Chapter Twelve

Skirting the swampy ground filling the floor of the valley, Brayden, Sethyr and Vijhan had traveled eight days in a generally southerly direction, following the valley downward. The valley was fertile with game aplenty and Vijhan often returned from his scouting forays with a brace of robust hare or pheasant. Just before dusk came each evening Vijhan would lead them to a protected campsite he discovered during the day. Brayden was amazed at how far the Canid could range in a day and still return to them each afternoon. He thought how hopeless it would be to have an entire pack of the relentless hunters dogging his every step and thanked Chanti that Vijhan was their companion and not their pursuer.

Each morning Sethyr insisted on taking a private stroll. The mage refused to explain why, becoming angry and defensive when the Protector asked for an explanation. After the third morning walk, Sethyr returned, seemingly pleased with something that occurred during the stroll. Brayden decided it would be simpler to drop the subject as it appeared to be at an end. Vijhan followed his lead and did not bring up the subject again.

As they traveled farther, the valley widened, slowing dropping to meet a wide expanse of roiling, tall grass. From their vantage point Brayden could not count the animals moving across the plain in mixed herds. Many gathered at the edge of an expansive lake fed by several converging rivers flowing from valleys very much like the one they had just traversed. The veldt spread before Brayden.

The Protector called for a halt, causing Sethyr to grumble. Vijhan thoughtfully complied, but something about his demeanor gave the impression that he was on edge. Brayden slipped his pack off, setting it on the ground and squatting down to search for something inside. He retrieved a worn, roughly-drawn map. The map was inked on supple leather that had been bleached almost white. Despite its rough nature, the map contained very detailed, albeit messy, drawings.

Brayden sat down on a nearby stone and studied the map. Mumbling to himself, he ran his finger over several spots, mentally retracing their steps.

Vijhan peered over his shoulder, his eyes sparkling with curiosity.

“No wonder you Humans seek to build empires. They seem so small on a map,” the Canid remarked. “Hardly an effort to conquer something so tiny.”

Brayden ignored the friendly jibe but Sethyr rose to the challenge.

“Yes, Vijhan, I supposed it would be difficult to draw a map for Canids, what with having to mark all the territories with urine.”

Vijhan barked a laugh. “Aye, ye’d have to have a whole pack of us just to scent it right.”

Sethyr began to answer but closed her mouth. She had expected the comment to draw his ire, not a laugh. The mage knew that continuing this particular sparring match would only result in her own irritation. Vijhan’s growing good mood seemed to have grown during their trek and seemingly made him immune to her barbs. Sethyr decided to bide her time until the Canid was feeling more vulnerable. A sting in a soft spot always proved more effective.

Sethyr stifled a grin, but not quickly enough. Vijhan turned and caught sight of her smile, returning it warmly.

“Ah, Sethyr, tis fine that you find yourself in an agreeable mood this morning. You’re a good companion anyhow, but even better when the mood strikes you.”

A flash of guilt passed through Sethyr. She wondered how Vijhan could be so sunny and open. He hardly seemed the same Canid who they defeated in Hedgewise. She began to ponder this while returning his smile weakly. If Vijhan temper remained so clement Sethyr worried that she might lose her edge and actually begin to enjoy his company. She had made that mistake only a few times in the past, and with the exception of Brayden, each time it had ended badly.

Brayden broke Sethyr’s reverie, calling for her to come over.

“Look here, on the map,” he pointed at a spot on the map. It appeared to be a large area filled with crude squiggles labeled ‘Sea of Grass’. “Luckily we only need to skirt the edge to the south and pick up one of the trade roads to Kath.”

“That should be easy enough to run,” Vijhan commented. “And plenty of game to live off.” His eyes lit up with the thought of hunting.

“Easy enough for you, Vijhan,” Brayden corrected. “But not for us. We are not built for it, at least not like you are.”

“If it were really a sea, I’d be much more at home,” Sethyr added. “But these plains worry me.”

Brayden nodded, “they would worry me too, but we only have to travel for two or three days on them, and then it is a quick jaunt on a good road to the gates of Kath.”

Sethyr sniffed in disagreement. “Spending three nights on the plain does not sound wise to me. We have all heard of the monsters that stalk those herds down there.”

“I am surprised at you, Sethyr,” Brayden answered. “You, of all folk, I would have expected to take those stories with a grain of salt.”

“You forget, I have lived in the wild…as a youngling. Predators are not to be taken lightly.”

Vijhan nodded enthusiastically in agreement with Sethyr’s argument.

“I have seen the bears. When they get old and sick they sometimes wandered into our mountains. Even half dead they were a terror.”

Brayden remained unconvinced. “I have hunted bear. They are dangerous, but not overly so.”

Vijhan laughed. “Not these bear, friend. These are short faced bears, twice the size of one of a mountain bear, and with legs as long as a horse’s. They can even run one of my kind down and tear them to pieces. We call them dákde t'ooch: Black wind. They are one of the reasons my people never lived in the Sea of Grass.”

Brayden looked at Vijhan skeptically but remained silent.

“It that why you have been so nervous today?” Sethyr asked.

Vijhan’s head snapped toward the mage, scowling.

“You are not the only one with a keen nose. You smell musky when you are nervous; at least I hope it is nervousness.”

Vijhan nodded. “If you had seen dákde t'ooch before, you would be nervous too.”

Sethyr turned pointedly away from Vijhan and addressed Brayden.

“So, august leader, what is our plan, other than avoiding being eaten by bears.”

“I believe that there is not much we can do other than being watchful and traveling as quickly as possible. Once on the road, we should reach Kath easily.”

“I understand all that,” Sethyr said. “I was actually referring to our plan once we reach Kath. Shall we simply knock on the Argent Tigers’ door and demand an explanation?”

“I am not quite that naive or dense.”

“So…the plan?”

“Well…of that I am not sure of yet. Chanti will provide me with insight when the need arises. Of that, I am sure.” Brayden attempted to put as much conviction into his voice as possible.

Sethyr sighed. “I have little confidence in the vagaries of faith, but I suppose I have little choice.”

The three remained silent for a time, simply watching the herds below move to the water, drinking deeply and then moving on. Brayden counted at least a dozen herds of different species. Some were lumbering giants, taking their turn at the water, confident in the safety simply because of their size. Other herds consisted of fine boned antelope who jumped at any errant sound. The variety astounded Brayden and he made a silent prayer to Chanti, thanking her for all the wonders he had seen in her service. Many would disagree, but Brayden found the life of a Protector much more interesting than that of a noble’s son, one sure never to inherit.

Sethyr broke the silence, snapping Brayden from his musing.

“Is this where we will camp?”

Brayden looked to Vijhan, who nodded silently.

“Yes…why?”

“I thought I might kindle a fire…if only I had something to cook...”

Sethyr let the comment hang in the air.

Vijhan gave one of his canine yawns, not rising to the bait.

“I have some oats left. Would you like to make some gruel?” Brayden’s voice carried an edge of humor.

“No thank you,” Sethyr answered. “I was thinking of something a bit more fresh.”

“I spied a patch of wild onions over yonder,” Vijhan said, pointing away from the campsite.

“Umm, perhaps, but those would hardly make a meal.” Sethyr scratched her head theatrically. “We need something else, but what?” Sethyr shrugged. “Onions always go well with a haunch of roast meat, but where would we get that?”

Brayden suppressed a smile, keeping silent.

Vijhan perked up, as if an idea had suddenly come to him.

Sethyr cracked a slight smile.

“I know,” Vijhan said. “I have some dried meat in my pack. We could make some soup.”

Sethyr’s smile disappeared.

“You are being intentionally dense, you hound,” she said. “It’s obvious that I want you to go and bag one of those delicious looking antelopes.”

“Yes, I know that,” Vijhan said.

“So why are you being so difficult?”

“I don’t rightly know what you mean.”

“Damn it, you know exactly what I mean.”

“I suppose I do, but I’d be satisfied with jerky soup, and Brayden seems content with his gruel…which leaves you…”

“Which leaves me hungry,” Sethyr snapped in mock anger.

Vijhan was nearly on the edge of laughter. “So where does that leave us?”

“You can’t seriously be that childish, can you?”

“Perhaps.”

“What is it you want?”

“Just say it and I’m off to hunt.”

“Than go hunt.”

Vijhan cupped his ear, as if straining to hear a distant sound. “And?”

“And, just do it.”

Vijhan put on a look of deep disappointment. “Nope, not the right answer.” He sat down and began grooming his feet with a tool from his pocket.

“Fine…would you please go catch one of those thrice damned antelope?”

Vijhan looked up from his grooming, considering the request for a moment. The moment dragged on until Sethyr huffed in aggravation.

“Well, I suppose I could do that,” the Canid finally relented. He retrieved a bundle of javelins and an atlatl from his pile of possessions and turned to leave the camp.

“Good, and bring back a good one. It had better be good enough to expunge the bitter taste of courtesy out of my mouth.”

Both Brayden and Vijhan smiled at Sethyr’s comment.

Chapter Eleven

Leiftenant Cargill Munros watched the deserted street below intently. Torches mounted on the outside of the Company’s permanent stockade cast fluttering light into the dark night, illuminating the immediate area. Unit protocol called for constant tending of the torches so that the stockade would be constantly surrounded by a pool of light after the sun went down, making it nearly impossible to approach the building unseen.

A hundred years ago, when it was common for mercenary troops to wage private wars against each other to eliminate competition, that sort of precaution was necessary. However, nowadays that kind of vigilance was not really called for, but the Tigers still kept up the tradition. The Colonel always preached; Tradition creates standards, standards breed routines, and routines establish discipline. He often said that discipline is the only habit worth having because it ensured that you always did the proper thing, no matter the situation.

Five years ago, when he had first joined the Argent Tigers, Cargill had absorbed the Colonel’s lessons like holy writ, but no longer. Now he simply accepted them as rules that worked most of the time, but could seem as arbitrary as hell at others. Five years of garrison life wore a man’s illusions of glory very thin.

Cargill sighed, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Nothing much happened during midwatch, and he was in charge of all that nothing. At this point he did not have much choice in the matter. As a third son of a minor noble, fortune had smiled on young Cargill when his father had secured a commission in the Argent Tigers for him. Cargill had jumped at the chance, his young head filled with tales of exotic places and dashing adventure. The reality of his lot bore little in common with those tales.

The reality added up to months of endless drills, interrupted occasionally by municipal patrols during major holidays or disturbances. Cargill wondered how the Colonel could keep the 300 men of the company paid, fed, and housed with out some sort of income. If someone were sponsoring the Tigers, why would they pay precious gold to keep them in garrison perpetually? Only kingdoms had that much coin to waste. He decided to take a little initiative and look into the finances of the company. At the very least it might break up the boredom.

Cargill spanned to attention as he caught sight of a hooded figure emerging from the shadows near the front gate. He shouted a warning to the sentries just as the figure hammered the iron knocker against the gate.

“Stand fast, men. I’ll be right there. Cargill bolted down the steps, risking two at a time at the bottom of each flight. He hurried across the last bit of parapet and then swung down to the gate post on a rope ladder.

The visitor struck the gate again, sending a solid boom through the empty courtyard behind the gate.

“Hold on,” Cargill shouted as he paused to compose himself. Sliding open a thin metal port in the gate, he peered out. Despite the light cast from the nearby torches, Cargill had difficulty making out their late night visitor.

“What business do you have here?” he said firmly through the open port.

“I am here to see the Colonel, now open the gate, boy.” The voice was like a whispered shout, sending a wave of cold down his neck.

“I…I…I’m afraid that won’t be possible. Standing orders prevent anyone from entering the casern until morning.”

“Hang the rules, boy. I am your employer and you serve at my sufferance. Fetch the Colonel or I’ll have you hung from the gate.”

Cargill nodded emphatically. “Yes…sir. I’ll go get him myself.”

The Leiftenant slapped the port closed and drew a heavy breath. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead as the voice replayed in his head. Without a word to the stunned gate guards he rushed toward the main building in the compound, headed straight to the Colonel’s rooms. He snatched up a shining lantern from a table in the common room as he passed.

Cargill burst into the chamber that the Colonel used as an office and flew to the door behind the heavy desk. With strength born of surprise and haste, He hammered the door leading to the Colonel’s bed chamber. His pounding immediately elicited a barrage of mumbled curse from behind the door.

The Leiftenant could hear the sound of a heavy bolt being pulled back. Colonel Birdwell emerged from the dark room bleary eyed and rumpled.

“What in the blazes is going on?” His eyes furrowed when he recognized Cargill.

“Leiftenant, I trust this is an emergency…or your resignation.”

Cargill nodded, trying to catch his breath.

“Yes…sir, an emergency. There is someone at the gate who demands to see you.”

Anger sparked in the Colonel’s eyes. “You woke me in the middle of the night because some idiot wanted to see me? You buffoon, send him away with an appointment for tomorrow and a boot in the backside.”

Cargill was about to explain further, but was interrupted.

“That would be ill advised,” a strange voice whispered.

Both Cargill’s and the Colonel’s faces turned ashen as they recognized the voice.

They turned toward the open door of the office to see the hooded figure standing in the doorway.

“Your subordinate may leave us now. We have business to discuss.” The mysterious employer stepped into the room and then to the side, leaving just enough room for Cargill to squeeze by. The Leiftenant glanced over at the Colonel, who gave him a quick nod. Cargill was grateful for the dismissal and brushed past the hooded figure. As he did he caught the sent of spices. Most were familiar but one not all were. The mélange smelled pleasant, but left a cloying sweetness in his nostrils.

As he exited the room he overheard the intruder speak.

“Colonel, you will have guests soon, and I want you prepared.”

The sentence was punctuated by the door slamming behind him.

In an attempt to put thoughts of the Colonel’s visitor behind him, Cargill brooded on the gate guards’ failure to keep the visitor from entering the casern. It was a terrible lapse of discipline and he intended to make their lives unpleasant for a few days.

Arriving at the gate, Cargill gasped. The heavy gate hung on a shattered hinge, the iron bolt used to secure it twisted and useless. The pair of guards lay on the ground near the gate, dead as drowned rats. Their faces were sunken and gray as if dead for months.

The Leiftenant made a sign against evil and shouted for more guards. All of the troopers gawked at the bodies of their fallen brethren and an angry current began to run through the normal soldier grumbling. Employer or not, the Tigers wanted vengeance. The Colonel emerged from the company building: alone and shaken.

“Give us the bastard!” one of the soldiers shouted.

His cry was met with loud agreement. The Colonel merely stared at the gathered soldiers, as if searching for the right words.

“Stow that guano, the Colonel has something to say,” Cargill shouted. Showing unusual courage, the Leiftenant purposely put the Colonel in a tight spot. If the commander could not assuage the troopers’ anger, the situation had the potential to spin out of control.

Colonel Birdwell glared at Cargill for a moment and then took a moment to compose himself.

“The blood price has been paid for our loss. Our employer regrets his anger, and has new orders for us.”

The gathered troopers jeered.

“I have agreed to share the blood price with the unit equally. Each man will be given 20 pieces of silver. In addition, our employer plans a feast for use in two days time.”

Cheers of excitement washed away the current of anger.

Cargill snorted in disgust at the quick change in demeanor of the troopers. They sold their brotherhood cheap with such a gleeful display. He wondered if they would accept his death as readily if compensated well enough.

Several other members of the officer corps stumbled out of their billet, looking confused and more than a little concerned. Most were only in partial uniforms and they all looked sleepy and confused. The Colonel eyed the officers with contempt and then turned to Cargill.

“Leiftenant, take over here and make sure that the troops either return to their barracks or to their posts…As you were.”

An officer with Captain’s insignia walked up to Cargill.

“What in the hell was that all about?” he asked.

Cargill briefly explained. The officers seemed as happy by the turn of events as the enlisted men, sending a disappointed ache through his heart.

“Carry on,” the Captain said offhandedly to Cargill as he walked away, slapping the back of one of the other Leiftenants and loudly bragging how he planed to spend his windfall in the local brothels.

Chapter Ten

Vijhan woke with a start, a growl beginning in the back of his throat. Something felt wrong, but he could not tell what. It slipped away from him like wafting smoke. He stifled the growl, craned his neck around and surveyed the camp. Everything was in place. Brayden and Sethyr were still asleep, just as they were when Vijhan had taken up his vigil over the camp.

Rising to his feet as quietly as possible, he scolded himself. Nodding off while on guard was a serious breach in discipline. He feared his new companions’ reaction if they woke and found him asleep at his post. Vijhan shook his head for side to side trying to clear his mind. The cobwebs cleared in an instant, like a veil lifting from his thoughts. Leaping to his feet, he drew the long-bladed scramsax from his belt and loped around the camp searching for any signs of trouble. He sniffed the air deeply as well, his ears perking up for a moment as an errant whiff of something tickled his nose but it disappeared in the early morning breeze before he could identify it.

Satisfied that all was as it should be, Vijhan sheathed the knife, and yawned a long-jawed canine yawn. He sat back down and rummaged in the pouch hanging from his belt. Feeling around for a moment, he retrieved a bundle of willow sticks. He slipped one from the bundle, placing its end in his mouth, and then returned the rest to the pouch. He chewed the end of the stick slowly, careful to reach every tooth. Satisfied that he had cleaned his teeth well enough, Vijhan stopped chewing and pulled and withdrew the stick from him mouth. His sharp teeth had reduced the stick to a frayed mess. With a quick flick of the wrist he threw the stick away, out into the forest, resisting the urge to chase it. He chuffed in irritation. Sometimes instincts could be such a bother.

Brayden stirred at the sound of Vijhan’s chuff. He shifted, sleepily searching for a more comfortable position and then groaned in resignation. Sitting up bleary-eyed, the protector pulled his blanket around his shoulders tightly and got to his feet. He nodded wordlessly to Vijhan and then shambled out of the camp looking for some privacy.

Vijhan wondered how the humans managed, being without natural fur. He would have felt so vulnerable with all that flesh showing. One of the highest Canid punishments was to be shaved and banished to the wilderness, bereft of the comfort of their coat or their pack. He could not imagine how humans without such comforts. Of course, Vijhan knew that humans had families, but based on what he saw, they were not nearly as close as a Canid pack.

After a few minutes Brayden returned from his business in the woods. He appeared much more awake, but still no happier or warmer.

“Good morning, Vijhan,” he greeted the Canid.

“Yes, a very good one. The first day a hunt is always a good day.”

The conversation woke Sethyr, who hissed in annoyance but did not stir.

“Yes, the hunt. If only we knew what our quarry was. Then we might know where to look.” Brayden spread his arms, stretching the cold muscles to warm them up. He still grasped the blanket, which made him resemble some sort of awkward bird, fanning its wings before flight. Vijhan chuckled silently at the sight.

A realization struck Vijhan like a thunderbolt as he thought about what Brayden said. He suddenly recalled something the hooded figure said offhandedly during one of their meetings.

“Brayden, I may be able to help with finding the trail,” he said.

“That is good news. You must be very talented if you can track him after all this time.”

“No need for tracking, at least not yet. But, I remember something that he mentioned. He once made a comment of how much better the weather was in Kath than here during this time of year. He said he could not wait to get back.”

“Kath? That is a goodly trek from here,” Brayden remarked.

“I have never been there, but how difficult can the journey be? Isn’t it through the Imperial Heartlands? Much more civilized than here.”

“Civilized does not mean safe. Some officials have no love for the Protectors. They see our order as meddling fools. Some even accuse us of sedition.”

“Perhaps you can travel in disguise,” Vijhan suggested.

“That could prove the best course, but will do little for you and Sethyr. As non-humans you two will be distrusted almost everywhere except the larger towns.”

“I can endure their scorn. I am strong.”

Sethyr rolled over and spoke, her eyes still closed.

“Just wait, Canid. You will be surprised how creative their scorn can be.”

“I will endure it,” Vijhan said, glaring at Sethyr.

Brayden walked over to the heap of firewood that gathered the previous day, retrieved two small logs and placed them carefully on the fire. This sent a glowing flare of sparks to rise from the flames.

“That solves the how in getting there, but once there how do we proceed?” Brayden asked.

“Hmm, if my memory serves, the man also mentioned something called the Argent Tigers,” Vijhan answered.

“I am not familiar with the name. Are you, Sethyr?”

Sethyr lay for a moment, silent. Then one eye opened, glaring at Brayden.

“No, I have never heard it before…but it does sounds like one of those inane names that soldiers are so fond of. I’d wager that anything named so has to have soldiers running it.”

Brayden scowled at Sethyr. “I happen to consider myself a soldier in many ways…”

“No,” Sethyr interrupted, “you are priest. That makes you a hypocrite, not an idiot. The difference is subtle, I’ll grant you, but you’re a bright one.”

Vijhan stared at Sethyr, mouth agape.

“How can you let…” the Canid hesitated for a moment, as if searching for the right word. “that lizard speak to you with such disrespect?”

Brayden gave Vijhan a wan smile. “You have to understand, my friend, that it is just Sethyr’s way. He only bothers to use his wit on those that he has affection for or those that have drawn his ire. Sometimes they are one and the same. For folk he has no feeling for, either way, he probably wouldn’t piss on if they were on fire.”

“I’ll thank you not to apologize for me,” Sethyr said, now sitting upright and wearing an irritated look.

“No apologies here, just understanding,” Brayden said, wearing his most absurdly peaceful face.

“Please…not before I have eaten. If I’m going to retch I at least want to do it correctly.” Sethyr rose and stumbled away from the camp carrying her backpack for some privacy of her own.

Once Sethyr was out of earshot Brayden leaned close to Vijhan.

“Sethyr is like a cup of chicory in the morning: strong and bracing but quite enjoyable once you have acquired the taste.”

“Don’t forget bitter,” Vijhan added with a grin.

***

Sethyr absolutely abhorred the cold, especially the damp cold that clung to the bones early in the morning. As a reptile she did not retain heat as well as the warm-blooded races. She cursed the furry buggers and their ease in getting the blood flowing. Sometimes she was forced to resort to artificial means to rouse herself from torpidity on chilly mornings. She shuffled out of the camp until she was far enough away to be assured of her privacy. She then sat down, her legs crossed, and set her backpack across her lap. After carefully removing all of the contents of the pack, Sethyr reached into the bottom, releasing a hidden catch that revealed a shallow pocket. Several small vials snugly filled the pocket. She plucked each out, setting them on the ground in front of her next to a small, hammered-copper bowl.

Sethyr picked up the first bottle, holding it up in the direction of the early morning sun. Through the colored glass she could tell that the vial was nearly empty. Grumbling she unstoppered the vial and poured its entire contents into the bowl. She followed this with measured drops from the two remaining vials. Satisfied that she had gotten the mixture just right, she stirred the liquids together using the pinkie of her right hand. She sniffed the residue on her finger. The smell reminded her of the fetid mud that collected at the bottom of stagnant swamp pools in her homeland. She shuddered, wiping the wetness on the hem of her robe and then raised the bowl to her mouth while tilting her head back. Sethyr quaffed the potion, pouring it quickly down the back of her throat. The less that hit her tongue the better. Despite her care, a few drops found their way to her tongue, causing her to stifle a gag.

Forcing herself to swallow, Sethyr chocked down the viscous brew. She let her tongue loll from her mouth rather than risk it coming into contact with any additional reside. She reached for her waterskin and gulped a generous amount. After being satisfied that the last of the mixture had been washed away, she replaced the stopper on the skin and set it down. She carefully replaced the vials in their hiding place, including the empty one.

“I must find more siltblade root soon or answer some very complicated questions,” Sethyr reminded herself. She repack her backpack, took care of her morning business and then returned to the camp, ready to be at least civil this time.

Chapter Nine

Najasat sat on his bed, holding the message gem in his hand. He still was not feeling quite well, but he felt worlds better than he had just hours before. His heaving stomach had subsided and the aching in his limbs had dulled, but his head still throbbed just a bit.

He pondered the gem, feeling its cool weight against his palm. He could almost feel the warm of the life that the greyling had given to deliver its message. They greylings had been one of his best acquisitions. He could still feel the turgid heat of their swamp wrapping him when he thought about them. Yes, that had proved quite useful to him. They were just smart enough to pay attentions to things that any good spy would find interesting. Yet, their will was malleable enough to turn toward his aims. The message gem, of course, was his small addition to their anatomy. It made them that much more reliable.

Rising from the bed Najasat walked toward his desk, stretching languidly. Several audible pops issued from his joints as he moved.

“Much better, everything back in place,” he muttered to no one in particular.

Najasat sat down in the chair, placing the crystal next to a bowl that had been carved from some sort of skull. He opened one of the desk drawers and retrieved a rack of small glass vials. Each contained a different powder or liquid ranging greatly in color from drab green to bright red.

Beginning with a luminous green liquid with the consistency of honey, Najasat began mixing the contents of each vial in the carved bowl. An acrid vapor wafted from the bowl as he added the last vial of stark white power. He snatched up the message gem and dropped it into the bowl. It disappeared into the bubbling concoction with a dull plunk. A moment later the gems floated to the surface and then dissolved, tracing a thousand tiny lines of light through the liquid.

Taking the bowl in his hands, Najasat it to his lips and drank deeply. He set the empty bowl back on the desk and leaned back in the chair. He shut his eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply through is nose and exhaling though his mouth. The rhythmic breathing continued for a few moments and then returned to a more natural cadence. His eyelids fluttered open, revealing a startling change.

Najasat’s eyes were opaque silver, like a polished mirror, but cast no reflection. He tensed for a moment as his eyes darkened and then images began to play across them. The images showed a familiar looking Canid leading a Protector of Chanti and a Cairnfolk dressed in mage’s robes toward a yawning cave mouth. A deep growl issued from Najasat’s throat as he recognized the Canid. It was the leader of the pack he had employed to harass the village of Hedgewise. For some reason the Canid, whose name he had never bothered to learn, was betraying him.

Najasat sighed. “These lesser ones can always be counted on to make the wrong decision eventually,” he thought to himself. The Canid had been simply a tool and not an especially effective one in fact. Like any other dog, he could be dealt with in time. Punishment could be meted out as required when any hound turns on its master. But that would have to wait. He found the sudden appearance of these new folk much more interesting.

The images flowing through his mind abruptly stopped, signaling the end of the greyling’s memories. Najasat’s eyes cleared quickly losing their silvery sheen and returning to their original jade green hue. He sat musing for a moment, thoughtfully stroking his chin.

“This could prove an interesting diversion,” he said aloud. “Yes, I think that I will find this entertaining.” He knew that the vision he had received from the message gem was hours old, but perhaps is was not too late.

Rising from the chair, Najasat stretched again eliciting even more cracks and pops from his joints. He turned back toward the bed and walked over to a large chest set near its foot. He opened the chest, retrieving a dark, woolen cloak and then donning it with a flourish.

The cloak covered him from head to toe, obscuring all his features except for his height, which was average so offered no advantage to an observer. Najasat returned to the desk, retrieving a small, rectangular block of obsidian from one of the drawers. His fingers brushed the dark surface of the stone, leaving behind a fleeting sparkle of golden light as they passed.

Satisfied that he had everything he needed for his planned deed Najasat moved to an open area of the chamber and set the obsidian block in the center of the open space. He began to sing a low melody, almost a chant. His voice had a rich, resonant tone, which carried through the quiet room filling with its musical warmth. The obsidian reacted to the mellow tones by beginning to glow. As song progressed ghostly voices joined in, accompanying Najasat’s voice in haunting harmonies. The obsidian responded to the chorus, rising from the floor and hovering in the air nearly seven feet from the floor. At the same time the block began to change shape, becoming thinner, but growing in surface area. Soon the block was a yard on each side and as thin as vellum.

Continuing the haunting melody Najasat walked forward, positioning himself directly beneath the glowing block. He folded his arms across his chest and looked up at the block. Even the bright glow didn’t penetrate the darkness beneath the hood of the cloak.

Suddenly the song changed. Its key shifted, making the harmonies clash. With a flash the block fell straight down toward Najasat. He disappeared into the block as if passing through a window. A hair’s breadth before striking the ground, the block disappeared with a crackle.

***

A flash of light filled the cave, followed by a crackling hiss. Najasat stood in the cave, transported there instantaneously by the magic of the block and the spell he had invoked. After appearing he immediately draw a willow wand from somewhere beneath the cloak and held it defensively before him.

Chapter Eight

A light gray creature clung to the bark of a birch tree near the mouth of a cave. It would have been nearly impossible for even a trained hunter to pick it out because of its color, but its motionlessness added even more to it ability to remain undetected. The creature’s color had even earned its name, a greyling. Only the most careful observer was able to detect the slight rise and fall of its chest or the ever present swiveling of its eyestalks as it watched everything around it. Most would have simply mistaken the movement as the flutter of a leaf in a mild breeze. Of course, these traits, and a few not so obvious ones, where the very reason that the greylings were bred. Greylings somewhat resembled a fleshy worm about a foot long and as thick as an average thumb. Of course, few worms sported wide, bat-like wings and grasping claws, but the greyling had them. The creature’s hodgepodge of strange features could only mean one thing. Greylings were not natural creatures. Most likely, they were the result of some twisted fleshcrafter’s art, meant to fulfill a specific task not intended by nature. This particular greyling was about to achieve its purpose in life.

Its eyestalks twitched eagerly as it saw several humanoids approaching its hiding place. The aerie keeper had magically imparted this location when he had released this greyling. The creature knew to wait and observe until it either dropped dead of starvation or saw something worth back. The greyling watched as a Human, a Cairnfolk and a Canid passed nearby and entered the cave it had been set to watch. As soon as they passed and nothing else seemed to be coming, the greyling took wing, flapping its leathery wings to gain altitude for its long journey back to its aerie.

***

Skitnik the goblin skittered through the hollow corridors with its shoulders slumped and wearing a worried expression. Its eyes downturned lest he see something he was not supposed to and be summarily executed. The creature navigated the maze of corridors like a rat in a maze. Most messengers did not last very long in the Tangle. Skitnik had outlasted most, mostly due to a healthy portion of paranoia and a knack for disappearing when it was time to deliver bad news to the Master. By far the most dangerous duty for a goblin here in the Tangle was that of being the bearer of bad news.

Luck had been with Skitnik so far, but today his number had come up. A greyling had come in that morning, exhausted from the long flight to the Tangle. The small flying reptile delivered its news to the aerie keeper and promptly died, its heart ruptured from effort. Using a sharp, hooked knife the keeper split the creatures gut, plunging two fingers inside. After a moment of concentration, the keeper extracted a small clear gem from inside the creature. Tossing the corpse of the greyling aside, he lifted a chamois from a nearby work table and cleaned the gore from the gem. He held it up to light streaming from the aerie’s entrance, peering into its facets. He grunted, seemingly satisfied and slipped the gem into a small leather pouch. He then turned to look for someone to deliver the message gem to the Master. Unfortunately for Skitnik, he was the only goblin unlucky enough to be nearby.

The aerie keeper was a Jurouk who, despite his jade green skin and red glowing eyes, looked almost human.

“You there,” he pointed at Skitnik. “Come here now. This message needs to be delivered to the Master.”

Skitnik whirled around, desperately hoping that the aerie keeper could possibly mean someone else, but he was not so lucky.

The aerie keeper took several steps toward Skitnik, scowling. “Yes, you moron, I mean you.” He held out the pouch. “Take this to the Master’s chamber immediately, and don’t trifle with it. I’ll have your head if you do.”

Skitnik bobbed his head in agreement, careful not to meet the Jurouk’s eyes.

“Now get going, you filthy git, or I’ll skin you,” the aerie keeper growled.

Skitnik peeped in alarm, his claws clicking on the stone floor as he hurried away. He muttered under his breath, angry that there had been no one else to take the message. He had a bad feeling about this one. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, but his paranoia was scratching vigorously at the back of his mind. “Beware,” it peeped.

As he approached the Master’s chamber, the peep had become a shout. Skitnik trusted his paranoia, more than he trusted anything else in this world and so he decided to listen. He slowed his pace, careful to avoid letting the long claws on his feet click on the stone floor. With a wary look over his shoulder to ensure his privacy, Skitnik crept into the dark shadows left by the spotty light from the lanterns hung at regular intervals down the hall. He could see a brighter glow farther down the hall. This pearly luminescence came from the magic globes used for light in the Master’s chamber.

Skitnik hunched down, embracing the shadow and the invisibility it offered. His sharp ears strained for any sounds coming from the room ahead. He occasionally heard muffled footsteps and once he picked up the distant crash of dishes from the kitchen, but not a single sound came from the Master’s chamber. Skitnik’s heart leapt. Perhaps the Master was asleep, or away from his chamber. Neither was very likely as the Master did neither very often. Steeling what modicum of courage he did have, Skitnik crept forward, careful to stay as deeply in the shadows as he could. He quiet padded forward, wearily scanning the corridor for even the smallest indication that he had been seen.

The light pouring from the chamber banished all of the shadows directly around the entrance, leaving the goblin without any more room to maneuver without stepping out of the shadows. Skitnik stifled a whine, his eyes desperately searching for an alternative to showing himself, but there was not one.

Skitnik sighed, thinking to himself, “So this how I die?”

With a burst of speed the goblin scampered across the brightly lit corridor into the Master’s chamber. Having been there several times before, he knew the layout of the room and raced toward the large desk dominating the center of the chamber. Perhaps if he appeared to be doing is task as a messenger with gusto the Master might overlook the messenger’s role in delivering bad news.

Skitnik slid to a halt, his claws tick-tacking on the stone floor, seeking purchase to halt his slide. He hopped onto a step stool placed in front of the table, put there so that the Master could see his smaller minions without the need to rise from his usual place at the desk. At times the stool was insufficient because of the scrolls and books piled on the desk. They formed a veritable bulwark of vellum and parchment between the Master’s work area and his servants.

After hopping up on the stool, Skitnik craned his next to see over the musty books, but no one was at the desk. His heart leapt. Had he managed to come when the Master was not here? Had he escaped his doom?

Skitnik jumped down from the stool and scampered around the desk, careful not to knock over any of the books stacked under the table. A carved wooden chair topped by a thick red cushion sat behind the desk, pushed away slightly. Skitnik’s heart jumped at the sight. The Master might return any moment and find him there. Surprising the Master with his presence could prove very unhealthy for a servant.

Skitnik hopped deftly onto the chair, standing so that he could see the top of the desk, and set the message gem on the desk carefully. He placed it directly in the center of the desk, on top of a sheaf of yellowed parchments covered with strange writing, but then again all writing was strange to Skitnik. He thought that the Master was sure to see the gem when he returned. Flushed with the confidence of success, the goblin took an extra second to bounce up and down a few times on springy seat cushion. Its velvety texture felt good to his bare feet, making him almost purr.

“Who is there?” A loud, strangled voice disturbed Skitnik’s woolgathering. He jumped down from the chair, skittering under the desk to cower behind one of the heavy legs.

“I asked who is there?” The voice asked, sounding a bit clearer.

Skitnik scanned the room frantically from his hiding place. He suddenly realized that the voice was coming from the heavily draped bed. He strained to see beyond the dark canopy covering the bed, but only caught flashes of movement.

“WHO?” The voice bellowed this time, filling the chamber.

Mustering his courage, Skitnik piped up. “A messenger, Master.” The goblin’s head involuntarily bowed when he addressed the voice.

“Leave the message and be gone, before you are my dinner.”

“As you wish, Master. It is on your desk” Skitnik began to back away from the bed, thankful to have completed his task.

“Wait,” the voice murmured. “Bring the gem to me.”

Skitnik’s shoulders drooped in despair. Fate had handed him doom when he was at the edge of escape. His paranoia was chanting a steady mantra of ‘I told you so’ in his head as he retrieved the message gem and plodded toward the bed.

A hand and arm emerged from with the darkness of the bed’s canopy. It was twisted, covered with rippled and pocked skin the color of a corpse. It beckoned him forward with deformed fingers tipped with cracked and discolored nails.

Skitnik froze at the sight of hideous arm, not eager to lay eyes on the rest of the creature. The Master motioned again, this time annoyance showing in the choppy gesture. The goblin strangled a whine and began to inch forward, holding the gem out at arms length. As he got within reach the hand extend, palm out.

‘Strange,” Skitnik wondered. The hand seemed to be smoother and the nails more well groomed than he originally thought. In fact, it was almost pink, not corpse-like pale. It must have been a trick of the light or his own nervousness, he concluded. He quickly plopped the gem into the Master’s waiting grasp.

“Good,” the Master said, drawing Skitnik’s attention toward the dark recesses of the canopy. This close, some light penetrated the shadows and the goblin would later swear that he had glimpsed the face of a beautiful woman in the shadows. Just as quickly as the face appeared, it disappeared back into the dark.

“Go,” the master ordered.

Skitnik bowed deeply and scrambled out of the room, not caring if his nails caused a racket as he fled.

Chapter Seven

The early morning sun had just peaked over the edge of the valley where Sethyr and Brayden traveled. The surrounding hills were well forested and had offered the pair a comfortable camping site the previous evening. In contrast, the floor of the valley was nearly barren. Until a few years before, it had been as verdant as the hills, but a scouring flood had washed away almost all of the trees and underbrush, leaving behind an unbroken mud flat.

Sethyr groaned when she realized that they would have to cross the flat to reach their destination. She had spent her entire early life living in a swamp and was not eager to reacquaint herself with the mud. Brayden had merely nodded and set his shoulders determinedly, setting out into the mud. Nearly an hour passed, taking them almost halfway across the valley floor.

Brayden slogged through the heavy mud, his breathing deep and rhythmic. With each step his boot first broke through a paper tin layer of ice and then sank into the muddy ground past his ankle, making every move an effort. If the weather had been any colder and perhaps the mud would have been frozen enough to walk on easily. Unfortunately that wasn’t the case. Sethyr walk slowly next to the struggling Protector, but was somehow able to keep from sinking into the mud. On closer inspection one could see that her reptilian feet splayed widely when she set them down. In addition, a thick leathery web stretched between her three long toes. This combined to allow her to distribute her weight evenly enough to avoid the clutches of the mud.

Every dozen steps or so Brayden eyed Sethyr in irritation.

“You are enjoying this, aren’t you?”

Sethyr flashed him a toothy smile. “Actually no, I hat walking this slowly…and the edge of my robe is now terribly soiled.”

Brayden grumbled, but did not say anything else. Sethyr was baiting him for a good verbal sparring match and he knew it.

“Oh don’t be such a bear. I happen to be blessed by my heritage with a certain affinity for swamps. Believe me when I say I do not enjoy this any more than you do. I simply have the physical gifts to cope with these abominable conditions more easily.”

Brayden grumbled again.

They continued across the valley floor, the mud lessening as they approached the craggy hills on the opposite side. If Vijhan’s descriptions of the Canid campsite were correct, the camp lay in those hills. Sethyr did not share her friend’s faith in the truthfulness of the Canid packleader’s information. Perhaps she was judging Vijhan too harshly, but thinking the worst about the outcome of a situation had very rarely left her disappointed. In the rare case that things did turn out better than expected she was elated to be wrong.

In this case, however, she had little doubt that this investigation was futile. They just did not have enough information go deduce an intelligent hypothesis. Unless the hooded figure had left their shoe behind with their name sewn into the lining, she doubted their chances of success.

The laborious trudge through the mud finally came to an end. The ground abruptly rose upward, joining a sweeping hillside covered with soft, thick grass and dotted with small poplar trees. Further up the hill Sethyr could see much larger trees that had been out of reach of the flood waters.

Brayden pulled himself out of the last patch of mud, clinging to a nearby poplar. His breathing had increased, but he did not appear to be too terribly out of breath. He sat for a moment; his back cradled by the soft grass and closed his eyes. The sun had risen considerably higher and its bright rays helped chase the chill of the icy mud from his bones. Sethyr also turned toward the sun, pulling up her sleeves, letting the rays fall on her upturned face and arms.

“Brayden, you know I don’t believe in all that religious hoodoo, but I can see why the Cairnfolk worship the sun. It can be so…delightful, at times.”

Brayden peered up at Sethyr from where he lay.

“You are a strange creature, my friend.”

Sethyr’s head snapped down to glare at Brayden, “And what does that mean?” Anger showed at the edge of her voice.

“No, no, you misunderstand,” Brayden explained as he sat up. “I simply mean that most of the time you seem so, so…complicated. But then you can take such pleasure in something as simple as basking in the sun. Sometimes I think it is all some sort of elaborate joke you are playing on the world.”

“You give me too much credit,” Sethyr replied, her temper soothed. “I can most easily be described as difficult. I accept that, and at time embrace it.”

Brayden nodded slowly. He slipped his boots off and used his belt knife to scrape the clinging mud from the boots. He cleaned the mud from the blade using a handful of grass and then wiped it with a cloth from his belt pouch to make sure no moisture remained. He wriggled his toes, letting the sun shine on them.

“I think I am beginning to understand your appreciation of the sun. It banishes the chill quite well.”

“Try being wet half your life; you’ll soon appreciate the sun as I do.”

“I’ll remind you of that if we are ever stuck in some Chanti forsaken desert.”

“I’ll expect it,” Sethyr quipped, again getting the last word.

Brayden enjoyed the sunshine for a bit longer and once again slipped on his boots. He scrambled to his feet, shouldered his pack and set off up the hill, Sethyr silently following. He peered up at the hill’s peak, wondering how many others like it lay between him and the Canid campsite.

Thankfully, the Canids disliked walking up hills as much as Brayden and Sethyr and had made their camp in the lee of a nearby hill. It took the companions only a quarter of an hour to discover the remains of that camp. The Canids must have returned to gather their possessions because there was little evidence, other than a rough fire ring and bald patches in the grass where tents had been, to suggest that there was ever a camp here. There was, however, the dead Canid lying in the middle of the clearing. The creature had suffered a horrible knife wound to its abdomen, leaving much of its viscera lying in the dirt next to it.

“There must have been further discussion of the post of packleader,” Sethyr commented.

“Aye, I believe you may be right,” Brayden answered.

He squatted down to take a closer look at the corpse. “I don’t think that this fellow will be telling us much.”

“A shame. I was so looking forward to spending hours or weeks pursuing this. I don’t suppose you would consider dropping the entire matter?” Sethyr asked.

“You know me better than that.”

Brayden spent several more minutes scanning the immediate area for any additional signs. He examined the clearing thoroughly but finally gave up, shaking his head slowly.

“I’m just not sure how much more we can glean from this,” Brayden said.

Sethyr had taken a seat on the ground and she watched the Protector, wearing a bored expression.

“Perhaps I can be of help,” said a familiar voice hidden somewhere in the nearby undergrowth.

Brayden turned quickly toward the voice and drew his sword in one fluid motion. Sethyr lashed her powerful tail, sending her tumbling into an acrobatic roll which ended with her ready to cast a spell while still kneeling defensively.

“No need to worry. I am no threat.” The voice called again from within the undergrowth.

The sound of the voice tugged at both Brayden and Sethyr’s memory. The exchanged questioning glances and then refocused their attention on the unseen voice. It sounded very familiar, but neither could quite place it.

The brush rustled where the voice had come from. Something was pushing its way through the thick wall of bushes, but their thick foliage obscured what it was. Brayden approached a step closer, moving into a more defensive stance. Sethyr hissed, trying to get Brayden’s attention.

“Not so close old man. If I cast my spell you might be splashed with fire.”

“Hold your spell, Sethyr. We cannot just roast whoever this may be. We owe them at least a chance to explain themselves.”

“You are too trusting,” Sethyr hissed.

Their attention was draw back to the brush by an increase in the rustling. Brayden risked another quick glance over at Sethyr and then took a small step backward.

The rustling reached a crescendo as a figure began to emerge from the undergrowth. First a dog-like head peeked out, followed slowly be a humanoid body.

Both Sethyr and Brayden immediately recognized Vijhan. The Canid emerged fully from the undergrowth and stood silently, his hands held out to show he held no weapons.

“What in the blazes are you doing here,” Brayden asked, disbelief in his voice. The protector was, however, careful not to lower his sword.

“I have been waiting for you.”

“And why is that?” Sethyr asked as she rose from her crouch.

Vijhan tilted his head toward the mage. “I could only assume that you would come here. So I decided to wait here and see if I could help you in any way.”

Sethyr snorted. “Don’t imagine for a second that I believe any of that.”

“Sethyr, please, let him speak.”

Vijhan turned his head back toward Brayden. “She is party right. At first I did not think to aid you. I rushed back here to try and wrest back control of my pack. Unfortunately, they moved too quickly and had moved on by the time I arrived. They only left behind poor Haroosh there.” Vijhan motioned toward the corpse.

“You still have not explained why you want to help us,” Sethyr snapped.

“I am getting to that…young lizard. I am here to help you, frankly, because I have nothing else to do.”

“That is a comforting thought. Why don’t we just…” Sethyr interrupted.

“Sethyr, please let him speak.” Brayden cut off Sethyr, shooting her an angry look.

“Fine!” Sethyr crossed her arms, glaring at Vijhan.

“As I said, I have nothing now that my pack is lost to me. I could follow them and challenge for leadership again, but I have lost my taste for that. The only other thing that came to mind was waiting for you two. Brayden, you treated me fairly and kept your word. Those are not qualities we Canid normally associate with Humans. More often than not, we are hunted like vermin, just as wolves are. I feel a debt to you for sparing my life.”

Brayden nodded. “Chanti teaches that all life has value and should not be squandered lightly.”

“Even the life of a murdering savage,” Sethyr added, addressing Vijhan. She turned to Brayden, “Are you forgetting what he was prepared to do in Hedgewise? And what of the villagers who disappeared recently?”

“I have not forgotten,” he answered. “But he was prevented from it and has been offered a different path. We must do what we can to encourage his first steps on that path.”

“I have seen this new path and seek to follow it,” Vijhan added eagerly.

Sethyr hissed. “Then seek it elsewhere. I will never trust you…ever.”

Vijhan lowered his head. “I understand and accept that, but I will do what I can to help you find the hooded man and then I will go my own way.”

“Fair enough,” Brayden said. “We…I welcome your help.”

Vijhan grinned widely, but the sharp teeth showing did little to comfort Sethyr. Despite her trepidation, the tension had broken. Brayden sheathed his sword and then swung his pack off of his back. Vijhan walked forward quickly to help him.

Sethyr shook her head again. It looked like Brayden had earned himself a pet. The mage pondered this for a moment and then realized that she had come to join the Protector in much the same way. Vijhan was not a pet at all, simply someone seeking something better.



She had been living, just barely, in the slums of Kath when she met Brayden. The human inhabitants had showed little regard for her hunger or feelings. Fortunately, their scorn did not extend to open hatred, but they refused to help her and some had even gone so far as intimidating the few folk who did speak to her.

Brayden had appeared one day in the beggars’ quarter in search of a merchant’s son who was addicted to snake lotus. The young man hailed from a large town not far from Kath, but had run away from home when his father had discovered that his son was stealing from the other townsfolk to buy snake lotus.

Piet, the merchant, had implored Brayden, the local Protector, to retrieve the boy. The search for Piet’s son led Brayden to the Beggars’ Quarter. Most in the quarter were close lipped, distrustful of outsiders. Few would talk to the Protector, and those that would have selfish reasons for it.

Sethyr knew of the boy Brayden described. In fact, she had seen him the previous evening. The boy had been flush with coin, probably garnered from some illegal activity. She had been in the ramshackle tavern, the Cock’s Tail, when he had come in, shouting for a round of drinks. He pulled the barkeep aside and whispered something as well.

Everyone in the tavern cheered their good fortune because one of their number had seemingly struck it rich, but probably more appreciative of the free drink.

Sethyr was conspicuously left out of the festivities, not even offered a drink. She simply watched. Shortly after that, she saw the barkeep saunter up to the boy and hold out his hand for payment. The boy slipped him a few large coins, which brought a surprised smile to the barkeeps face. Once he was assured of payment, the barkeep handed the boy something rolled up in a dirty bit of cloth. The boy eagerly unwrapped the cloth, revealing a sprig of gnarled root about the size of his thumb. He attacked the root, chewing it with quick, almost desperate bites. A look of bliss soon passed over him. He stared wide eyed at nothing wearing a bemused smile.

Never having seen anyone act this way, Sethyr got up and moved closer. She stopped short when she got close enough to the boy to clearly see his eyes. His pupils had turned to slits very similar to her own eyes. She hissed, her head sliding forward and down into a defensive posture. The sound of her hissing attracted the attention of most of the peasant nearby in the tavern.

One particularly burly fellow stood up, glaring at Sethyr.

“Whatcah’ doing lizard?” He shouted.

Sethyr dropped into a defensive stance, a spell ready on her tongue.

“You got a problem with Iggy? He just bought us a round, so you better not upset him. We might get another outta him.”

The crowd grumbled agreement. She heard the isolated cries of ‘stinking lizard’ and ‘freak’ mixed in with the general sounds of disquiet.

“My apologies,” Sethyr nodded apologetically.

“Your sorrys don’t mean nothin’ here, egglayer.”

She hissed in rage at the insult. All but the most brave in the crowd began to eye the door for a possible escape route.

“Shut your face, or I’ll make a pair of boots outta you,” the man threatened.

Sethyr decided in that moment that discretion was called for. She turned on her heel and headed toward the door. No one did anything to bar her way, but once out the door, the laughs and taunts of the patrons chased her into the night.

She recalled all of this in the blink of an eye when Brayden asked about the boy, but she hesitated. Sethyr had been abused by humans in authority often enough that she was wary of them. Did she dare tell what she knew to this priest, or would she be accused if something bad had happened to the boy.

Sethyr watched Brayden for quite some time. No matter how wretched the people he spoke to were, he never belittled them or acted superior. This had impressed her. Something in the priest’s eyes, or maybe it was the way he looked at people, pushed her to trust him.

She continued to watch him intently; a bit too intently. Brayden finished speaking with a passing washer woman who was so short he towered over her. He looked up, his eyes catching Sethyr watching him. He nodded, wished the washer woman a good day and began to stroll in Sethyr’s direction. She began to panic, scanning the market for a quick and easy to lose herself in the crowd. Unfortunately, Brayden and Sethyr were taller than most of the folk nearby. She knew that hiding herself would be nearly impossible. Instead, she chose a different tact.

As Brayden approached, Sethyr motioned him to come closer.

“Ah, good sir. I heard a tale that you are seeking some poor unfortunate soul.”

Brayden nodded, “Yes, that is so. Perhaps you could help.”

“Hmm, that may be possible. What can you tell me…perhaps it will jog my memory.”

Brayden repeated most of what she had already overheard. There were a few less important details, but they hardly mattered, as Sethyr already knew who the priest spoke of. She politely let him finished and then put on her most convincing look of concentration. She even went as far as scratching her chin, as she had seen many humans do.

In truth she was using the time to decide if she would reveal what she knew. With a sign she came to a conclusion.

“Ah yes, I have seen this boy. In fact, I say him just last night. It was at the Cock’s Tail; quite a ramshackle place.” Sethyr recounted the rest of what she remembered, but was careful to leave out the anger she had shown at the human’s insult. The priest did not need to know everything.

Brayden thanked Sethyr for the information and was about to leave when she suddenly realized something. This priest was the first human in a long time to treat her as an equal. She nearly choked on the wave of loneliness that crashed over her.

“Wait,” she cried at him as he turned to leave. “I shall show you exactly where the tavern is.” She hurried ahead, eager to help and spend more time with this strange priest.



All of this had happened nearly three years ago and Sethyr had not left Brayden since then. She did not even pretend to understand his motivations most of the time, but she had grown to trust them. She silently decided to trust them in the case of Vijhan as well. If Brayden wished to accept his aid, so would Sethyr…but she could never let them know that.

“Are we done with the social grooming?’ Sethyr asked with more humor than sarcasm in her voice.

“Ah, yes. We should be moving on. I don’t think that staying here for the night is a good idea.” Brayden looked up at the sun, gauging the time. “We have a few hours before nightfall.” He turned to Vijhan. “How far are we from the place you met with this hooded person.”

“Not far at all, but it will take time to get there. Most of the way is up a steep hill.” Vijhan’s voice was bright with eagerness, pleased to be helping.

“Is there a good place to camp there?”

“Yes, yes there are many caves.”

“The we had better get started if we want to get their by nightfall,” Brayden suggested.

Sethyr chuffed, shouldering her backpack.

“I can carry that for you,” Vijhan offered.

Sethyr glared at him, “Don’t be absurd. I am perfectly capable of carrying it myself.”

“My apologies. I meant no offense. It’s just that you…” Vijhan paused, thinking for a moment. He looked over at his shoulder at Brayden who was intent on checking his pack.

“He has no idea, does he?” Vijhan asked.

Sethyr’s glare intensified.

“Interesting,” Vijhan said and then let out a low, barking chuckle.

Sethyr hissed, whispering as she passed the Canid. “Say nothing and I may let you live.”

Vijhan laughed softly again. He knew it would not be a good idea to reveal Sethyr’s secret. Not only would it be rude, but it would alienate the mage and there was no telling what Brayden might do. No, he did not plan on saying anything. Secrets always had more power if you kept them close.

Chapter Six

Sethyr sat on the cot of the hut in which they had been staying. She had long since exhausted her curiosity in the contents of the jars and other knickknacks that filled the shelves around walls of the hut. She only half watched Brayden kneeling near the other cot engaged in his evening prayers. The rest of her attention was occupied by using her arcane skills to make a frayed rag flop around the floor like an injured mouse. It danced to the rhythm of Sethyr’s waggling finger. The wisewoman’s cat was enjoying the demonstration, pouncing again and again on the rag, playfully batting it with its paws and occasionally bringing it to its mouth to double-check that there was no mouse hidden inside.

“I cannot understand why you let Vijhan get away,” Sethyr said, sighing.

Brayden opened an eye in annoyance at the interruption, but quickly finish his prayer with a sign of peace. He rose from his knees, albeit a bit slowly, and sat down on the cot.

“He did not get away, I let him go,” he replied. “I gave him my word.”

“You even fed him and gave him supplies. I know you gave your word, but what will you tell the orphaned child of the next peasant that cur kills?”

“We can’t assume that something tragic will happen. I have to have faith that Chanti led me to the right decision.”

With a flick of the wrist Sethyr sent the rag flying across the hut, landing in Brayden’s lap. The cat leapt after it in pursuit. Startled, the protector jumped to his feet, sending the rag and the cat flying in separate directions. The cat twisted in mid air, landed gracefully on the dirt floor and scrambled out of the hut as if he had been rehearsing it for months.

“What in the blazes are you doing?” Brayden shouted. He stared daggers at Sethyr, who simply reclined on the cot, pointedly not meeting his glare.

“What can I say; it is my nature to be difficult. Just like it is Vijhan’s to be savage.”

“Let us not have this discussion on a folk’s nature, or must I bring up the Cairnfolk, your own people?”

The rebuke made Sethyr’s head snap around, meeting Brayden’s glare head on this time.

“I concede the point, but I still don’t trust Vijhan to keep his word.” Sethyr’s countenance softened, as much as her scaly features could. Brayden had made his point well, even if it did sting.

“Well, it is beyond us now. He was, however, quite helpful after we got him talking.”

“So, how do we proceed? Are we to take up this village’s cause, Brayden?”

“I feel that Chanti has led me here, so I must see to this village and their plight. I cannot demand you do the same. However, if you choose not to I would sorely miss your company.”

Once again Brayden cut directly to the heart of Sethyr’s feelings. Perhaps the protector would feel differently if he realized that the mage was female, but Sethyr did not feel confident enough to reveal this tidbit to her friend just yet. After all, she would sorely miss his company as well.

Sethyr hesitated before answering, looking thoughtful.

“You can’t rid yourself of me that easily. Someone, other than Chanti, needs to watch your back.”

Brayden bridled at the causal mention of Chanti.

“Don’t get upset,” Sethyr said quickly, attempting to defuse his anger. “I simply meant that I am in closer proximity, thus able to offer convenience as well as support.”

“Oh course, I should understand that better…Its just …sometimes I feel like I don’t know you at all,” Brayden said.

An uncomfortable silence sprang up between the two. Brayden sat back down on the cot and stared down at the floor. Sethyr flicked her fingers and resumed rag’s dance near the open doorway, but the cat did not reappear. After a few moments she let the rag flutter back down to the floor, lifeless.

“You know I cannot abide silence,” Sethyr said, her voice tight with exasperation. “Perhaps someday you will know everything about me, but until that day, you must be satisfied to simply trust me.”

Brayden’s head swung upward, his eyes meeting Sethyr’s. “Yes, that is enough for me, as is your friendship.”

Another silent moment passed, but with out the tension of a few moments before. That had been replaced with a pleasant contentment, an acceptance of the status quo.

Sethyr broke the reverie with a shudder. “Enough musings of the soul; now is the time for a plan.” She sat up, elbows on her knees and stared at Brayden.

“The first thing we must do is find out the identity of the hooded fellow is that was employing the canids,” Brayden said.

“Uh, yes, of course, but how. Vijhan didn’t have any idea who it was. The only thing he could tell us was that the chap was spicy. What, pray tell, could that mean.”

“Um, I was hoping you had an idea, Sethyr. I am the faith half of our partnership, not the think half.”

Sethyr croaked a belly laugh. “Congratulations. It sounds like you are also the humble half as well. I wonder what that says about me.”

They both shared a laugh at the comment.

Sethyr flicked her nictitating membranes to clear moisture from her eyes. Extreme emotions often caused the Cairnfolk to exude protective mucus over their eyes. Brayden had first misinterpreted them as tears, but Sethyr had assured him that was not the case. The protector had not commented but to him it seemed to serve much the same emotional purpose as tears did for humans, even if not physiologically.

Sethyr signed deeply. “So, I had better deduce what spicy means. Perhaps he is a merchant and handles spices often.”

Brayden nodded, looking hopeful.

Sethyr continued, “But I simply can’t believe it could be that easy. Hedgewise is not on any significant trade route, so why would a merchant bother. Even if they wanted to establish a new trade route, the village would prove useful as a stop. But, what use would it be if it were deserted? No, I do not think it was a merchant.”

“So what is the alternative?”

“Hmm, perhaps the spice came from the fellow’s food. You humans tend to stin…I mean smell of the food you eat. I can’t understand how you stand all that sweating. If this is true then that tells us something. Either the fellow cooks with such spices or has a companion that does. In either instance, that marks them as a foreigner. Perhaps all we must do is find this foreigner.”

Brayden frowned. “If we do that aren’t we as ignorant as those that accused you because of your race?”

“No, they rushed to judgment. I do not fault their suspicion, for at least they were thinking. Not considering me as a possible threat would have been the ignorant thing, given their recent circumstances. No, I see their fault in condemning me without more thought.”

“You are more forgiving than I might be I your place.”

Sethyr snorted, hissing a laugh. “Brayden, you can worry a conversation until there is no meat left on the bone. We have our clues. Now we must simply follow where they lead.”

“Easier said than done. Our only trace is the spice Vijhan mentioned. How is that of use?”

“Well, he also told us where he and the other Canids laid in wait for this hooded one to contact them. We can use this as our starting point. We best be wary of those other Canids.”

“You are right in that,” Brayden agreed. “I hope they have fled. Without Vijhan to lead them I think they would be much less ambitious in choosing their prey.”

“Even so, we must be careful. I just hope we can locate their old camp. Perhaps we should have kept Vijhan with us until he could lead us there.”

“It is too late for that now. I hope his directions will be enough.”

***

Brayden and Sethyr gave their packs one final check before shouldering them and emerging from the hut. Despite the early hour most of the people of Hedgewise were gathered to see them off.

Brayden obliged the peasants by flashing them a warm smile ad waving broadly.

“Peace to all. We greet you all this fine morning.”

Sethyr simply nodded at her friend’s words. The villagers did not pay her much attention anyway, so she was not concerned. It did, however, irritate her that they seemed to have completely forgotten how she had single handedly staved off the Canid attack only two days before. It was at times like these that she really felt out of place among the humans. It was as if she was invisible, and that was quite a blow to her ego.

Brayden strode through the crowd waving and greeting everyone with his booming voice. Sethyr slipped in behind him, riding in his wake through the crowd. As they neared the edge of the village they found Ernst waiting for them, a burlap sack in one hand and wearing a wide smile.

“Good morning my friends. The folk of Hedgewise wish you a good journey,” Ernst address them loudly.

“Thank the gods you are leaving,” Sethyr translated under her breath.

“We have gathered food for your journey.”

“We hope this is enough food to get you very far away,” she said quietly, again translating what she thought Ernst truly meant.

Brayden turned slightly toward her. “Hush now,” he whispered, having heard her quite comment. He turned back toward Ernst and addressed the crowd.

“Our thanks for your hospitality, Ernst. We will remember Hedgewise fondly.”

The crowd cheered in response.

“Now we must be on our way. We bid you farewell.” Brayden gave one last wave and resumed his departure.

The crowd cheered again, parting to let them pass. Sethyr remained close behind the Protector, ignoring the cheering villagers. They emerged from the crowd, moving out of the village, toward the surrounding forest.

Unable to contain herself, Sethyr spun back toward the village and waved with an elaborate flourish. She bowed deeply and shouted, “Thanks for the bath.” The stunned crowd became silent. Most looked hurt and embarrassed, but Sethyr did not care. They had nearly killed her and the more the villagers were reminded of their deed, she felt the less likely they would be to repeat it.

Sethyr spun on her heel and hurried after Brayden who was nearly to the treeline. As she caught up he spoke without turning.

“Was that really necessary?”

Sethyr snorted in annoyance. “Necessary, no. But warranted, I’d say it was.”

“As long as it made you feel better.”

“You know I always have to have the last word.”

“I know.”

“Good”

“I’m glad we can put it behind us now.”

“As am I,” Sethyr said, finally having the last word..