fire.

The fallen paladin beckoned the guardsman. “Let me fetch my sword and we will be off.”

Cadrius eased open the flap of the tent, reaching in for the scabbard and saw Sarra looking at him from beneath her pile of blankets. Her dark eyes were as impassive and cold as the morn.

“I am going to check on one of the men,” he said. “Breakfast is not ready yet, but it should be soon. Stay warm.”

Sarra says naught.

“Come along then,” he said to the guardsman. “Let us check on your friend.”



The first sign of trouble was when they saw him sitting up against a tree. He looked, by all rights, as a drunkard would, his legs splayed out before him and head lolled to one side. But as they drew closer, Cadrius saw no puffs of steam roiling into the air. He could not see the man’s chest rise and fall in the deep pattern of a drunkard. No snores rumbled in the chill air. He moved not at all and it gave Cadrius cause to slow his pace.

The guardsman did not notice and hastened his step. In his hurry, he missed the crimson in the dirt. Cadrius came to a halt then, a hand upon the hilt of his sword.

“Stop,” he said.

The other man ignored him and strode forward, hurrying to see if his comrade was hale. But as he drew to the last ten paces, he too slowed and then came to a stop. There was more crimson sprayed across the ground and it was plain as dawning day that the fallen guard was not holding a jug of mead over his belly. He was clutching at his own guts as they strained to spill out. His fingers were stained in their feeble attempt. They had not succeeded. Cadrius could see bits of the man’s innards between his hands and on his lap.

Cadrius drew his bastard sword from its sheath, the blade hitching a bit from the cold. He joined the guardsman as he stared in horror at his friend.

“Then go,” Cadrius said, “and tell Gregor that we have a problem.”



Branden Marbech stood watch, his thick brown cloak pulled tightly around him. The shadows hid its mottled nature, dirty from the road and the occasional patching he had to do while traveling or when at home with his wife, Lynn. It was not a bad cloak, it kept the worst of cold’s bite from his bones, but on a night such as that he wished he had a proper winter cloak. He guessed at how much he would have left after he was paid his due and if, maybe, there could be enough for a thick cloak.

A shroud of freezing mist wreathed about the wide-spread ring of sentries. The roads were dangerous, but there were none that would brave this early frigid eve to rob. It was a night better spent huddled by a fire, even if your belly was empty. But there he was, far from the main fire, with his patchwork garb. He cursed the unusually cold autumn night. Perhaps a new cloak could be bought.

But no, Lynn was with child, going on five months now, and he must save for the baby. He hoped for a son to carry on his name. Perhaps he would rise above his low breeding and make something more of himself, something beyond a caravan guard. This son of his could be a man of an honest profession—like a smith. Or maybe fortune would smile upon him and he would become a squire. Perhaps even one day he could become a knight.

The fantasies warmed his belly like a slug of grog. His eyes glazed over and he felt not the frost on his fingers, and not the chill in his toes.

But most of all, he heard not the sound of its approach.

[Black Plauge]

Blarth always found it harder to get up on cold mornings. The process of abandoning the accumulated warmth of one's blankets was never an appealing one and they way the night seemed to hang around just a little bit longer each morning was almost enough to convince him that orcs really should have been a hibernating species.

His bladder almost always had other things to say on the matter, however, and it was get up or else.

Finding a rock to turn into a salt lick, Blarth was going through his usual morning grumbling routine when the commotion started to spread through the camp. Whispers, innuendo, furtive looks, and gasps of horror chased the rumor around the breakfast fires. One of the night guards had been tortured hideously! Drawn and quartered some said. Disemboweled or beheaded according to others. One drover even claimed that the guard had been eaten from the inside out. All agreed that the man was drunk when it happened, and thus probably hadn't felt anything (as if that made a difference, the man was still dead), but beyond that the story twisted and morphed with each retelling. Before long Blarth began to recognize the details of the story he had brought back to the caravan intertwining with the new one. The man's blood had turned to ichor. His eyes were orbs of obsidian. He'd attacked the man who'd found him.

Wandering through the campsite, Blarth went looking for Cadrius. He seemed to be on the best terms with Gregor out of their little group and would probably know what was going on, or at the very least could ask.

[Gralhruk]

Shade was asleep when the guard came calling, her bedding set atop a row of casks in an otherwise unoccupied wagon. Good thing she was thin, else she'd never have fit into the spot. She had been out late, scouting, but come back here when the moon set to catch some sleep.

She slithered down before he called a third time, shivering in the chill air, and stuck her head out to hear what he had to say. Her frown deepened at his words, the periphery of her mind registering the unusual amount of commotion in camp. Not the first he'd talked to, she was sure.

"Where is he?"

The words are icy cold - dangerously precise and razor edged. He would not have sent for her unless things were bad, and judging by the whiteness of the guard's face and the wildness in his eyes, things were bad. He told her, then stammered out something about finding Nicos and then he went off. Gritting her teeth, Shade threw on her cloak and boots, reached up into the makeshift bed and drew out her swords, buckling them on as she started for the door.

***

Her breath is steaming as she approaches Cadrius, standing vigil over the dead man, her eyes sluicing the surrounding area for any sign of movement as she slowed to a walk. Nobody else here, yet, but they wouldn't be long. His posture told her there was no immediate danger, but it did little to ease her nerves.

"What happened?"

[itches]

The guard found Nicos climbing out of the bed he had shared with one of the drivers. She was a tough no-nonsense woman - she had to be to earn the respect of her fellow teamsters - and wasn't his preferred partner, but the nights were cold and she was willing, so the bard made do. The real goal of his affections was the wife of one of the guards, serving to pay the passage of his family as they migrated to the duchies. She was attractive and bored with a possessive husband, and it was all Nicos could do to keep himself away, knowing that the caravan was no place for that sort of drama - at least not until they were closer to their destination and he would be able to slip away afterwards. So he contented himself exchanged meaningful looks, whispered conversations and sharing his nights with his current paramour.

Getting the gist of the message from the guard - something about Cadrius, the woods and a corpse - Nicos stopped long enough to slide on his armour and strap on his sword before setting out. The mail had lain exposed to the night air, was covered in damp and held onto the cold like jealous lover, so by the time the bard found Cadrius he was half frozen and deep within a peevish mood.

"Mother of sin," he called out to Cadrius and Shade as he stalked up to them, breathing out great clouds of steam. "How many times do I have to tell you two, when you murder someone hide the body afterwards. Look, there's a small ditch just there, look, not ten feet away. Drag it over, toss some branches on top and you're done."

[Gralhruk]

The slit-eyed look Shade shoots at the bard carries the implication that his final resting place may well be the small ditch he indicated. Instead she jerks her chin at the corpse, twitching her cloak tighter around her spare form.

"A guard. One of ours. Gutted by gods know what."

Except they all knew: Skathros, or something like him.

[Cadrius]

A whisper of boots crunching through the thin film of frost and the feeling of eyes colder than the chill morn is the only sign of her arrival. Shade. The enigmatic, haunted woman is as easy to read as the changing wind. Her voice is soft as if she is reluctant to puts words to air. To speak of this is to ensure that it is real. It is now wrought from nightmare and made flesh. Details overlooked now demand attention. The blood, congealed in the cold, is dark but not yet brown. It will be a few days yet for that.

He opens his mouth to reply when Nicos’ barb rings out across the clearing, shattering the morbid tranquility of the scene.

“Useful, as always,” Cadrius mutters.

He turns around to see Shade standing with her arms folded, eyes flitting about the scene half-curious, half-looking for further danger. Nicos strides up to the two, his breath puffing in the air. The bard blows into his hand, trying to warm it.

“Nice day for a murder, eh?” He says, clapping Cadrius on the arm.

“Jaunty, as always,” Shade says.

“I suppose it does not need to be said that this is suspicious,” he says. “A lone guard has his throat slit and his belly drawn out. With the blood around here it looks like he was dragged to that tree. Why?”

“A feud with another man on this caravan wouldn’t have ended like this,” Nicos says. “It’s too…too brutal.”

“Aye,” Cadrius agrees.

“I think you know what did this,” Shade says, her voice soft but rich with ill portent.

Their gazes lock. Cadrius fights off a shiver from creeping down his back.

“No,” he lies. “Please tell me.”

[itches]

"The dreaded marsupial Tree-Bear," Nicos interjected. "A vicious predator, they lurk in trees above unsuspecting travelers and then, bang, they fall upon their victims. The poor bastard never stood a chance."

His lone encounter with the walking dead had unsettled the bard deeply; the tales Cadrius told of a plague had been source enough for a score of nightmares since. Falling serious he glanced in the direction of the caravan, Gregor would be along in a few minutes so their time alone was limited.

"My question," he said in a low voice. "Is are we being stalked?"

[Gralhruk]

Instead of answering, Shade's eyes travel from the corpse back along the blood trail and trampled grass. Her body follows, until she stands perhaps a score of yards from the tree, at the edge of the clearing.

"Here is where he was attacked."

The prints weren't clear, but clear enough. The implications put a chill in her that had nothing to do with the environment, and for once she is grateful for the sun. Despite her unease, her voice stays even, without emotion.

"He must have seen or heard something, come to see what it was. Look at his throat."

The pair did, and through the blood it was black with bruising. One could almost see the hand encircling his thick neck.

"He was lifted up and disemboweled while he hung there. His throat was slashed after, else there would be more blood."

She looks at them, the skin between her shoulder blades crawling. It meant something inhumanly strong, and something with both cunning and malice. Hard to say if it was a warning, or if it was simply killing people at random. Her eyes are very clear and very hard.

"Yes, we are being stalked."

[itches]

Nicos eyed the bloody trail and felt a chill that had nothing to do with the winter air settling around them and, as irrational as it would be for the creature to still be nearby, was glad he had taken the time to don armour before setting out into the woods.

"From now on either one of us or Blarth is on every watch, every night," he said looking at the others with a grim face. "And everyone sleeps with weapons close to hand. I'll take Lynn and Juni aside later to make sure they know what is happening, but how much do we tell Gregor and the others."

[Gralhruk]

"We tell the others nothing of what we suspect."

Apart from her moving lips, Shade's face is utterly still, grey eyes hard as granite. The words hang like icicles in the frigid air, cruel and sharp. The scar that divides her face gleams whitely in the morning sun.

"It can only harm our purpose."

[itches]

"We have to tell them something," Nicos shot back with indignation. "They outriders saw attacks like this, they'll already know something is up. Besides, he ... it isn't just hunting us, it's taking out anyone that gets in its way. We have to give the rest some sort of warning."

[Gralhruk]

"What good will a warning do? The group of us were hardly enough to drive him away last time. Telling them we're being hunted by creatures that can slay their guards with ease and can't be killed by any normal means and they'll throw us to the wolves."

The words did not come to her as easily as it sounded, for Shade knew that it condemned good men to death. Nicos was right, in that a man should know what he was up against. But they didn't have the luxury of doing the noble thing. They needed to survive in order to get the help they needed to cut this thing off at the root.

"Winter is here. No matter what we say the truth is that in a fight with these creatures we lose. We need to get to Cadrius' contacts if we want to stop it, and to do that we need the caravan."

She halts then, her eyes piercing, her face rigid. Filled with an emotion that she couldn't name, the one time thief knows she can't just leave them to their doom. She would redouble her own watch, be the eyes and ears for the things she wouldn't tell them about. It wasn't enough, not nearly, considering the facts.

"There is no choice."

[itches]

"No choice? What good?" Nicos said back, his voice starting to rise. "This thing didn't attack the caravan, it waited until he had wondered off on his own. We won't be able to get to the dutchies and find help if it manages to pick people off one-by-one until we're the only ones left!"

"Besides," he added, bringing his voice back under control. "What sort of people would we be if we just stood there silently while we let people be butchered. We have to tell them, if not the truth then something."

[Gralhruk]

Anger flares at the bard's words but it quickly flashes out, like heat lightning in the summer sky. Shade knew he was right and she doesn't have the heart to start another war between them, like she had when she deliberately caused the fight that pushed her out of the group. He deserved better than that, especially from her. She starts again, quieter, more reasonable.

"We have a responsibility to these people, yes, but we also have a larger responsibility to stop this thing. If it means we need to be close with the truth, then we will be close with the truth."

She pauses, gauging the words.

"But yes, that is different than saying nothing. Obviously, a man has been slain. We will say to the caravan master that he was overpowered by something much stronger than a human, but that we see no evidence that points to any known creature. Until such time as we know what we are dealing with, we must not wander alone and we must take to standing watch together as well - at least in pairs, if not larger groups."

[Cadrius]

Cadrius sighs and runs a hand across his head. His eyes light upon the congealed blood that is dark and still by the blades of grass sheathed in scabbards of frost. This man has, had, a name. He had a family. He had a life. He had a story. These have all been snatched up and scattered simply because he had the misfortune of traveling in their company. Cadrius fancies that his life, and the lives of his companions, must suffer from some cruel curse for them to bring so much death and misery to the world around. Perhaps it would be better if they were to simply die and bring no more sorrow to the world.

That will not happen. He cannot relinquish his hold on life. Duty has been his master for lo these many years and it is not about to strike down his bonds yet. The others are bound to it as well, though they are not so obviously shackled as Cadrius. He would urge them, Shade, Nicos, Blarth, and Juni, to buy horses and ride south until their steeds could carry them no further, and then buy another set of horses and do the same again. The fallen paladin would see them fade far beyond the horizon, somewhere perhaps across the southern sea, where the black-eyed dead could not menace them.

But they would refuse, of course. Nicos would make a quip, Shade would simmer with quiet indignation, and they would remain. Perhaps it was due to Isac’s sacrifice. The Morning Lord had given his very life to purge the evil from Shade’s body. Perhaps they accompany Cadrius out of obligation, or out of guilt. Or perhaps they simply are simply living proof that there are still good men in this world with stout hearts and the will to stand against the dark.

He wishes he could say the same for himself.

“Aye,” he says, meeting Shade’s steel gaze. “It will be no boon to know of the dead that stalk us, and it is wise to hold watch in pairs.”

Nicos cocks an eyebrow. “But?”

Cadrius lets his breath slowly stream out through his nose, sending steam jetting through the chill morning air. He often forgets that before the bard had made his days traveling with these unlikely companions, he had kept his belly full with the skill to read his audience. The fallen paladin makes a vow to not underestimate him again. It is one of many on a never-ending list that spirals onward in an ethereal scroll in his mind.

He looks down at the corpse for a moment before looking back at Nicos. “But a man is dead because of us.”

The bard bites back a pithy retort showing restraint that Cadrius appreciates. “Yes, he is.”

Shade’s voice is quiet but hard. “What would you do about it?”

“I do not know,” Cadrius says. “Gods help me. I don’t know.”

“What is this then?” The wagoner’s thick voice calls out. He is flanked by two of his men and bears a half-moon axe with a haft that has been well-worn through time. Gregor is dressed warmly, with fur poking out from the neck of his fastened cloak. His thick moustache bears a hint of frost.

Cadrius says nothing but nods his head toward the body. Gregor brushes past him while the two men mutter prayers to the gods for safe passage of the soul and to not plague the living. They have no idea how close they are to the truth.

Gregor kneels next to the corpse, ignoring the browning blood crusting against his knee. He pulls one of his woolen gloves off and reaches out to brush a few strands of errant hair from the corpse’s face. The fatherly gesture catches Cadrius off-guard, reminding him of days long since past.

“It was strong,” Cadrius says, “to overpower him so. Though we know naught of what it was.”

“And why are they here?” Gregor says, looking back over his shoulder.

“Shade is an expert huntress and knows the tracks of every beast while Nicos possesses a keen mind and a sharp eye. I asked for them to attend should there be any details that I have missed.”

“And what have they found?”

Cadrius sighs. “That if this was a man that did this he was strong to kill Branden, vicious to do it so, and cunning to disguise his tracks.”

“So you have learned nothing then?”

Cadrius remains silent.

“What will you do, Gregor?” Nicos asks.

“We will take care of his body, as in the old ways,” he says, his voice stony and hard like the mountains of his homeland. “Then we will be away from this evil place and we will speak of it nevermore.”

[Gralhruk]

Shade bristles as Gregor dismissed the results of their search, her anger not at all feigned despite their own deception. It stung all the more because even with the knowledge they had withheld, the man was still right. They had no inkling of what might be in store, and helplessness was ever a bitter cup.

He favors her with a withering glance as he turns away, signaling his men to bear the body with them. The three companions remain after this thing is done, none of them speaking. Shade's breath clouds as she exhales; beneath her cloak, her hands grip the twin hilts of her swords with impotent aggression.

"A man is dead. Because of us. We must see it does not happen again."

[Black Plauge]

How can things seem so normal, Blarth wonders. It's been a few days since the disembowled corpse had been found in the woods, and a little more than a week since Market Day. To Blarth's eye, however, life on the road had largely returned to normal. Sure, everyone seemed a little more jumpy when taken unawares, and no one was talking about the two incidents (Gregor's injunction was being taken very seriously), but other than that, life was disappointingly normal.

Of course, no one in the caravan knew what had happened back in Tradeholm, and thus they remained blissfully unaware of the potential danger.

Still riding with the camp crew, Blarth was supposed to report on anything strange that happened during break-down or setup to the others. Indeed, each member of their group had responsibility for watching a different part of the caravan. If anything happened, or even showed signs of happening, there was some hope that vigilance could avert disaster.

It was this vigilance that had Blarth wandering through the camp now, looking for one of the others. This morning he had noticed a crow following the camp riders. At first this hadn't seemed unusual, but while resting the horses after a stream crossing, Blarth had noticed that the crow had perched nearby. More out of boredom than anything else, he had started throwing rocks at the bird to scare it off. Oddly, the crow hadn't moved until Blarth managed to hit it dead on, not even flinching when one of the stones had gone low and hit the branch that the bird was perched on. Add to that the black ooze that the bird had left behind once hit, and the oddity of the event started to take on a decidedly sinister tone.

Spotting Juni around one of the campfires, Blarth nods his head at to signal her to join him out of earshot of those she was with.

"Where are Cadrius, Shade, and Nicos?" Blarth asks when it is safe to do so, "Something strange happened today."

[Cadrius]

Cadrius had carried the stones himself, helping Gregor and the other caravan guards create the cairn as requested. Gregor had selected a copse of trees off the main road where prying eyes and looting hands would be less likely to find the body of Branden Marbech and stain his memory. Cadrius had been grateful for the suggestion that they use a cairn. He had not seen the telltale darkness oozing out of the man’s corpse telling of the necromantic infection, but he had little appetite in taking chance for granted. Heavy rocks would likely serve better than shovels of earth in weighing down a body that had inclinations to rise again. Woe be to any would-be grave robbers.

The ceremony had been as quiet as it was solemn. A few men spoke, a prayer was muttered, and then it was done. Gregor’s edict held true, and none spoke of it again. Life within the wagon train had resumed its usual plodding pace, reflecting the slow, rough going along the frostbitten roads. Each night the ruts froze, creating hardened casts of the last wagons to travel through that area. The morning ride, before the earth softened up under the sun’s shining face, was often so bumpy that Cadrius preferred to walk.

Sarra had withdrawn after Branden’s funeral. After Tradeholm, Cadrius had hoped to shield her from death, if only for a little while. It was hard enough that she was an orphan, having borne witness to her would-be protector hacking apart her neighbors and family after the darkness had taken them; she didn’t need to see more lives lost as a result of this plague, or the agents in the service of its creator.

Cadrius was not her father, did not pretend to be, but he had taken her as a charge and he would be damned, again, if he would not deliver her into safety. Each morning he woke and checked on Sarra before going to fetch whatever leftover stew was being cooked up by the foul-mouthed cook at the center of camp. Cadrius would bring two steaming bowls and a couple slices of hard bread back to the wagon. She would accept them and on good days she would speak to him, but not since Branden. She took food, would eat it, and then would either sleep or gaze vacantly at the road as they trundled along.

That night, Cadrius sat at a small fire built by his own hands and stared into the flames. The fire leaped and danced, delighting in the consumption of wood for its pleasure. The fallen paladin wondered how much longer it would be until he burned for something’s entertainment.

“Cadrius?”

“Hmm?” His head popped up, his introspection shattered. “Juni. Good evening. What is it?”

It occurred to him that despite their days of travel on the road, and what they had both witnessed, Cadrius knew next to nothing about the woman who had fled with them along the southwestern roads that wound their way to the Hundred Duchies.

“It’s Blarth,” she said. Her eyes were worried which, in turn, caused Cadrius to reach for the scabbard of his sword before she finished her sentence. “He wants to talk to us.”

“Aye,” Cadrius said, standing. He glanced in the wagon briefly, finding Sarra asleep, and then turned back to Juni. “Let us go.”

[Kelemyn]

Juni always knows where each of the others is at any given moment now. She doesn't think about using her psychic power to locate them, she just does it automatically without even trying. Knowing where they all are and that they are safe... Well, it is one less thing she has to worry about, a small bit of comfort in a world of uncertainty.

So when Blarth came and asked her, "Where are Cadrius, Shade, and Nicos?" she knew the answer right off the top of her head and told him. Now she has gone to fetch Cadrius at one of the camp fires while Blarth is out gathering up Shade and Nicos.

Juni has been making more frequent use of her psychic power in other ways lately too. Riding in the wagon, she often surreptitiously uses her psychic eye to scry beyond the next bend in the road up ahead. Precog is turned on, at least a little bit, almost all the time, but especially after dark. Since the attack on the guard, and all the secrecy surrounding it, she has been on edge and can't seem to relax. Even in sleep her psychic sense is active, although when she wakes she remembers nothing meaningful of the visions that haunt her dreams. Always pale of skin, the young seer seems even more drained of color than usual, with dark smudges beneath her eyes that stand out like bruises.

But she is not the only one. Juni has noticed that none of her friends are sleeping well at night any more, as if they consider themselves to be always on watch. Faces are drawn and haggard. Hands twitch toward weapons at the slightest noise or disturbance.

She would have said that, of all of them, the ever easy-going Blarth was least affected by the strain of the last few days. So it is with an even more pronounced sense of trepidation that she hastens along with Cadrius to the meeting the half-orc has called.

[Gralhruk]

Shade was seated upon a tall boulder, knees drawn up to her chin, skin pale from the cold, when Blarth and Nicos found her. When she looks at them, her grey eyes are as frosty as the morning air, the waxy skin of her cheeks drawn tight over the bones beneath. She looked even leaner than she had in the past, yet at the same time sturdier, as if these weeks had shed any ounce of her being that was soft or green. Her calloused fingers immediately slide to the hilts of her swords and she rises to a standing position with lithe grace, still atop her perch, senses straining.

"What is it?"

[Black Plauge]

"When Cadrius and Juni get here," Blarth replies, not wanting to repeat himself. Fortunately, he doesn't have to wait long, as Juni's seemingly unerring sense of where people are brings them around very shortly.

After explaining the incident with the crow, Blarth continues, "I think we're being stalked, watched for weaknesses. It's only a matter of time before one is found."

[Cadrius]

“Spies, eyes, lies” Nicos says, sending a stone spinning off into the gloom with the flick of his wrist. His smile is ever his sardonic armor against the world. “It’s all the same.”

“Perhaps,” Cadrius says. The great sword and shield are slung over his back, but he cannot help but feel unarmed at the spectral threat of a dark presence that stalks them. It is a foe that cares not if it loses an arm, a leg, one soldier in its cause or a dozen. It will come without tiring and without wavering until its grim purpose is filled.

“What are we to do about it?” Shade’s voice comes from on-high.

Cadrius looks over at Shade, perched on her boulder, her hands never straying far from the hilts of her blades. She seems at that moment like a great cat, poised to strike some unsuspecting fawn or foal. But even the fiercest of predators relax and Cadrius is not certain if Shade is ever anything but readying herself for the next kill. She is ever the rope or bowstring drawn taut.

“Get to the Duchies,” Cadrius says, “as fast as this train will travel. From there we can reach the Church’s seat and appeal to them for aid against the growing dark.”

“But you said that one of these things killed that poor guard.” Juni’s voice is soft, but carries a weight to it. “He died because of us.”

“And it will be us dead in the frost if we strike out on our own,” Shade says.

“We are all safer together than apart,” Cadrius says. “The sentries need to be kept closer to the fires at night and in pairs, not alone.”

“It might be that there’s only one of them right now,” Nicos says. “Maybe it isn’t doesn’t know if it could succeed in a frontal assault.”

“But the crows,” Blarth says.

“Aye,” Nicos says. “The crows.”

“Again, then it is best that we move as swiftly, but as safely, as we are able,” Cadrius says. “It must know we draw closer to civilization where it will be harder to strike at us directly.”

He leaves out the possibility of these foul creations stalking them within the walls of a town, wearing a suit made of flesh and sinew. That they barely know what it is that hunts them is terrifying enough. He does not need to plant further ghosts within that graveyard—not yet. But looking up at Shade on her rock the expression on her face shows that her mind is already two steps ahead of his.

“So we huddle together and try to survive,” she says. “For a few more days.”

“How many?” Juni asks.

“Ten,” Cadrius says, “perhaps a full fortnight.”

“A lot can happen during that time,” Blarth says.

Nicos shakes his head, his grin returning. “You don’t know the half of it, my boy.”

[Gralhruk]

Ten more days, and then how many more?

She watches their little meeting break up, each of them retreating to their comfortable patterns, the habits they'd formed to shield themselves from the harsh truths of the world. Shade is acutely aware of her own defenses, of the stony wall she put up to hide her own turmoil and uncertainty from those around her. Cadrius looks her way as the others disperse and she meets his gaze without flinching.

They had only known each other a short time yet the depth of their knowledge defied that span. Moments of crisis showed you what a person was made of, and they'd shared more than a lifetime's worth. No surprise, then, that he knew her mind. As the others leave she drops lightly to the ground, her boots crunching softly in the snow. A chill wind makes the bare trees moan eerily.

It was her gut reaction to be angry - angry at the predicament they were in, angry at her part in this chain of events, angry at his stoic refusal to accept any path other than the right one. It was, after all, one of her defenses - a way to cope with the unfamiliar, the frightening, the dangerous. Isac's meddling, in part, had mitigated that. He had, unwittingly or not, solidified the designs that had been forming in her for a very long time, designs that she had been confused about. Cadrius himself had played a large part in that confusion, highlighting as he did those things she was so desperately trying not to examine.

But she was different now, having finally come to a place where she could begin to accept her reality. The things she had imagined she wanted were so very distant from those things that gave her purpose, made her feel whole. Not that it was easy, or that her anger was gone but for now she speaks softly.

"We've been lucky up til now, with just one attack, if even the beasts can be so turned."

[Cadrius]

She is right, of course. The simple and unavoidable truth is that they are lucky to still be alive. Drawing breath is a miracle itself and there is little reason to believe that it will continue without outside interference. The thing out there, the shadow in the dark, that hunted them is either malicious in its desire to instill terror, or has some ulterior motives for delaying their demise. He wants to believe that they are too many for it to run rampant in their midst, tearing and rending, painting the frost with their blood, decorating the trees with their guts.

He wants to believe it, but he isn’t certain.

“Yes, we are lucky,” he says. “We always are.”

“Spare me the sermon about gratitude,” she says. Her spit is graceful in its arc, landing in the dry, curled brown leaves draped thick over the dirt. “I’m talking about life and death here.”

He sighs. “So am I.”

Her scowl shows she’s in no mood for mincing words.

The lines in his face are deeper than they used to be, casualties of carrying more than he should. The bags beneath his eyes are heavier and thickening. These days his sleep comes in fits. Each night is a mishmash of tossing on the thin bedding and lying awake listening in the dark for death to come for him and Sarra. The days have become a haze; it hardly seems that the sun has come up before it is on its way back down again. He wonders where the days go, where time goes, and how he could acquire more of it when it seems to be running out faster and faster.

“The Church will help us,” he says. “Provided we can reach them.”

“The Church?” She makes an obscene gesture. “The same Church that tried to have you killed?”

He nods.

“Why would they help us?”

“Because,” he says, “it is not about us. It is about them.”

The Church is an entity like any other, rooted in its ability to hold power and exert influence. A lord needs men to serve him, a merchant needs wares and customers, and a church needs believers. The difference is that the church, or this Church in particular, is never short of customers, never short of servants, and is always in demand. The world is a terrible place, dark and vile, full of hardships and pain. The offer of an eternal reward, of protection from that which lurks in the night, is not a difficult sale to make.

But a merchant must provide his goods to his customers, a lord must protect his people, and the church must deliver on its bargain as well. While it is difficult to demand a refund after one has died, the Church stands against abominations, things that are unclean and blasphemous to the world itself. These monsters, this plague, and the font from which it flows are their domain. They must deal with this threat, must mobilize to burn it clean at its source. If they cannot do this, if they cannot protect the innocents from this horror, then what purpose do they serve at all?

Her eyes glitter, cold in the dark. For the first time he wonders if Shade is even her real name. “What makes you think we’ll even make it there?”

His laugh is bitter as he turns his back to her and walks toward camp.

“Faith.”

[Cadrius]

The sun stands at the highest mark it will reach today. The cerulean sky is as clear as can be with a bright, but cold, sun shining at its apogee. Puffs of breath roll from man, horse, and dog, as the train makes its way through the road that runs between the hills and mountains separating the wilder lands from the kingdoms of men. The nearby hills are covered with the greens of pines and spruces who ever hold their color as badges of courage against the cold. As the hills climb higher the snowline appears, a marked border between the courts of autumn and winter. White reigns above. The evergreens hold the snow, their many arms blanketed while their deciduous brethren hold little at all, having cast their burdens aside weeks earlier. At the very top are the craggy faces of the mountains. These are truly the old kings of the world, with wisps of clouds hanging about their stony visages. They have held court since the world was young and have watched countless men rise and fall during their time.

Three days had passed since the discovery of Brenden’s savaged corpse, frozen in the morning air. Pallor had settled in over the band for the last several days. Gregor had done little to hide the fact that one of the men had perished though he did his best to obfuscate the details surrounding the death. Brenden had been well-liked by the other guards and even their attempts at honoring him through drink fell flat. Yet by midday on the third day, some life had creeped back. Men spoke in voices that were above a hush and the occasional laugh could be heard. Even Gregor appeared to be restored to something more akin to his usual gruff self.

Gregor calls a stop for half a hand to water the horses and fill skins from a nearby stream. Cadrius stands outside of a wagon. Juni’s voice is muffled slightly by the canvas. She is teaching Sarra something she learned from her youth. Cadrius isn’t certain what it is, but he cares not. Anything that can be done to stir the morose youth from her near catatonic state is welcome to him. For the hundredth time he reminds himself that he merely needs to escort her to the Duchies and put her under the care of someone he can trust and naught more.

The nights have been restless but quiet with the fires built high and the sentries kept in close. Each of the companions has taken their turn staring into the dead of night while the night stares back at them. Cadrius has spent hours gazing off into the black with nothing save the crackle of the fire, the snores of men, and the cold stars above for company. It is during those darkest hours that he finds himself most full of doubt. When the light is gone and the night hems in close he is at his most hopeless. Specters of his past live anew, guaranteeing him failure.

Afternoon passes quickly, the sun cutting its shallow path through the sky and sinking fast toward the west. Camp has already been made by the time the sky is painted with faint pinks and pale purples. Kindling and wood has been gathered and stoked into a fire. The men who wish to try their hand at hunting are allowed to do so, but only in pairs. Wooden bowls are brought out and the company forms a line as a thick, bland stew is ladled out, steaming in the early evening air.

“Nicos,” Cadrius says, inclining his head to a stump nearby. “Would you favor us with a tale?”

[Black Plauge]

Finding a pair of saplings which were long enough and had the requisite curves had been tough, but a little persistence on Blarth's part had paid off and he was now contentedly shaping them with a knife. If he had timed things right, and the caravan didn't start an unexpected climb, he would just finish the skis about the same time that the snow started flying at their elevation. The green wood was more vulnerable to the cold and probably wouldn't last beyond the season, but he wasn't exactly interested in waiting the couple of years it could take for the wood to cure properly. A little extra tar, and he'd have something serviceable. He doubted Sarra knew what proper skis felt like anyway. The idea of treking through snow fields under your own power just didn't seem to occur to most humans. They let horses and oxen do the work and used sleds most of the time.

His mind only half on the work beneath his hands, Blarth still couldn't get the feeling of being watched out of his head and regularly scanned the area around him. He hadn't seen any more crows, or other animals for that matter, with the same pattern of unusual behavior, but even so Blarth still shivered at the thought of animals turning on the caravan and leaving behind the kind of mess that he'd found in the stable in Gilgal.

[itches]

Nicos gazed into the fire at the request for a story, seeing what only he knew within the flickering depths, reaching back into his memory for a classical tale to tell, one that seemed fitting for their haunted journey through the forest.

The bard cleared his throat and began speaking. He told a tale of a Merchant, a man who was well off without being wealthy, a man who worked hard but treasured his Daughter more than any coin or jewel in the world. A man who whenever he set out on a journey, would always ask her what gift or boon he she wished him to bring back for her.

“’Just a rose’” Nicos said, pitching his voice up to carry feminine overtones. “Always she would reply ‘Just a rose,’ valuing her Father’s thoughtful care and safe return more than any treasure.”

While on a journey the Merchant was caught in a fearsome storm, driven to take shelter in an ancient and seemingly abandoned castle. When he explored his temporary shelter, the Merchant found a freshly cooked meal laid out, as well as dry blankets and a warm fire, but no sign of any inhabitants.

Feasting upon the food – and sleeping within the dry blankets before the warm fire – the Merchant spent the night in comfort. Waking the next morning, he discovered the evening’s meal had been cleaned away and an enticing breakfast awaiting. He feasted once more, growing used to the strange ways of the castle and with the storm having passed during the night, prepared to resume his journey. It was when the Merchant was setting out that he saw a rose garden for the first time. Remembering the promise he made to his Daughter, he plucked the most beautiful of the roses and tucked it within his coat

Sooner than the disturbed petals had floated to the ground, the lord of the eerie castle arose from the shadows and revealed himself as a terrible and mighty creature, more Beast than man and filled with fury.

“I fed you!” Nicos proclaimed, throwing his head back and casting his voice low so that it had a guttural, angry edge. “I gave you my hospitality free and thankless when you intruded upon my home, you repay me with theft? No, you will repay me with your life!”

The Merchant fell to his terrified knees, begging forgiveness, saying that he had merely taken the rose as a token for his Daughter. Considering this, the Beast relented but the width of a hair, consenting not to slay the Merchant, suggesting instead that he would hold the man prisoner. Again the Merchant pleaded for mercy, saying that this would leave his Daughter alone and unguarded in the word, and again the Beast relented, giving the Merchant leave to depart and put his affairs in order, but only so long as he returned within a week, upon pain of death.

The Merchant left and swiftly returned home to began making the needed preparations. His Daughter, ever a wise girl, saw that something was amiss and needled her father with questions until he broke down and revealed to her the truth of the castle, the rose and the Beast.

Horrified at the thought of her father being held captive by the fearsome monster, his Daughter waited until night fell and snuck away, making her way to the castle to wonder the abandoned corridors calling upon the Beast to reveal himself. When he did, she recoiled in disgust, for the Beast was frightful to look upon beyond her imaginings. Remembering her father whom she loved dearly, his Daughter steeled herself, begging the Beast to allow her to take the Merchant’s place, reasoning that as the rose was taken for her, she should be the one to serve the punishment. The Beast agreed and took the Daughter prisoner.

Time passed for the Daughter and she found her stay more pleasant than expected. The Beast, for all that his appearance frightened her, was gruff and quick to anger, had another side that was gentle, wise and sad beyond measure, and took pains to treat her well. Eventually, the last of her fears faded and she grew fond of the creature until they became close friends.

A month after she had placed herself in the Beast’s custody, the creature asked her to marry him. She refused, for all that she had warmed to the Beast, the thought of marring herself to someone with as horrifying a visage as he possessed filled her with revulsion. Unwilling to the tell her capturer and tenuous friend the truth, she proclaimed that she could never marry someone she knew nothing about, for the Beast had guarded his history and secrets well.

That night the Daughter dreamed of a handsome Prince who came to her bedchamber and told her a tale. He told her of a young Noble who was betrothed in a political alliance, to a neighbouring Countess. The Countess was a nice girl, but the young Noble didn’t love her and only entered into the betrothal contract with reluctance. The night before he was due to marry, the young Noble and his companions set out to grow intoxicated and enjoy the company of women who's virtue had a negotiable value.

So late did his carousing take him, that the next day he slept through the appointed time of the wedding, leaving his intended wife abandoned and humiliated. The Countess’s rage was awesome to behold, and she revealed herself as a powerful sorceress. She cast a spell and laid a mighty curse upon the young Noble. He was to be crippled, stricken with weakness yet unable to die. Stuck forever in the grips of the spell until he either found true love to free him, or had his heart broken unto death.

Daily the Daughter would dine with the Beast, discuss philosophy and religion, walking the lawns or working on his endeared rose gardens together. Each day the Beast would ask her to marry him, and each day the Daughter would refuse, conjuring ever more spurious reasons for the rejection, too ashamed to voice that she could not, would not love him due to his dreadful appearance.

Nightly the handsome Prince would come to her sleeping mind, would woo her with fanciful tales and flattery until, despite herself, she began to fall in love with a man she knew to be nothing but an insubstantial dream.

The seasons passed and The Daughter grew melancholy, torn between the waking world and a Beast who desired her, and the dreamtime with her Prince she loved but could never have. One day the Beast asked her to marry him, and she again declined her consent, stating that she could never be married without the presence of her father the Merchant. The Beast looked at her with his terrible and sad eyes, and offered to release her. If she but agreed to wed him, she could return to her father and fetch him to the castle where they could all live in opulence together. The only condition he placed upon her, was to return within the week, or consequences too fearful to name would befall.

Weathered and worn from her endless ordeal, the Daughter finally agreed and set out to return home that very day, carrying with her a mirror that allowed her to see the castle, and a ring that would transport her back if she turned it three times.

At the first sight of the Daughter’s return, the Merchant was overcome with joy, thinking that she has escaped. But when she told him of her agreement to marry the monstrous creature, and the two were to return at once for the wedding, he became he was horrified and afraid.

He delayed their return, at first pretending commitment and appointments that could not be broken, later feigning sickness, until as time ticked past and they were on their final day, he confronted the Daughter and demanded to know if she loved the Beast. The Daughter remembering her dream Prince, answered with truth and woe that she did not and the Merchant admonished her not to enter into a loveless marriage, that she had escaped and should not so easily throw away her freshly regained freedom.

With great reluctance, the Daughter agreed and went to bed, sleeping for the first time in many months without her Prince.

In the morning she woke, feeling an unsettled and surging guilty regret at having abandoned the Beast. Being careful that the Merchant did not see her, the Daughter gazed into the magical mirror and commanded it to show her the castle. Cast onto the polished surface was revealed the Beast, sprawled upon the ground and motionless in his favoured garden, surrounded by withered and dead roses. With a cry of alarm the Daughter at once grasped her ring, twisting it thrice until she was returned to the castle and her Beast’s side.

She gathered the creature in her arms, crying for him to arise, that she was sorry and had returned as promised. Her tears, heavy with regret and grief fell upon her Beast and under that gentle shower he began to transform. The monstrous features which had once so terrified her faded away, revealing the form of her dream Prince. She cried anew as she gazed upon the features of her beloved, remembering the tale he had first told her and lamenting that she had come so close to having her true love only to have thrown it away.

“Even as the prince returned to his true form, the worst of the curse revealed itself,” Nicos said, his voice flat and hollow, allowing the pathos of the tale carry itself. “The Daughter began to change, to transform her beauty into something bestial, inhuman and loathsome to behold. The spell, originally cast upon the Prince out of love torn asunder, transferred to her, marking her forever as a traitor to the heart and destroyer of faith. Her fate settled upon her and she became the Beast unredeemed.”

The story concluded and Nicos gazed out into the night in silence, the crackling of flames and shallow hiss of breath filling the sudden void left by the conclusion of the tale.

[Cadrius]

Darkness sets in early here. The sun disappears behind the mountains to the west long before it passes below the horizon. It leaves the land covered in an eerie prolonged twilight where the sky bruises from pink to purple and at last black. The stars that shine above are slowly covered by an advancing armada of clouds. Fires are stoked high and men huddle close around the pits. It will be a cold night.

The bard spins his tale, one of a commoner and a landed gentry falling in love only to have their joy shattered by tradition. Nicos tells it all with a practiced, almost lazy, ease forcing Cadrius to wonder why the man simply did not take up residence at an inn or to be taken on with some lord as a personal entertainer. But the answer is the same as why any of them travel together, spurring home and heart, comfort and love.

Blarth busies himself carving something out of wood. Cadrius asks no questions of him, figuring the process to be the product of either idle hands or some orcish tradition that a man such as he could not understand. There has always been a touch of something mystical about Blarth, something orphic, and Cadrius has not been able to determine what it is but trusts it to be something that runs in the mingling bloodlines. The combination of the two is greater than either part.

Nearby, Shade idly scrapes a whetstone against the edges of a sword, its edge already honed to perfection. Their eyes meet for a moment before she looks away, putting the edge of the stone back at the blade, seeking redemption in its reflection.

As the night draws in thick, watches are set, and men bed down around the fire. Cadrius and Nicos draw the first watch alongside another pair of guardsmen. They toss a few logs onto the fire, hearing the wet wood hiss and spit as it is consumed by flame. From there they split into pairs, each making slow circuits around the perimeter of the camp. Nicos and Cadrius walk their part, carrying a torch in one hand, its weak light struggling against the encroaching dark. Their voices are low and their shoulders are hunched by the cold as they make their slow circuit.

The hours pass slowly, breath fogging in the air. The pacing keeps their blood flowing at least. At last they wake Shade, Blarth, and the next pair of men for their turn at watch.

“Anything?”

Cadrius shakes his head. “All quiet.”

Shade nods and cinches her sword belt while Blarth grabs a spare log with a massive calloused hand and drops it into the fire. He stays by the flames as he removes his armor, letting the heat warm his skin again and relishing its comfort. As he finishes he carries the pieces of steel back to the wagon nearby where he and Sarra sleep. The day before he had fashioned a small makeshift bed for her by removing several panels of the bench laying a bedroll and worn woolen blanket inside. It isn’t much, but it is better than sleeping on the cold ground. As quietly as he can manage he props his sword and shield in the corner of the wagon before unrolling his own bedroll on the floor of the wagon and crawls inside, grateful for the sleep that quickly overtakes him.



A wind comes up from the east, sweeping through Shade’s hair as she walks side-by-side with Blarth around the camp. The half-orc’s eyes flit over the trees nearby as she keeps her torch held aloft as a curse to the dark. It is getting colder, but she has never let a chill bother her before and has no plans to start. Her thoughts turn to Isac, as they are wont to do these nights, and the sacrifice he had made, made specifically for her. The smallest of things remind her—a phrase said, a gesture made—and she is back there at the ceremony once more, watching the priest give his life so that she could regain her own. Her mind turns and turns, thinking of the good fortune to have a second chance.

A heartbeat before Blarth’s hand closes on her arm, the small hairs on the back of her neck rise. The half-orc’s grip is a silent warning of danger. He makes the faintest tip of his head, almost imperceptible in its slightness, toward the trees. They keep walking, Shade looking out the corner of her eyes. It is there that she can see it, the shadowy outlines of men moving slowly toward the camp. From a quick count she spies a score, perhaps higher, out in the dark, and that says nothing of the other side of the camp where the other two guards patrol. They do not shamble, nor do they run, they simply walk with quiet intent. They are not far now and though Shade cannot see the men clearly, she needs but to only look at Blarth and see him mouth two words.

Dead men.

[Black Plauge]

Faced with a major stressor, your average human has several physiological reactions: adrenaline floods out of the adrenal glands, dilating blood vessels and bronchial passages; the respiration rate increases, purging carbon dioxide and saturating the blood with extra oxygen; the heart rate elevates, delivering that extra oxygen to the muscles in preparation for exertion; and the nervous system primes itself to direct that exertion causing muscles to twitch and the human to shake, a physical symptom often associated with fear. In your average orc, the reactions are much the same, though the ultimate reaction, the shaking is usually associated with anticipation rather than fear. For an individual with Blarth's unusual metabolism, however, these reactions are muted. While not suppressed entirely, much of the stress response is subverted into causing a different and widely varied set of physical changes. For the untrained, these changes are of dubious benefit, especially in a half-orc like Blarth. While all are geared towards survival, those changes which are spurred by human heritage see escape as the preferred method of survival, while those spurred by orcish heritage lean more towards victory.

Blarth is far from untrained, however, and is able to direct those changes as he wills. Having been raised amongst orcs, he instinctively directs those changes towards fighting.

None of that, however, races through the half-orc's mind. All he sees is the scratches that the not-dead he faced in Gilgal put into the door of the stable and the slaughtered remains of the horses and his skin thickens in response.

Releasing Shade's arm, Blarth reaches for the club slung at his waist and looks ahead, trying to predict the point where their patrol route will first intersect with the forms and figure out if they can raise the alarm without drawing attention to themselves.

[Gralhruk]

Shade's insides flutter with fear as she beholds those silent figures of menace, creeping forward on dead limbs with deadly intent. It was a moment long dreaded, face to face with her fear for the first time since Skathros had assaulted them during Isac's ritual. The horror of it all was that she had grasped the inevitability of this confrontation even then, yet for all her preparation she was unprepared. There was no running now, no hiding, no room for doubt or fear. There was only the fight, where they would live or die; the past ended here and it was here the future would be decided.

Fear drowns as the human well of determination rises abruptly within, flooding her body with the will to live, the desire to put an end to that which would end them. In a sudden explosive movement, she rips the twin blades from their sheaths and brandishes them high; they glitter in the moonlight, cold and deadly.

"'Ware the camp! Wake! Wake, lest evil take us!"

She charges back toward the camp, the time for stealth long gone, shouting the while. As she gets there, the others are streaming confusedly from the wagons, in various states of readiness. Tucking one blade under her arm, she hurls several logs onto the fire; it wanes for a few moments before blazing up brighter than before.

"To the fire; anyone who can wield a weapon on the outside!"

[Black Plauge]

Blarth can't help but smile at the thought of a straight up fight. Shade, especially, usually favored more subtle tactics, but Blarth had been raised amongst orcs.

Letting Shade rouse the camp, Blarth works on delaying at least some of the not-dead, giving those in the camp time to rouse and ready themselves. He charges the closest one, roaring as he does so, smiling as his club makes contact with a resounding thud and some of the other not-dead divert in his direction.

[itches]

Nicos didn’t recognise the voice at first. It sounded like Shade, only loud. Afraid. She was sometimes angry and quiet, sad and quiet, or simply quiet. Loud was new and shocked him enough to bring him from his truncated sleep.

As the camp erupted into chaos, Nicos quickly spotted Lynn rushing across still wearing the purple nightcap she had scrounged from somewhere. Waving her down, the bard snatched the garment from her head, bringing it to his lips and singing a short snatch of verse at it, not taking the time to hide his actions. The headpiece began to glow, and he slammed it back onto the poor girl’s head.

“Come on,” he shouted, slinging his sword belt around his neck. There wasn't time to put on boots or armour, suddenly the bard began to regret not sleeping in his mail, discomfort be damned. “Keep it on and stay to my left.”

[Kelemyn]

Juni sits bolt upright in near total darkness, woken from a deep sleep by...

What was it?

I thought I heard shouting.

Nothing but silence now. Dead silence.

It must have been a dream again.

The calm reason of her psi-crystal slows the hammering of her heart. But she does not relax yet.

A dream? Or a presentiment of something?

She continues to listen to nothing, straining her ears for the slightest rustle in the grass or sigh of wind. It had sounded like a woman's voice shouting an alarm. It had sounded like Shade.

Juni had been having so many strange and confusing dreams lately, most of which she could not remember clearly when she woke. They echoed in her head afterwords though, disturbing images or feelings of fear and dread. She rarely managed to get a decent night's sleep any more.

But this had sounded real, and she could remember it vividly, unlike the dreams. Not the words, no. But that sense of alarm and, and.. urgency.

'Ware!

'Wake!'

Something like that. Something about the fire? 'To the fire'?

Well, I'm wide awake anyway. I might as well have a look outside.

Juni braces herself and then flings away the warmth of her blankets and bedroll. Even inside the wagon the air was icy cold most nights and stung her unprotected skin. She typically wore several layers of undergarments beneath her night clothes, plus a couple pair of woolen stockings for her feet, plus a cap for her head, plus a scarf for her face. She could hardly remember the last time she had felt really warm when she slept.

But she barely notices the frigid air now as a feeling of dread begins to creep over her.

'Ware!' echoes in her mind.

Urgently, she feels around in the dark for her boots and her sword.

'Wake, lest evil take us!'

Where is her bow? And her cloak?

'To the fire!'

She has gathered her things and is just sticking her head out the back of the wagon when the real shouting begins.

[Cadrius]

Once, when Cadrius was young, he went to the great river that wended its way by Somerest. Wading into an eddy where the current was slow but the water still deep, deep enough to be over his head, he stood there for a time and watched the river flow. The summer sun was high, blazing with warmth, and illuminated the usually dark riverbed. Small fish swam to and fro in the slow water. As the sand settled around his feet they flocked to his toes and began picking at it, his presence having stirred up something that they liked to eat. It tickled.

He let the fish have their feast for a time before drawing a deep breath and sinking beneath the surface. Grabbing hold of a nearby rock the size of a melon, he sank to the bottom and looked upward through the sun-drenched water and into the sky above. He wondered if this was what fish saw when they looked to the heavens, if they looked at all. It was quieter than he had expected and sitting there at the bottom of a river he felt a great sweeping peace settle over his shoulders. For a few moments, or an eternity, time lost its meaning and he existed not as a man but as a soul unchained from flesh, bathing in the light beneath a thin membrane of water.

One his father’s men appeared, blocking out the sun. His voice was muddled, sounding as if it was coming from another age than a few feet away.

“Cadrius!” He had yelled. “Wake up!”

No, that wasn’t right. That wasn’t what he had said.

“Wake up!”

Sarra’s hand is like a whip, lashing his face and leaving it stinging. He bolts upright reaching for the great blade propped in the corner while looking at his ward. Her eyes are lit by fear.

“To the fire! Anyone who can wield a weapon on the outside!”

Shade. There is trouble.

“Come!” he says. Fetching his shield and stepping outside the wagon. Other men are staggering out of their tiny pockets of warmth, rubbing sleep from their eyes and fumbling with weapons. Cadrius draws his sword, throwing its scabbard aside. The scrape of steel against draws the men’s attention.

“Are you daft?” He bellows. “To the fire!”

In the cold night air, terror crystalizes and takes shape. Dead men move with deadly purpose. Reaching the outer ring of the camp they continue their silent advance. Upon coming across a wagon, one climbs up and enters it while the others march on. And there are many.

Sarra stands next to him, frozen in place, watching dead men come for her as they had come for her family months ago before she had been snatched up out of her home and everything she knew and loved.

“Go,” Cadrius whispers, his voice suddenly feeling weak. Sarra keeps staring.

“I said go!” He shoves her with his shield arm, sending her stumbling but breaking the spell. She runs toward the fire, a pale skinned ghost fleeing for salvation.

Cadrius turns back, seeing a pair of men cornered by the advance of the men. Their backs are against shoved against a wagon and they clutch their swords with a shaking dread. Ringed by a dozen, perhaps more, they slash at the air trying to stave off death for a precious few more seconds. Each breath becomes precious; each new heartbeat is a miracle. Cadrius only knows them only in passing, whether they frantically cling to life because of family, because of love, or because they simply yearn to see the sunrise again, he does not know. All the fallen paladin knows is that they seek to live when Cadrius had given up many times before and they deserve that chance.

He takes the first dead man on the blade, running him clean through the back and out through his belly before planting a foot on the squirming corpse and wrenching his sword free. The next loses an arm at the elbow and then a leg at the knee. His havoc draws some of the dead men’s attention and they turn to face him like living men might turn to look at an approaching stranger. A few begin moving toward him and he scurries backward, shield up, and blade tracing a fatal arc in the air as it takes the head of a third.

But there are many, too many, and there are more coming. They have closed in on the guards who had taken one or two before the dead came too close for swords and have put their hands on them. The men thrash and curse, their lives blazing bright for a few more seconds. But the black that flows out of the eyes, nose, and mouth of the dead men is a harbinger of the darkness to come.

He smashes the ridge of his shield into a dead man’s face, sending him staggering backward. His sword cuts through the air and opens its neck. This is his chance. This is his redemption. To die here, saving these two men, is a good death, a noble death, and it cannot wash his soul clean of the stains of his sins, but it can be a shining end to a troubled life.

“Cadrius!”

Sarra’s voice is shrill. She’s scared and he has an obligation, a promise, to see this through and her to safety. He cannot die here, not yet.

And so he runs to the fire, turning his back on the men as their flames gutter and then are blown out.

[Black Plauge]

*thock* *thwack*

At first the sound of each impact of his club brings Blarth a feeling of satisfaction. These not-dead have little sense of self preservation and it is easy to hit one after another. That sense of satisfaction is short lived, however, as Blarth begins to realize that broken bones and bruises which would normally have a man writhing on the ground in pain, have little effect on the not-dead. Indeed, they seem not to feel the pain at all. Sure, when he caves in a skull they drop to the ground, but more often Blarth finds that he has to break both legs and sometimes even an arm before the creatures are incapacitated enough for him to ignore them.

And they just keep coming. Looking around, Blarth realizes that he definitely has their attention now and there are a lot more than he had realized. He has no choice really, he has to head towards the fire and whatever reinforcements he can find there.

[Gralhruk]

It was hard to see anything outside the ring of light generated by the now blazing fire, yet Shade can hear the sound of fighting from sporadic points around the camp. Her gut tells her to run, while her heart tells her to join one of those fights and try to save the people from their fate. But here her head must win out - small groups would fail, overwhelmed by the sheer numbers she had seen in the dappled moonlight. They must stand together or perish; the knowledge did nothing to ease the shuddering anger that coursed through her as she heard choking cries of terror as people fell beneath the heartless assault of the undead.

It seemed long but it was a time measured in seconds before people were streaming toward her in various states of readiness. Some held swords, others makeshift weapons, and some with nothing. Her eyes went flat and hard. There was no time for anything but the fight. She raises her voice for them to hear, a black silhouette limned against the red flames of the bonfire.

"If you have no weapon, make torches and get them lit. Fire is our ally. Face outward and call out when you see them. Whatever happens, don't let them in the circle."

[itches]

The disorientating swirl of people and flickering lights cast a chaotic puzzle of shadows as Lynn and Nicos struggled to make they way across the camp. Confusion and panic vied for supremacy as people leapt half-dressed from tents while others dived into the false safety of canvas covered protection. A tangled knot of people formed between them and their destination, Shade’s form heroically silhouetted against the fire like a character fresh from legend.

The pair skirted around the snarl and were near to being free when one of the figures stepped out into their path. The figure, a woman, contorted her head until its anaemic eyes were fixed upon them. She moved on sure seeming feet, step after calm step with the steady patience of inevitable fate. Some substance, rendered dark and colourless in the uncertain light, coated the twisted contours of her face, through which a swollen bloated worm of a tongue swayed. An arm, in an echo of Nicos' own, hung useless from her, ruined beyond any human endurance.

It was only in that moment, confronted by the embodiment of nightmares, that the half awake bard realised who and what foe was besieging the camp. Undead. Horror. Zombie.

The creature strode closer and reached out, a gesture almost gentle enough to bely the inherent violence behind the stained hand grasping for them. Reacting without time for thought, plan or preparation, Nicos stretched forth, took the proffered hand in his own, and released the power channelling through him.

Magical healing, when used on others, was painful. It perverted reality with an arcane energy that exacted an equal price in retribution. Now he used it, not to heal a stab wound or set a broken bone, but to rebuff a creature whose very existence was one of unnatural disease and death, with none of the customary rituals to rout and limit the force. It tore through his body and into the fiend like a bolt of lightening.

Nicos tilted back his head and screamed an animal sound of unvarnished suffering into the heavens. His blood stopped coursing through his veins and began to boil. Lava licked its way through his flesh, tortuously consuming sinews one at a time. His bones exploded and flames danced in his eyes. His limbs shrivelled and crumbled into dust - until at last he extracted his grip from the creature and fell away, exhausted, drenched in sweat, but whole. A pair of arms arrested his decent and helped him retreat until his legs began to work again.

Looking back, he saw the defeated body of his foe slumped in the dirt. A woman with all trace of the necrotic corruption exacted from her and an expression of what he thought was peace.

[Kelemyn]

What is it? Bandits? Wolves? Juni can see dark shapes moving at the edge of camp. There is something in the air, some scent that she can't quite place. Reaching out with tentative fingers of telepathy, she searches for the minds of the attackers. How many? How far?

She feels nothing. There is nothing there.

She ought to be comforted by that fact, but she is not. After all, Shade wouldn't have sounded an alarm for no reason. And if Juni can't sense any hostile minds out there it can only mean...

A large figure lumbers into view. One of the caravan guards, Juni thinks, though it is too dark to tell which one it is for sure. Probably Bastis; he is a big man and none too graceful on his feet. Oddly, he seems lost and a bit disoriented, as if he is looking for something but doesn't know exactly what it is. Why isn't he heading for the watch fire like everyone else in camp?

"This way!" she calls to him, pointing.

The man - who is not Bastis or even one of the other guards - turns toward her. And Juni knows with sudden certainty that he has found what he was looking for.

Juni, your sword! her psi-crystal shouts in her head.

Despite his size, the man moves more quickly than she would have thought possible, and she barely has time to draw her sword before he is upon her. He looks like an ordinary man, like any smith or farmer or caravan guard. He holds his arms out and reaches for her, as if longing for an embrace. Juni backs away. She can see now that there is no spark of life left in his dark, dead eyes. A fetid smell of rot and decay hangs about him, reminding her of Skathros, though the stench is not as strong or as sickening. Not yet.

And there is fresh blood on his hands. And on his mouth.

"Ungh!" Juni yells as she swings her sword around and hacks into the zombie's side with it. Her stroke has little effect except to cause the thing to stumble slightly. She steps back and swings again, but it's like chopping at a slab of meat. The zombie ignores her sword and makes a grab for her shoulder, catching a handful of her cloak before she can sidestep out of the way.

If it gets its hands on me, I'm done for!

She manages to pull her cloak free and take another step back. The zombie has two gaping wounds in its side, but it comes at her as if the wounds meant nothing at all. Desperate, Juni grips her sword in both hands and raises it high. She brings the blade down in a whistling arc, slicing into the monster's neck with all her strength, and finally the thing falls to the ground.

She doesn't stop to make sure that it is finished - Is it dead, really dead? It doesn't matter, just RUN! - but flees blindly toward the fire. There are other dark figures moving through the camp now. They look like ordinary men.

But they are not.

[Cadrius]

Shade barks her orders with equal parts bite and sense as surely as any captain shout at his men. The guards respond in a panic drenched with fear but they follow her orders, used to obeying the command even if they are not used to it coming from a woman. Some gather what torches they can, and when those run out they snatch up what few solid branches remain by the side of the fire pit. Steel in hand, the blazing fire shrouds her in shadows that Cadrius no longer thinks suit her, just as her moniker does not suit her.

“Stay by the fire,” he says, grabbing Sarra by the arm. “Everything will be fine.”

But there no time to think about the lie and he avoids looking the girl in the eyes so that he does not see the truth mirrored back to him. He only hopes that if it comes to it, he will have the strength to do what needs to be done. He isn’t certain if a good man would follow through or stay his hand.

Two men shift nervously next to him, swords clutched in their hands. They aren’t green, but neither are they old campaigners. Like as not they have signed on with merchants, perhaps killing a bandit or two, but it is much different when the dead stalk you. They do not bleed like men. They do not act like men. They do not kill like men.

“Form a line by me and stay by the fire,” he says. “When they come, you must strike for the head or neck. Taking an arm or leg is good, but it will only slow, not stop.”

He feels fear setting in about him but detached, distant, like the feel of a winter’s chill through a pane of glass. It is not the fear of the dead, of the unnatural, of the corrupt, that these men should fear, and it is not that dread that stirs in Cadrius’ own heart. It is not the specter of a dark presence that might lurk in the shadows, guiding them. It is not even cold, mindless way that they move. It is the simple fact that these dead men will curse, contaminate, and infect with the abomination that blights their own flesh. A man will be robbed of his mind and his soul and left as nothing more than a husk that craves to make more. It is a perversion of what life is, stealing the joy of creation and tainting it, violating it, until it is mockery of the world of men. That is what each and every one of them should fear. It is not the monster before them. It is that they, too, will become one.

A scream rends the air and Cadrius’ whips his head around to see Nicos lit up by a pure incandescence and rolls in a series of fast crashing alabaster waves into the dead woman before him. She, too, is set alight and Cadrius can see the black burning from her eyes and mouth, turning into ash and disappearing into the night air. She collapses to the ground, as does Nicos and Cadrius very nearly leaves his spot but Lynn is there to pull upon her mentor’s arms, dragging him to safety.

A shadow flits through the dark and Cadrius’ hand clenches tighter on the hilt of his blade, raising his arm. The men with him do the same. Arms rise, ready to set to their grisly work. Muscles tense and the swords poise to fall downward, wreaking bloody havoc on the corpse coming their way.

But it is Juni that darts out instead. Cadrius checks his swing at the last moment, but one of the guards swings wildly, terror overtaking him. Juni ducks her head and the sword slashes overhead, slicing through a single stray hair that lingers just a moment too longer than the others. It falls to the ground as Cadrius curses the guardsman.

“Arjuna!” Shade yells. “Get over here!”

Cadrius and the men turn back to the dark, eyes straining against the night. They can hear them out there, the soft footfalls of boots on stone and hard packed dirt. They rifle through the wagons, searching for something but Cadrius knows not what.

They come like ships sailing in on the nighttide, their shapes slowly emerging out of the dark. They walk as men, as women, as children, walk but they care not for the doom that awaits them by the fire, naked steel in hand.

Then they are upon them, silent in their attack. Some bear the marks of putrefaction, skin drawn taut across their face like parchment, others look as fresh as the day they were born, their only tell being the black slowly oozing out from their mouths and eyes. The first set are cut down in short order, swords set to their purpose. Cadrius shoves one dead man back with his shield arm while the guardsman next to him hacks off an arm at the elbow while the other guardsman takes a leg off at the knee. Again and again, the line holds, shoving back those that get too close and dismembering the dead before they can violate more innocent souls. Soon, they are breathing hard and feel nothing of the cold anymore, sweat dampening their arms, legs, and backs.

But there are so many more.

Too many.

[Black Plauge]

Two more steps closer to the fire. Blarth shivered as a cold breeze washed over his back, instantly chilling the long path of sweat that soaked through his shirt. A stark reminder of the onset of winter, and one which was entirely out of place with the intensity of the fight that he was currently engaged in.

Two more steps closer to the fire. Blarth was getting desperate now. It wasn't that the not-dead were especially dangerous individually. Even with their seeming indifference to normally crippling blows, Blarth was taking each one out of the fight with just a few blows. The problem was that for each not-dead that he dispatched, it seemed like two others came forward to take its place.

Two more steps closer to the fire. A flash of light in front of him revealed one of the not-dead carried a sword as opposed to the farm implements, or even just bare hands, that most had. The discrepancy immediately forces Blarth to focus his attention. Hoes and shovels and clawing hands were relatively harmless when compared with an actual weapon, despite the collection of scratches and bruises that Blarth was slowly accumulating.

Two more steps closer to the fire. Blarth ducked the not-dead's first sword slice, a clumsy blow designed to decapitate some one frozen in fright. At least, that is what it first appeared to be. Blarth, however, found a knee rushing up to meet his face has he attempted to use his duck to get inside the not-dead's blade. Rolling quickly left, Blarth pops up outside the blade's reach again. Relentless and immune to distraction these not-dead might be, but they were not stupid. It would not pay to forget that.

Two steps closer to the fire. Blarth dispatched another of the unarmed not-dead that had gotten between himself and the one with the sword. Using the dead bulk to catch the next sword blow, Blarth landed a solid blow, hearing the sound of breaking bones in the sword wielder's left leg. Still, it came on. It might limp now, but pain that would have debilitated a normal person didn't phase these not-dead.

Two more steps closer to the fire, but even the ring of wagons still felt so far away.

[Gralhruk]

She is on the edge, the gray area, the shadow between the light and the dark. Behind her the fire blazes with red light and withering heat, a furnace blast at her back. In front all is dark - a frozen, blackened wasteland filled with creatures cold and dead. It was here that it would be decided, here in the netherworld that had been her home for so long. Neither good nor evil had she wholly been before, yet with each passing day she had felt herself slipping into the dark. Little by little, all of the important things in her life had eroded away, until she'd been left alone and empty, with nothing left except the will to live a little longer.

Yet all of that had changed, when one man had given everything he had and everything that was to come in order to save her from a fate that she may well have deserved. That act had woken within her some ember of passion that had lay hidden for so long. It burned now within her, brighter than the bonfire at her back, filling her with the knowledge that whatever might come, she needn't concern herself with doubt. She had purpose. She had strength. She had worth.

Out of the night they came and her blades sprang forth to meet them, dusky gray like the whole of her world, cutting through the night as easily as they sliced through rotting flesh. Chaos was raised before her, as the dead fell like wheat beneath the scythe. Her world became the dance of combat, her blades whirling and spinning, trailing the ichor of the damned. A dagger slashed her armor, teeth latched onto her calf, claws raked at her face and still there was no pause.

She forgot the guards, the fire, the camp. Her muscles ached and burned, her vision blurred, and still they came on. It didn't matter; her heart sang in her chest for here and now was all there was, and she would give all she had to make even the smallest difference.

Isac, she hoped, would be proud.

[itches]

Nicos swung his sword at one of the creatures as it loomed out of the darkness in front of him, lodging his blade deep in the creature's shoulder.

His skin still crawled with pain from the remnants of the magic he had summoned, and while there was a limit to how much of the energy he could channel over a period of time, he had yet to reach it. The magic was a healing power primarily and he had held it back to deal with any injury after they survived the battle.

The monster ignored the blow and tried to claw its way to the bard, until Lynn lunged from his side to bury a dagger deep within its check, bringing the creature down. To his right, one of the drivers screamed as a pair of zombies broke past his inexpert swinging, grabbing the man with teeth and claws and begin to drag him off the line and into the darkness.

The man's name was Alberto, terrible at cards but never minded losing. Three nights back he shared a watch with Nicos, the two of them passing the time by sharing tales. Nicos vaguely remembered him talking about a girl, but the context escaped him. The bard shifted his weight half a step forward, swung his sword up and around, and brought it down into the back of the man's neck, stilling his struggling screams as the shadows swallowed him.

He was holding back his magic for the injured he silently told himself. For after the battle. It wasn't because he was afraid, he repeated, desperate to believe.

[Kelemyn]

Juni looks around at the small group of defenders, trying to count heads. Who is here? Who made it to the fire and who did not?

The flames of the watch fire flicker and leap, casting strange shadows on the scene. Cadrius and Shade are easy to spot, but is that Nicos over there? A glimpse of purple nightcap reassures Juni that Lynn is there too, so it must be the bard. Little Sarra huddles by the fire. The only one missing is Blarth. Is it too much to hope that all of her friends have made their way to the fire safely?

Juni steps up onto a nearby wagon to look outside the circle of defenders at the jumble of dark shapes moving there. Most of the zombies seem to have homed in on the watch fire by now and are steadily advancing toward it. But wait... There is a small knot of figures off to the right, a cluster of zombies that seem to have something nearly surrounded.

Almost before she can think what she is doing, Juni has drawn her bow and fitted an arrow to the string. Shade had taught her the use of the bow, and they had even managed to get some practice shooting at straw targets lately. But Juni has never taken a shot at a living creature before. She hesitates.

These are not living creatures either, her psi-crystal reminds her. Their backs will be as easy for you to hit as straw targets.

Juni nods and takes a deep breath.

Just don't hit Blarth!

Juni frowns. Then she fires.

[Black Plauge]

*thump* *thump* *thump*

Another of the not-dead is incapacitated, but there are plenty more to take its place. Looking around, Blarth realizes that he's fighting a losing battle at this point. He is no longer inside a closing ring of not-dead. The front of the ring has closed on the ring of wagons, passing him by and cutting him off. He's alone, forcing his way through a growing see of not-dead as the caravan's casualties rise to reinforce the ranks of their attackers.

*thump*

Blarth's rear connects with the dirt as he trips over something. Reacting more on instinct than tactics, Blarth pours mental energy into reinforcing his defenses, creating invisible barriers between himself and his attackers as he struggles to stand.

*thock*

Feathers sprout from face of a not-dead looming over Blarth, knocking it back and making it's movements uncoordinated and erratic. Taking advantage of the momentary breathing room, Blarth scrambles to his feet and takes stock of his surroundings.

*thock* *thock*

Two more not-dead sprout arrows and are momentarily stalled by the impact and damage that they cause. Glancing towards the ring of wagons, Blarth spots Juni and another figure with bows in hand atop one of the wagons.

Please don't hit me!

Forcing his attention back to the more immediate danger, Blarth spots what he had tripped over earlier: the chopping block that had been set up to cut firewood. On the ground beside it, Blarth spots his club, lying beside the large handled splitting axe. Raising his eyebrows as realization dawns, Blarth shoves a not dead out of the way and reaches for the wooden handle.

*chop* *chop* *chop*

Axe firmly in hand, Blarth begins mowing through not-dead, separating limbs from bodies rather than just breaking them, opening a path and quickly making progress into the ring of wagons.

[itches]

The nightmare battle roared around Lynn, stark shadows thrown by the light flowing from her enchanted-purple-nightcap hiding enough to frighten, yet revealing enough to terrify. It would have almost been easier in the dark, battling shadows against the inky nightscape instead of seeing the true horror of their foes.

She held her place on the line, holding back wave after wave of death with blood, sweat and fear. No, not waves, rather a single wave – great terrible and without end – that threw itself at them. Again and again she stepped forward to sink her knife into pallid flesh, quickly learning to strike at face and skull instead of chest, belly and thighs.

Her knife, a suitable and effective companion in against the dangers of taverns, suddenly seemed dwarfed by the task in front of them. Belatedly she cursed herself for not pursuing training with the rapier. The weapon possessed enough noble prestige that surely her father would not have objected to lessons, and right now it would have allowed some precious few feet of steel between herself and the things attacking them.

To her right Nicos danced forward to meet the oncoming charge of a zombie lurking head and shoulders above the rest of its kin, and mindful of his advice to stay by his side, she dutifully followed. Then, so sudden that it took her a moment to comprehend, the situation changed. Her bardic companion was pushed back by the undead creature's rush, the battle shifted, and she found herself on the wrong side of the line, surrounded by the dead.

A seed of panic blossomed in her chest as she spun, expecting an attack at any moment, from any quarter. The fates did not leave her to wait long before one of the creatures loomed into the sphere of light around her. Man or woman, old or young, it was impossible to tell under the blood and grime coating the thing. Black alien eyes regarded her and Lynn dropped into a crouch, her hand clutching her knife with palms drenched in petrified sweat and her throat seized shut, leaving her bereft of breath.

The moment slowed and stretched out with torturous anticipation, her heartbeat rising, growing loud in her ears and sounded out the beat of some strange rhythm that drive the blood surging through her body in a musical symphony just beyond perception.

Then, with an almost audible snap the moment passed, the creature's black eyes shifted away, and it turned to charge the line of defenders, leaving Lynn alone, alive, and very much uncertain.

[Cadrius]

The fight does not rage around them, it flows. The living cry and grunt and sweat and bleed and tire but the dead simply march on existing in a double edged state of either single minded pursuit or to fall still to the earth, welling forth the stygian ink that flows through their veins. Cadrius has little enough time to keep track of his companions save for the occasional glance to make certain that they were not being flanked. Shade is thunderstorm made flesh, lashing out with twin blades like forked lightning as she cuts down body after body with a zeal that would make the proudest crusader dip his head in respect. Behind her, Juni feathers the marching horde with arrow after arrow. Her aim is true enough from the bodies that stiffen and fall over, but Cadrius wonders how much she has left in her quiver. Nicos and Lynn work in a tandem with a familiarity as natural as if they were performing on stage together. Blarth even wins his way back to the circle, using his mighty thews to crush, maim, and shove back to his companions. Cadrius’ relief is short-lived as he and his men are pushed a pace closer to the fire.

Fighting the swarm of bodies is akin to waging war against the ocean. No amount of sword swinging can deny the waves their advance upon the beach. So too is the battle against the inexorable tide of corpses bearing down upon them. He knows not where they came from though he suspects that it is from some distance. It matters little though on this field of black bloodshed. Try as they all might, their limbs are growing heavy under the prolonged assault and there look to be no end to the silent host. Being overrun is not a possibility, it is their fate should they remain here. Cadrius and his line are shoved back another step, and then another. He risks a glance at Sarra and sees her sitting by the fire, knees drawn up to her chin, watching with wide eyes as the people she has grown to know over these last days fight like demons.

And none of it will matter. They will either die here or, more likely, be turned into the one of silentious dead. He hasn’t the time to wonder if the dead men and women before him feel anything, trapped, or if perhaps they are spared a fate hemmed in behind carnal bars. His shield is growing heavy; his arms burn with each sword stroke. It will not be long now before the dead overwhelm him and the men next to him and the entire camp.

“No,” he says, his breath coming harder.

They are a volatile mash of chaos and order fighting against the ever encroaching night.
He slams the shield, spattered with gore, against another quiet monster before the guard next to him takes it at the neck, separating the head from its body and sending it away. But the man’s swing was slower than it had been a minute earlier. Cadrius can see the steam roiling out of his mouth.

To flee is a death sentence, but to stay here is suicide.

“Shade! Blarth! Cut a hole in the back!” His voice bellows, no salvation, but better than a curse against the dark. “You men, pull to the fire!”

[Black Plauge]

The back? Where did one find the back of a circle?

Casting about, Blarth spies the horse picket line. Many of the horses have long since fled in panic, but a few remain, rearing and screaming in fright, but largely ignored by the waves of not-dead intent on the men in the ring. Making a snap decision, Blarth quickly fells the not-dead in front of him and rushes through the center of the ring.

* * *

In a scene which is oddly out of place in the chaos, Blarth kneels quietly in front of Sarra and gently cradles her chin in his hand, forcing her gaze to meet his to the exclusion of the carnage around.

"Sarra, I need you to guide the other children behind me. We're going for the horses."

Seeing her nod in acknowledgement, Blarth stands and turns to the mothers and aunts who clutch the other children around them. Meeting their eyes to make sure they are ready, he nods and then bellows, driving towards the horse line in full fury.

[Gralhruk]

Twin blades cleave a parallel track through the rotting flesh and bone before her and in their wake body parts tumble to the already littered ground. She takes a deep breath of icy air as she slides half a step backward, blades spinning to cover her against the next attack. Time had slowed, giving her ample opportunity to plan each attack, each counter, with expert precision. There were no wasted movements, no elaborate flourishes; every single motion was integral to the dance of life and death that engaged her.

Even so, she could feel the vast inevitability piling upon her consciousness even as the corpses piled themselves around their human wall. A mortal body, no matter how resolute, could only be pushed so far. Her chest was working like a bellows now, her body drenched in sweat despite the cold, her limbs filling slowly with lead. She could keep those things shut out of her mind using the wall of her will, but like the dead around them sooner or later she'd be forced to let them in. And then it would be over.

Cadrius' shout cuts through her thoughts like a shaft of light through the dark. She knew he was right, they weren't going to be able to hold out much longer. Shade could stay and die and be at peace with that, with fighting until she got pulled under by the horrific tide, but that would doom others to the same fate. Others that they might save. She didn't know what he had in mind, but there wasn't any time for debate; the choice was there before her, to do as he bid on faith alone or doubt him and find her own way. Blarth is already moving to obey and she has a moment to make her choice. The old Shade might have been torn, might have hesitated, in selfish fear or stubborn pride, but not now. She wasn't the same anymore.

Shade times her retreat perfectly, spinning away so that she falls in step with Blarth as he rushes by, her blades held high and ready for a devastating attack as they slam into the line.

[Cadrius]

Blarth’s axe cleaves black ruin amongst the not-dead, tearing through flesh and splintering bone. Men loom in the darkness, arms outstretched, and then are scattered like autumn leaves before the storm of steel. Falling to the earth they twitch once and then lie still once more, their deathsblood oozing out, making the dirt slick with jet. His swing cuts a brutal swath through their lines, the splitting maul proving its worth equal at severing wood and flesh alike.

Shade is a step behind him, her namesake showing true as she comes and goes in the dark, twin blades flashing as they catch the firelight and she ends another dead man’s life. Blood dark like a scribe’s ink seeps out and down her blade but by then she is on to the next man and the next kill. She spins and plants a foot for the briefest moment as she plunges one sword upward, catching a farmer under the chin and driving it home. The black slowly dripping from her sword like Barrian molasses, she flits around the thewed half-orc as a silhouette of death.

Cadrius’ breath comes as heavy as late winter snow. The men next to him are flagging, swings coming slower and slower. Their steps have become clumsy as they are driven closer and closer to the flames. His old master-at-arm’s voice comes back to him suddenly. Footwork, footwork, Sir Talbot was always fond of saying. It starts and ends with your feet. Cadrius can hear the chaos swirling behind him and he risks a brief glance. Blarth and Shade have vanished from sight. The remaining guards hack at the advancing horde, too tired to shout or cry. The fire is still burning strong and he sees Sarra gathering the few children in the camp to her. Unlike the men of the camp, they have the strength to be afraid. She kneels by the fire, gathering them to her, keeping them from watching the horror.

“Look at the fire. Look at the way it dances,” she whispers, smoothing their hair. “But we have to go soon. Are you ready? You must be ready."

Cadrius’ mouth twists into a grimace as he shoves another dead man backward. Sarra and the other children deserve better than this, to be robbed of all their remaining days by this foul curse. The gods are cruel and this world is all too cold, but they warrant a chance at better days, at the gossamer strands of hope that there are still good things in these lands, things to be cherished and loved. They merit that much, if nothing else. He grits his teeth as a sword stroke cleaves shears through the upper part of a man’s skull, showering a wagon wheel with blood, brain, and bone. The fallen paladin makes a vow, another in a long line of vows, but one he will keep to his dying breath: no child dies tonight.

“Pull back to the fire.” His voice is hard still but now undercut by fragility born of fatigue. “We get the others out and then run. Until then, we hold the line.”

The three of them pull back further toward the fire, the ground slick beneath their boots. The bodies of the dead are piled high where Blarth and Shade were. Nicos, Lynn, and Juni have taken their place, using the corpses as a fortification against the thronging mass. Grim of face and and grim of purpose they bring down another pair of dead. Gods, Cadrius thinks, where are they coming from? Sarra looks up at him, the children still clutching to her. He wants to reach out and assure her that all will be well, that this is one nightmare that will end in waking up to bright golden sunshine and a chorus of birds heralding the morn.

Instead, he drops his shield onto the ground, pulls a dirk from his belt and rests it next to her. Cadrius reaches past and pulls a burning brand from the fire. He turns back to the two men that have stood beside him through this hellish night. Their eyes are haggard and their shoulders slumped. They have fought well and given much, but Cadrius needs more.

“Just a few more moments, lads. I will return,” he says. “Hold the line.”

Cadrius turns and disappears into the night.

[Black Plauge]

With a powerful swing, Blarth decapitates the last not-dead between himself and the remaining horses and then pivots into an open space to his left created by Shade cutting the legs out from under another.

Sparing a quick glance over his shoulder, a glance he nearly regrets as a pitchfork scrapes off his mentally hardened skin, Blarth yells to those following him, "Mount up and flee. Ride double or triple if you have to, just get out of here."

Turning his full attention back to the not-dead, Blarth chops through a few more, relying on his ears to track the evacuation behind him.

[Black Plauge]

To the front, the near ominous silence of black shapes, now silhouetted by the fire, shuffle forward, pressing in on those attempting to hold back what appears to be inevitable.

To the back, the frantic sound of panicked horses and the shouting of men and women trying to calm them enough to mount up and flee with their children.

In the middle a thinning rank of fighters who struggle to maintain a line and protect those more vulnerable than themselves. That line, however, has reached it's breaking point, and in a moment of sheer desperation, the highline is cut to free a horse whose bridle has become entangled. The end result, however, is the flight of the remaining horses and the complete demoralization of the remaining defenders.

It's not clear who was the first to call for a retreat, or even if it was something that was called for by someone with some authority, but in short order the line is broken and fleeing. Not an organized retreat, but the erratic fight and flight of a rout. The exact situation that would normally lead to an organized army picking off the survivors one by one.

The mob of not-dead, however, is not an organized army and while overwhelming in numbers, is slow and unsophisticated, allowing the survivors to escape into the woods and the early morning fog that was settling on the ground.