Even Fall
Chapter One

Rating: R
Warnings: Death, horror, zombies.
Summary: The war is over, but not the fight.
Notes: I began this series literally years ago; almost six I think. Sadly, I became sidetracked. Other projects piled up, and Even Fall was eventually abandoned by all save a tiny handful of die-hard fans who kept begging for updates. When I decided to resurrect the series, I realized the only intelligent thing to do was start over at the beginning. So here it is, dusted off with new coat of paint. Sorry it took me so long.

Illustration by Alyx Shaw

The house sat upon what had once been a green lawn, surrounded by a low fieldstone wall that kept in a handful of bored sheep. The sheep had bitten the grass, and watched the doings of the people as they travelled up and down the simple dirt road that led past the house and into the heart of the town. Drovers had walked their flocks of geese or sheep, large wagons pulled by teams of horses had brought goods from far away, and even the knights on their great spirited chargers had once passed this very house, all watched by the sheep behind the low fieldstone wall as they chewed grass beneath an apple tree.

The sheep and tree were gone, now, as was most of the low wall. The filthy rain beat down against the ripped and dirty blinds that slapped listlessly at the crumbling house. The stone was chipped and blasted from the recent battle, and one wall of the lower storey was now little more than a gaping hole. The earth surrounding the sad building was churned to greasy mud, littered with dead and dying warriors, their blood mingling with the stench of sour ground and decay.

Evening, like the rain, was falling.

A lone figure, clad in chain mail and leather boots, wearing a tabard over his armour, darted across the field of death and into the house through the great hole in the wall. He was moving quietly and quickly, carrying a body over his shoulders, and made his way up the cracked and burned wooden stairs to the upper floor. He reached a closed door, and tapped it. Moments later the door was opened by a woman clad in black leather, her long curling dark hair held back from her face by a scrap of leather. She held the door open long enough for him to enter the room, then shut it quietly. It would not do to make their presence known. The woman carefully barred the door, then looked at the man.

“Who have you brought, Aramais?”

Aramais carefully lowered the bleeding and unconscious Elf to the tattered bed in a corner of what had once been an elegant gentleman’s chamber, now little more than a dirty hovel. He cast a glance to his black-clad companion, who had moved to a window, and was peering cautiously into the grey evening.

“Do you see any more movement, Shendklin?”

“I see one man moving, close enough to grab, but we’d better hurry before the carrion beasts are unleashed.” She moved away from the window, and then paused as she recognized the Elf on the bed. Her eyes grew large. “Isn’t that Whitebird? I thought he hated you!”

“It is and he does. He’s going to hate me even more when he finds out I had to put an arrow through his lover.”

Shendklin drew a slow gasp of horror. “No! Tell me you didn’t! Aramais, he is going to kill you!”

“I had no choice! Hunter had fallen victim to the king’s plague,” said Aramais, his distress over the deed evident in his face. “He was in pain, and you know once the plague takes hold there is no saving a man. Not even one with Elven blood.”

“Then you’d better hope Whitebird awakes in an understanding mood. Come.”

They left the room. Shendklin moved lightly and quickly down the creaking wooden steps, Aramais close behind her. They moved cautiously to the man on the ground, keeping alert for anything moving in the dark that no longer drew breath. Satisfied they were safe for the moment; they picked the man up and carried him hastily to the upstairs chamber. They placed him upon a couch, then, as Aramais made certain the man was comfortable, Shendklin moved once more to the window.

“It’s dark,” she said. “We have no more time.”

“No, we must! We must be able….”

“It is dark,” she said quietly, firmly. “Listen.”

Aramais did, and heard the screeches of the nightmarish carrion beasts, coming out of the rotting night to feed upon the dead and dying. Aramais lowered his head and sighed.

“Then we are beaten. There will be no one left for us to rescue come dawn.”

“There will be no one left at all if you are not silent.”

Aramais removed his helm, his long dark hair falling over his face. He ran a grimy, bloody hand through his dirty tresses, then looked towards the black-clad woman. He smiled wearily.

“I am glad you are here.”

She cast him a glance from over her shoulder and grinned at him. “That’s not what you said when I escaped your dungeons.”

“No, I believe I wanted to kill the one who released you.”

Shendklin pulled her black cape closer around herself, and smiled sadly. “You will never have the pleasure. I saw him lying dead on the field two days ago.”

“I am sorry for your loss.”

She shook her head. “I have not lost any more than you have, than we all have.” She peered carefully into the night once more, watching the horse-like forms of the carrion beasts. The monsters stumbled through the darkness, their eyes like lamps of dead white, seeking the dying and devouring their warm flesh.

“Behold the madness of a king,” she said bitterly.

Aramais almost told her to mind her tongue, but sighed instead. She was right. This hell had been created by the ruler he had served so faithfully as guard captain.

“The king was not always so, Shendklin,” he said softly. “Once he was good and wise.”

“I know. And I respect the memory of that man.” She looked toward Aramais, eyes full of grief. “What changed him, Aramais? What turned him to evil?”

“I wish I knew. Then perhaps we could right the wrong. As it is, we are trapped here. There is no fair place to go. His madness has covered all the land in darkness. I had hoped Whitebird’s army would defeat the monsters the king has surrounded himself with.” He looked towards the bloody and unconscious Elf, his armour broken, his long white hair matted with blood. “But not even The White Bird of Vengeance could stop him.”

Aramais rose from his chair, walking over to the warrior and tugging at the buckles that held his shattered armour. Piece by piece he removed it, setting it carefully and quietly on the floor. Shendklin went to the man they had rescued and began examining his wounds.

“This one is badly hurt. He will not survive, I think. How is Whitebird?”

“I cannot tell. He has taken a blow to the head.” Aramais gently stroked back the white hair, then pulled the bed’s remaining ratted blanket over the Elven warrior.

“This one is weak from blood loss,” said Shendklin. “Ugh, it is soaking his clothes. Here, you’ll have to dispose of them before the smell attracts those monsters. I will try to close his injuries.”

She passed Aramais the man’s bloodied robes. He took them, and walked over to the wooden stairway that led to the ruined lower half of the building. He listened long and carefully; to be discovered by one of the carrion beasts would doom them all. When he was satisfied none were near the house, he crept downstairs and carried the robes over to the opening blasted into the wall by ballista. He set the clothes down near three bleeding bodies, and was about to creep back to his hiding spot, when he heard a voice.

“My lord, help me, I beg of thee…”

Aramais turned, and was surprised to see a hand reaching for him out of the corpses. He crouched down and looked around.

“Quiet, and I will help.” Aramais grasped the young man’s hand and pulled him slowly and quietly into the building. “Can you stand?”

“I’ll try.”

Aramais helped the man to his feet. He was weak and bleeding, and his ankle was badly broken. Aramais scooped him up and carried him upstairs.

“One more!” said Aramais victoriously as he carried the man into the room.

“One less,” said Shendklin softly.

Aramais stopped short. “Not Whitebird.”

“No, this man. We’ll have to get his body out of here. If he has the king’s plague he may rise again.” Shendklin looked at the man Aramais was carrying. “Hello. Welcome to our party.”

“Very glad to be invited. I am Sarrin.”

“Pleased to meet you. I am Shendklin, this is Aramais, and yon fair lump on the bed is Whitebird. Excuse us while we dispose of a dead body.”

“Most certainly. Ah, if there is any fire handy, you may wish to put him in the flames. A body destroyed by fire can not return.”

Aramais set Sarrin in a chair. “Good advice,” he said, “We’ll look for one near by.”

Aramais and Shendklin carried the dead man downstairs. They did not find a fire, and they could not risk making one. They left the body outside in the pile of corpses where Aramais had discovered Sarrin, then returned to their room. Shendklin locked the door before returning once more to her post by the window, while Sarrin quietly tended to his own injuries. Aramais lay down on the now-unoccupied couch, and closed his eyes. Shendklin was about to say something to him, when she noticed he was already asleep. She smiled slightly, and then resumed gazing at the battlefield below.

In the rain, in the dark, she could see the carrion beasts roaming, eating the flesh of the dead warriors below. Not long ago, the battlefield had been a wide green expanse upon which the king’s little castle had sat, where nobles amused themselves hunting with dogs and falcons, or sat at little tables and read while eating tea cakes. Not long ago this had been a beautiful little kingdom, ruled by a wise and kindly sovereign, who was much loved by his subjects. Now the field was a mosaic of death, and the little castle that had once been covered with vines and growing things was dark and dead, and the king within a skeletal demon with eyes of sickly yellow fire. His very presence was enough to drive living things mad, and his touch caused the hideous transformation into undead creatures. The carrion beasts below had once been his stable of fine horses, now nothing more than fell and sickly monsters. Their bite also caused the plague, as did the touch of any affected.

“We need a great fire,” she said.

“We need to leave,” said Sarrin.

“And go where? The plague will spread, we cannot hide.”

“I did not say hide. But the healer’s little house stands yet. It is but a short way from here. There would be a better place to wait for our injuries to heal. I prefer stone walls and a locked door to half a crumbling house.”

“Does the healer still live?”

“I do not know.”

Shendklin thought on what he said, and then nodded. “First light, we shall go.”

***---***

Aramais was gently awakened by Shendklin just before dawn. Outside, the undead beasts staggered back to their hiding places as daybreak threatened, the light intolerable to their rotting flesh. Aramais rubbed his eyes, then glanced towards Whitebird, unsure if he was relieved to see he still lived.

“Sarrin has suggested we go to the healer’s cottage,” Shendklin said quietly. “I agree with him.”

Aramais yawned. “And I with the both of you. We may find more living folk. Certainly there will be more to aid Whitebird there than here. Are the monsters gone?”

“They are going. Two of the carrion mares are downstairs, but once dawn breaks, they will not trouble us.”

He nodded, then rose and stretched. His body ached, and he was tired. He mused irritably that he was not as young as he once was. Even his hair was beginning to show a few threads of grey. He pulled it back and braided it loosely, clamping his helm over it. Then he began gathering up the remaining useful bits of Whitebird’s ornate armour.

“Shendklin, can you carry this?”

She took the ungainly bundle of armour he offered her. Had it been of human make, it would have most certainly been too heavy for her to carry. As it was, the Elven mail was still not light, but not beyond her ability to lift. As soon as Aramais saw that Shendklin could carry the armour, he bent and picked up Whitebird. The Elf was not terribly weighty, either, but he was very long of limb, and made an ungainly load for Aramais to carry. He dared not sling the Elf over one shoulder; if Whitebird awoke in so undignified a position, Aramais would have a fight on his hands, if not a knife in his back. He looked towards Sarrin, who was carefully sliding his boot over his broken ankle.

“Sarrin, are you able to keep up?”

The young man glanced about the room, and, noticing a walking stick, picked it up and leaned on it. “I am with you.”

Aramais nodded, then stepped back to permit Sarrin to open the door and peer out. Looking past Sarrin’s shoulder, Aramais was sickened to see that the man who had died in their care had indeed returned, and had been attempting to climb up the stairs to their haven when dawn caught him. To make matters worse, something, quite likely a carrion beast, had bitten his legs off. Aramais wanted to vomit as he stepped over the corpse.

“Do not touch him,” said Sarrin. “He has the plague.”

“No need to tell me,” said Shendklin.

She stepped carefully over the body, and then set down the armour to help Sarrin manoeuvre by the corpse. Then they made their way carefully past the silent, yet still watchful, carrion beasts. The two grey forms stood side by side, looking much like the horses they used to be. The only obvious difference was the bulging white eyes and the long, grotesque jaws with which they devoured the fallen, though that would change soon enough. Their rotting hides would soon begin to fall apart, revealing their undead nature. Even now they stunk of death, and did not flinch as the flies settled on them and bit. They were past feeling, but as of yet not past prowling the night and feasting on the unwary.

The four left the crumbling house and began walking towards the cottage. Aramais was glad they had decided to move, if for no other reason than the cottage was much more pleasant than the battlefield house. Herbs even still grew within the little stone-fenced yard; the last living green for miles. It was not far away, but the weight they carried and Sarrin’s injuries made it seem a great distance. For over an hour they walked before finally reaching the cottage. Sarrin limped up to the heavy oak door and knocked.

“Who’s there?” called a frightened voice.

Aramais sighed with relief. “Aramais of the guard! I have injured with me.”

He heard the heavy bar that held the door closed from within being raised, then a male voice shouted; “Don’t let them in, woman! They may have the plague!”

“Then I’ll give them you, you’re naught but a pain where I sit.”

Elaran the Healer opened the door. She was older than she looked, with long dark red hair starting to grey, but she was tall and slim, and still strong, possessing a nature that made her positively daunting at times. She stepped aside to let the four into the cottage; Aramais entering first, carrying Whitebird over to the nearest bed and laying him down. Elaran came to look him over, and then began cleaning his injuries, while Shendklin set the armour down and dropped into a chair. Sarrin likewise found a place to sit. Aramais turned to speak to the man in Elaran’s cottage, and paused. His eyes narrowed.

“Well as I live and breathe. Randereth. I see you’ve managed to save your hide.”

The knight glared at him. “You’ll mind your tone, guardsman.”

“For years I have, but no longer. You’re a coward. I saw you flee the field, as did my men, and Whitebird’s. Are you even injured, or are you just taking up space?”

“You’ll hang for that!” snarled Randereth.

“He’ll not while I live,” snapped Shendklin.

Randereth sneered at the thief. “Shendklin the Dark. And who sits beside you? Sarrin the Bard? Quite the following you have, Aramais. A dead Elf, a woman, and a f….”

“Take your name-calling outside!” said Elaran. “I’ll have none of it! Aramais, pass me that jar, will you? And put some water on to boil. Fill the large cauldron.”

Aramais bowed to her and went to do as he was bid. Shendklin yawned.

“Do you need any assistance?”

“No, I can manage, thank you. Perhaps however I can prevail upon you to make breakfast? You being the only person uninjured besides Aramais, and I’ve already seen him cook. He’s a good man but honestly he could burn water.”

Shendklin hopped to her feet. “Your wish is my command, oh lady of the herbs and roots.”

Elaran laughed as she poured hot water from a kettle on the stove into a bowl, and then began mixing in other ingredients, making a cleansing salve. Finally she went over to the bed where Whitebird lay and removed his torn and dirty tunic to clean him. Aramais returned with the large cauldron, setting it on the grate above the fire. He sat down on the floor and sighed wearily, leaning against the wall, then smiled as Elaran’s winged cat crawled into his lap, purring. He rubbed her furry grey head, enjoying the sound of her contented rumble.

“Well I see the matters of war and death matter naught to cats, so long as there are men left who know how to scratch an ear! Good morning to you, Rui!”

“And what is more important than a properly scratched ear?” said Sarrin.

“Nothing,” said Aramais, stroking the cat, toying gently with her gold-tipped grey wings. “But we do have to decide what we will do once Whitebird can travel.”

“We will go south,” said Elaran, cleaning the blood out of the Elven warrior’s hair.
Sarrin turned to look at her.

“South? Why south?”

“Not long before the battle, I saw two riders leave the castle. They were in the garb of the king’s personal guard, and each was carrying something. Something the king did not want us to have if he lost the fight.”

“How do you know they carried anything important?” asked Shendklin.

“As a healer I was frequently in the castle, attending to the queen before death took her. I have heard things, and so has Rui,” she said, indicating the cat. “Rui has heard that this evil stems from dire spells within five books the king kept locked in a tower room.”

“Tend to your healing, woman,” said Randereth dismissively, “no one wants to hear your cat-fantasies.”

“I do,” said a soft voice. Slowly, carefully, Whitebird turned his head and looked towards Randereth. “You’ll hold your tongue, coward. I saw you flee the field. Before even the first demon showed its yellow eyes, you fled. Now you try to make up for it by bullying your betters. Shut up.”

Aramais watched with trepidation as Whitebird slowly sat up, his eerie blue-white eyes searching the room, dreading the inevitable question. The tall Elven lord seemed puzzled.

“Where is Hunter?”

Aramais swallowed, steeling himself. “He is dead, my Lord. The plague took him.”

Whitebird looked towards Aramais, his eyes cold. “What did you say?”

“My Lord, you should rest….”

“What happened to him?” Whitebird demanded. He tried to stand, but his legs would not hold him. Aramais began to fear for his life.

“The plague! He was in agony. He….” Aramais swallowed. “He could not be saved.”

He watched Whitebird try to take in the information. As far as Aramais knew, there had never been a time in Whitebird’s life when he did not know Hunter. They had been born in the same village, had been infants and children together, then lovers and warriors. They had risen together to positions of wealth and nobility in Elven society, even though Hunter had only been half-Elvish; their positions not gained by fawning and flattery, but by their combined lethal might against foes of the realm. In battle they had been utterly formidable; Whitebird with his pair of deadly fast swords, and Hunter with his bow. Never in their lives had they been parted. Now Hunter was gone forever.

Aramais watched Whitebird. The Elf seemed dazed, confused. He looked around the room, still expecting to see his ever-present lover. Aramais closed his eyes, trying not to recall how Hunter had looked before his death. His green eyes had become pale and filmy, his skin grey with the pallor of death. He had sat, shaking and injured amongst the monsters he had slain. Their blood had splashed onto him, and the transformation into an undead creature was well advanced when Aramais had found him. There was nothing anyone could do to save him. Aramais shook his head to clear away the memory of the sound of the arrow cutting through gristle and flesh, finding its way into Hunter’s heart.

“Dead?” said Whitebird, looking confused. “My Hunter?”

“Rest,” said Elaran gently, “you are weak.”

Aramais felt his heart sink. With a few words, he had reduced once of the greatest Elven warriors to despair. He stroked Rui’s soft fur, drawing solace from the contented cat, while Whitebird’s breathing began to hitch, and tears ran from the eerie blue-white eyes.

“Aramais!” Whitebird cried, the dismay in his voice a knife in the guardsman’s heart. “Is he dead? Tell me he is not roaming the field, devouring rotted flesh! Is he dead?”

Aramais felt ill inside. “I found him beneath a tree, surrounded by the dead. They had clawed and bitten him many times, and though he was victorious in his battle, he had been so badly infected that the plague was turning him while even yet he lived. He… he begged me to not let him turn.”

Whitebird stared at Aramais. “You killed my Hunter.”

Aramais was afraid to open his eyes, afraid for his very life. “I had to.”

The silence was thick, strangling Aramais. At last he opened his eyes, and saw Whitebird looking back at him. He expected to see hate in the Elf’s eyes, but saw only concern.

“You were kind, I hope.”

“I was,” said Aramais softly. “He died quickly. I took care to hit the heart. He told me…. he told me to tell you to remember him by the…. morning’s fall?”

Whitebird smiled slightly. “Morning Falls. A waterfall near where we grew up.” The Elf fell silent for a time, his blue-white eyes sad and distant. Then he looked towards Elaran. “You were telling us of a theory you had, dear lady.”

Elaran nodded. “I…. I believe the riders I saw were carrying something that the king did not want to fall into enemy hands. Something perhaps we could use to reverse the damage done. Rui made her way into a tower room one day. She said she saw five bone pedestals, each with a large book resting upon it, bound in strange leather she said looked like the hide of a great lizard.”

“Dragon skin, perhaps?” said Sarrin.

“I do not know,” said Elaran. “But Rui flew to the tower after the riders had gone. She said the books were no longer there.”

“So we go south because of an old woman who fancies she can talk to a cat,” said Randereth, rolling his eyes.

“What lies south?” Aramais asked Sarrin.

The bard thought briefly. “The king’s hunting lodge, deep in the woods. It is not easy to reach, even in fair weather. In late winter, with the undead roaming freely about…. it would be a dangerous trek, perhaps for nothing.”

“Have we a better idea?” said Shendklin. “I for one do not wish to sit here and wait for a carrion beast to make a meal of me.”

“We need make no decisions this moment,” said Whitebird. “I for one am in no shape to travel. Nor is Sarrin.”

Aramais looked down at the winged cat in his lap. “Does Rui know of anything else in the castle? Anything that perhaps we could use?”

Elaran shook her head. “The castle is all but empty. The king trusts no one and nothing. Anything of importance is either hidden or destroyed. I… I told no one, but I know the king killed the queen. Murdered her and his daughters, and several others of the court.”

“I thought the plague took them,” said Sarrin.

“And so we were told,” said Elaran. “But they were poisoned. I was not allowed to tend them, of course. If it was plague as I was told, then there was nothing I could do anyway. But if it was plague, why were they permitted to lie in state for three days?”

Aramais raised his head, eyes widening in surprise. “If it was the plague that took them, they would have risen as ghouls!”

Elaran nodded. “I went into the chamber where the little princesses lay.” She shook her head, eyes filling with sadness at the memory of what she had seen. “I have been a healer many years, and I know poison when I see it. The king has been mad far longer than we knew. He took great pains to keep his evil plans secret. There is nothing in that castle save for his majesty, or rather, what is left of him.”

“Then our path is clear,” said Whitebird, easing himself down onto the bed once more. “We rest here, with the consent of our lady Elaran. We keep ourselves safe, and we get well and strong. Then we go south.”

***---***

They did not stay long in Elaran’s stone house.

The first night passed quietly enough, as did the second. Come the third, however, there were ominous scratching sounds at the door, and the scrape of lifeless fingers over the shutters as the prying undead sought the source of their warmth. Elaran and Shendklin huddled together on a matt near the fire, frightened but silent, with Rui crouched between them, her golden eyes wide. Shendklin had her short sword and dagger out, ready to defend herself if needs must. Aramais sat, bow in hand, on the narrow bed, Whitebird beside him, his twin swords at the ready. Sarrin held his small crossbow, which he used for catching rabbits, and would likely be of little used against plague-zombies and carrion beasts, but he was determined to not die easily.

Randereth meanwhile cowered under the covers like a child.

For the whole foul night the small group made no sound to draw any more of the ghouls to their cottage. When the sun at last rose, all were exhausted. Their haven was safe no longer; they would have to go.

There was scant little to pack. Elaran had no great store of supplies other than her healing herbs. Still, they gathered what food and blankets there were. Elaran packed a few clothes, and then picked up a lead for a horse. Randereth immediately noticed the gesture.

“What do you need that for?”

“My pony,” said Elaran.

“You have a pony, woman? Why did you not mention this before?”

“Where do you think I go every morning, for a cheerful walk amongst the flies and rot? Yes, I have a pony.”

“Good,” said Randereth, “then I at least shall be spared the indignity of walking.”

Whitebird opened his mouth to say something to the arrogant nobleman, but Elaran interrupted him.

“Oh no, Lord Whitebird, it is fine by me. If Sir Randereth wishes to claim my pony as a mount, then far be it from me to argue! I shall fetch him for you, Sir Randereth!”

Elaran left the cabin. Whitebird shook his head over the matter, then began tying on his greaves. Shendklin came over to help him, knowing the Elven warrior was still somewhat addled from his head injury, and placed the ornate, silvery-white gorget around his throat, fastening it. Aramais went over to Sarrin.

“Are you going to be able to travel?” he asked.

“I have no choice,” said the bard. “Certainly I cannot stay here.”

Aramais glanced over at Randereth, who was pointedly ignoring Sarrin. It was true Sarrin had a broken ankle, but he was, after all, only a bard, and certainly not entitled to any favours. Randereth was determined to ride, and Sarrin could stumble along as best he may. Then the door opened, and in walked Elaran, followed closely by a tiny, hairy little brown beast. It was a sturdy animal, and healthy, but its back scarcely rose to the height of the table top.

“Your mount, sir!” said Elaran, and handed Randereth the lead.

Whitebird burst out laughing, as did everyone else except Randereth.

“What is this thing?” he demanded. “A hairy dog?”

“Oh no, sir knight!” said Elaran, her voice sharp with sarcasm. “’Tis your mighty steed! Of course I’m not sure how far he can carry you. You might want to try keeping your feet on the ground to ease the weight off his back when you ride him.”

Randereth dropped the lead and snatched up his sword before storming outside to await the others, followed by howls of mirth. At last, Shendklin dried her eyes and went over to the very small pony, stroking his mane.

“How strong is he?” she asked, pushing the little beast’s forelock away from his large brown eyes.

“Strong enough to carry Sarrin, if that’s what you would like to know,” said Elaran. She looked towards the bard. “If you don’t mind looking a bit ridiculous.”

Sarrin was smaller and more lightly built than the large knight, and as he did not wear armor, he weighed quite little. He chuckled.

“Just be sure to put me back on if I fall from laughing at the memory of the look on Randereth’s face.”

***---***

They set out into the morning light; Sarrin perched on the small pony, holding Rui on his lap. They crossed the battlefield carefully, avoiding as much of the gore as possible. Their path was meandering, and it took them a long time, but they dared not risk coming any closer to the infected dead than they had to. They were very nearly out of the field when they saw a lonely tree, bent and partly smashed by stones and ballista. Whitebird halted, and looked towards it, his blue-white eyes picking out the solitary form that lay under its branches.

“Aramais,” said the Elf, “is that the place?”

Aramais felt his stomach clench. He could not look to the place where Hunter lay, though he nodded.

“Aye.”

Whitebird paused for a long moment, weighing the need to leave with his desire to say goodbye to his lover. Finally desire won over, and he moved quickly and lightly over to the dead body. Shendklin came to stand beside Aramais, linking her arm through his, offering her silent support. Randereth scowled.

“You did not bury him?”

Aramais felt a near-overwhelming urge to tell the large man to piss off. He was pleased when Elaran did it for him. The group waited quietly for Whitebird to say his final goodbyes. The Elf did not linger long beneath the tree, returning after only a brief while, his face grim, wiping at his streaming eyes. They once more moved forward, saying nothing as Whitebird composed himself.

“I thank you,” Whitebird said quietly.

Aramais paused in surprise. “I only did…”

“You did more than you had to. You spared him his pain, but you also laid him out according to the ways of our people, above ground, and with the weapons of his vanquished about him. I thank you, Aramais.” Then the tall Elf strode off, marching ahead of the group, trying to save his dignity as he wept.

Shendklin smiled at Aramais. “That was kind of you.”

Aramais leaned close to the little thief, so he could whisper into her ear. “It was an accident.”

She gave him a blank look. “I don’t understand.”

“The laying of the body, it was an accident. I had no time to bury him, so I just… put him under the tree and piled the weapons there. It was all I could think to do. I had no idea it was Elven custom with their warriors.”

Shendklin glanced over at Whitebird, then returned her gaze to Aramais. “I would keep that between thee and me, if I were you.”

“Thank you, I believe I shall. No need to tempt fate.”

She smiled a little, then asked; “So why does he hate you?”

Aramais shook his head. “I don’t wish to discuss that now, ‘tis a black tale.”

She nodded. “All right, another time, then. I shall scout ahead, and see if I can find a place where we may rest an hour or so.”

He watched her jog ahead of the party, passing Whitebird like a small black spirit, her cloak blowing out behind her.

***---***

They found a small clearing by a pond. They checked the water carefully as they were able for anything dead in it, but it seemed clear. They drank and filled their water skins, then cleaned the pony’s hairy hooves. Rui caught herself a mouse for lunch, and ate it from her lofty perch upon the pony’s back, while the pony chewed what grass there was. It was by now late afternoon, but they were at last clear of the battlefield.

“We shall have a long walk yet,” said Whitebird. “We cannot tell how close we are to any wandering corpses or carrion mares.”

“There is a cave not far from here,” said Shendklin. “Smugglers use it, or rather, they did. We may find dried foodstuffs there, and other supplies.”

Aramais gave her a jaundiced look. “As well as stolen articles, no doubt.”

Shendklin tried to look innocent. “Why Aramais, whatever can you mean!”

“I had hoped to find where you hid, though under different circumstances.”

“Under different circumstances, you would still be seeking it, and we would still be singing merrily about your attempts.”

“I am pleased to know you held me in such regard.”

“You’re quite welcome. ‘Tis but another hour or so from here. We will reach it before dark.”

“Then let us hope it has not been found by other things,” said Whitebird.

***---***

Shendklin led them off the narrow road and into the deep woods, weaving her way unerringly through dense brush and aged, moss-ridden trees. At last she stopped by a stony outcropping, rising far above the forest floor. Aramais had seen the outcrop many times, and had long suspected the thieves were nearby, but had never been able to find them. He watched as Shendklin hoisted herself into a birch tree, climbing high amidst its branches. Reaching out, she pulled at something hidden amongst the moss on the stone, and slowly, quietly, a great door swung open. Grinning, she climbed down the tree, hopping from a low branch the last few feet to the ground. Aramais sighed heavily, and then bowed low.

“My lady, I bow before your creativity. Many, many times I have followed trails to this very stone, and never once dreamed the hideout was in the stone itself.”

“Thank you my Lord. Shall we go in? Bring the pony, there are stores and a small stable inside.”

Shendklin stepped into the doorway, and was greeted by the loud neigh of a horse. Whitebird quickly followed after her, while Aramais helped Sarrin from the weary pony’s back. Once inside, Aramais was struck by the foul stink of a stall neglected for days, and the excited sounds of an animal desperately glad to see people. Shendklin was leading the half-starved horse over to a bale of hay, speaking soothingly to it.

“Do you know this animal?” Aramais asked.

Shendklin nodded, eyes shining with tears. “Aye, and her owner. Bryannon would never leave his horse in such a state. Something must have happened to him.”

Aramais stood, feeling helpless, not knowing what to say. At last he walked over to the fouled stall and picked up a shovel to clean it. A natural stone basin had caught the cold clear water that seeped in from a nearby spring, so the horse at least had water to drink. But it had been a long wait for food, and the creature was thin and weak. He cleaned the stall, laying down fresh straw and filling the manger. Shendklin and Elaran brushed the horse and pony, while Aramais tried to find the source of a new unpleasant odour. Finally a thought occurred to him, and he looked down at himself.

“I would give much for a bath,” he said.

“As would I,” said Whitebird. “I have not had one since before I marched forth with my archers and warriors.”

“A bath can be arranged,” said Shendklin. “And a decent meal. There are stores here for man and beast.”

Randereth went over to a chest by a wall and opened it. He reached in and pulled out a large, jewelled sash.

“There must be a king’s ransom in here!”

“Probably two kings’ worth,” said Shendklin. “The king was sending forth treasure to parts unknown, to hire mercenaries to add to his collection of monsters. We intercepted well nigh all of it.”

“Then we owe you thanks,” said Whitebird, “the battle was hard enough.”

“Why do such a thing?” asked Randereth. “Why would scoundrels care if a king wishes to hire mercenaries for war?”

“Because scoundrel or not, this is my home, too. Or was, rather. I did not wish to see it destroyed. Not that my efforts did any good.”

“You may have saved our lives,” said Aramais.

“Then that, at least, is something.” Shendklin smiled at him wearily. “Come, there is a small bathing chamber back here. The water will be cold, but it is better than nothing.

Disclaimer:

All original fiction and the characters, places and situations with them are copyright Alyx Shaw, and may not be published, copied, distributed or archived without the author's prior written consent.

The characters, places and situations described in these stories are fictional unless otherwise stated in the story headings.

(C) 2008 Alyx Shaw