Even Fall
Chapter Three

Rating: R
Warnings: Violence, angst.
Summary: Meetings and Partings.

Aramais was not certain exactly when during the winter he and Whitebird finally became friends, but he was glad to be able to enjoy the Elf’s company. They had much in common, and they spent a great deal of time in quiet conversation, exchanging skills, knowledge, and taking comfort in each others’ presence. Neither Whitebird nor Aramais were unaware of the opinions of the other three members of their group, who seemed to think this was a budding romance. But it was friendship and nothing more, and both he and Whitebird understood that.

Having once had the full focus of Whitebird’s loathing, Aramais found he much preferred being friends with him. The Elf had a quirky and fast sense of humour, and it was not difficult to see why his soldiers had followed him for so long, even into a battle that had killed them all. He knew how to lead, but he also knew when to back off and let another take over if the situation required it. The only person in the group he ever clashed with was Shendklin, but even they bore no great animosity to each other. In fact, the only thing they really fought about was how many times a day Sarrin should play the unicorn song.

“Seven times a day is plenty,” said Whitebird, seating himself next to Aramais. He passed him a glass of wine.

“Oh thanks, dear,” said Aramais.

Shendklin watched the interaction, clearly trying to make up her mind about them. “I do not think once an hour is excessive.”

“I do,” said Whitebird. “Wretched depressing little ditty.” He looked at Aramais and smiled. “More venison, handsome?”

“Ta, love.”

“And what do you think, Aramais?” asked Shendklin.

He cocked a thumb at Whitebird. “I’m a soldier, I think whatever he tells me to think.”

She rolled her eyes and walked away. Aramais was currently unable to sip his wine as he was quietly laughing. He leaned over to Whitebird and said; “We’re driving her mad with this, you know.”

“Serves her right for driving us mad with that tune. Tomorrow let’s you and I go through that store room on the third level; I saw some scrolls up there. I’d like to know if there’s anything in them we can use.”

“Personally I would not mind a map.”

Whitebird looked at Aramais, puzzled. “You have lived long in this area; I should think you would know it rather well.”

“Well, parts of it, yes. But not the area off the road to the Lodge. We guards were not permitted to go there, it was Royal ground.”

“And what, pray tell, is so sacred about a patch of scraggly forest?”

Aramais shrugged. “Well, not much, really. But the nobles and royals have their crypts and tombs in a hidden cemetery. The area is patrolled by war dogs to keep out thieves.”

“Crypts?” said Whitebird, surprised.

“Yes. Supposedly they’re quite large and go far underground. They call it the City of the…Dead…”

Aramais and Whitebird fell silent, staring at each other as a thought came to them.

“We have to find this place,” said Whitebird.

“Aye,” said Aramais. “And destroy it.” He rose to his feet and called to Shendklin. “Oh, noble thief, may we have your esteemed and unicorn-obsessed presence over here?”

Shendklin turned in surprise from the pot she had been sneaking bits of potato from. She walked towards them, licking her fingers. “And what would you two require?”

“The City of the Dead,” said Aramais, “do you know where it is?”

“Well, I’m not saying I’ve never looked for it, but the dogs always chased me off. Why would you need to know about it?”

“We fear it may have become the City of the Undead.”

“A perfect place for housing an army of corpses, a large underground catacomb,” said Whitebird. “Doubtless the King thought of this long before we did.”

Elaran walked over, hearing the matter they were discussing, holding her winged cat. “Rui can scout the area. She can tell me what she sees.”

“Would she be willing to go out tonight and learn the way for us?” asked Aramais.

Elaran looked distressed at the idea of her cat out in the dark, but nodded. “I think so. I shall ask.”

“She can guide us there in the daylight,” said Whitebird. “We have to destroy this, or we are all doomed.”

***---***

The snow was deep, and it crunched beneath their feet and filled their boots as they walked. Above them, Rui flitted from tree branch to tree branch, leading Whitebird, Aramais and Shendklin to the City of the Dead. The sun was high, but did nothing to warm them as they trudged along. Nothing moved in the still winter woods, and Aramais feared what that may mean. Shendklin paused, then looked around.

“I see no dogs,” she said quietly. “There should have been dogs by now.”

“There would be no one to care for them,” said Aramais. “Perhaps they would have left this area, or starved.”

“Or perhaps they are underground, living with the Undead,” said Whitebird quietly. “We can take no chances. Keep alert. The pus may be washed off, but one bite and you are doomed.”

They kept on, trudging through the silent woods, until at last they reached a huge black gate wrought of iron, set into a wall crafted of large blocks of grey stone, mortared solidly into place. Resting atop the gate posts was a pair of great eagles, crafted of obsidian and gold.

“We are here,” said Shendklin. She glanced about for dogs, then stepped forward, examining the gate. “Locked,” she said. She took hold of it and began climbing. Aramais and Whitebird followed her.

They dropped down into the cemetery, and Aramais watched as Whitebird began stepping around nervously, rather like a cat on a hot surface. He seemed reluctant to keep his feet on the ground, and finally hopped onto a broken monument. He perched like a bird, and surveyed the area.

“I see nothing,” he said quietly. “Only snow and stone monuments. The mausoleums are ahead.”

Shendklin began walking forward, and Aramais waited for Whitebird to get down from his perch. The Elf plainly did not wish to do so, but finally hopped down, skittering like a cat from one perch to the other.

“What plagues you?” asked Aramais irritably, who could not believe Whitebird would choose this time of all others to begin acting the fool.

The Elf scrambled onto a stone marker, staring at the ground with fear and sadness.

“The dead cry out when they cannot rest.”

“You hear the undead?”

Whitebird shook his head. “I do not hear creatures of evil. I hear the dead. I hear their voices through the ground when I walk upon it. I hear the murdered, the betrayed, and those who died too young. I hear them plead for justice and the return of life, and their voices fill my mind. There are many here who died in a manner other than what those around them believed. Children even are here. First-born daughters killed for not being a son, sons who were killed for being perceived as a threat. So much grief.” He shuddered. “I shall be glad to be away from here.”

Whitebird hopped from the monument to a low stone border, following its length to the great crypt Shendklin led them to. He bounced from the border to the bottom step of the crypt, and then walked up to the great marble door. He gave it a light push, and it slowly, silently, swung inwards. He was about to enter when Shendklin put her hand on his shoulder and gently drew him back.

“The way may be trapped. I know what signs to look for. I should go first.”

Whitebird nodded, and stepped back. Shendklin slid into the dark opening, while Aramais watched Rui take to the air and fly back to their stronghold. He wished he was going with the little grey cat, and smiled as he watched her bank sharply to pursue a small bird. Then he and Whitebird stepped into the darkness.

The chamber was rich enough for the pampered living, never mind those who were past noticing. The walls were of rare stone; a white marble with thin veins of gold running through it. The floor was a similar stone, but black rather than white. In the centre of the room stood a small inlayed table, holding a black vase filled with long-dead and rotting flowers. Once those flowers would have been changed daily by the grounds keeper, but now they hung like blackened slimy fingers from the edge of the costly vase.

On either side of the room was a door, their frames gilded, their hinges glowing gold, leading into the depths of the catacombs. Set into their wooden surfaces were jewelled mosaics of birds and flowers. Aramais could not begin to guess at their worth. Whitebird curled his lip.

“The wealth of kings squandered on the dead, while people starve and beg in the streets. When this long battle is over, I hope every thief in the land loots these damn tombs!”

“Me first! Me first!” said Shendklin happily, and they laughed.

“But of course,” said Whitebird. “You shall be the Queen of Thieves, and lie on a pile of gold, with a dragon as a pet. And to it you may feed those who offend your illustrious personage.”

“I like that idea,” she said. “But I shall have to wait awhile before my coronation.” She searched the door carefully, not touching it. For a long time she scrutinized, then carefully raised the tip of her dagger to the eye of one bird.

“This is no eye,” she said quietly. “This is a small opening. Most likely an exit for a very nasty surprise.”

She ducked low, then reached out and carefully squeezed the door handle. There was no sound, but Aramais saw the thin dart shoot out of the bird’s eye. Had Shendklin been standing, it would have struck her in the face. The dart struck the floor and began to hiss as a burning poison slowly leaked out of it.

“I hate mosaics,” said Shendklin, opening the door.

“I can see why,” said Aramais.

They stepped through the door and met with a long, wide passage, slowly leading down to the catacombs. Whitebird stepped cautiously onto the floor, and found it was stone, not earth. He would not have to listen to the voices of the dead just yet. He stood still and listened hard.

“Nothing,” he whispered.

The three proceeded into the darkness. Shendklin found a torch in the wall, oiled and ready for the use of nobles who would never come for it. She used a flint to strike a spark and lit it. The hall glowed with the warm orange light, and they kept onward, finally reaching the lower level. Whitebird stepped onto the level clay floor, and then hopped back as the screaming of the dead reached him. Aramais watched the tall Elf.

“Shall I carry you?” Aramais asked.

Whitebird shook his head. “No. I cannot help them, so I must ignore them for now.” He took a breath to steady himself, then stepped onto the clay floor. He winced, but kept moving.

Whitebird shivered and sweated, but he said not a word as the trio made their way down the hall. Past alcoves of the dead royals, laid out in their burial finery, they made their way, keeping their eyes averted from the rotting presence of the corpses. But there seemed to be nothing amiss within the catacombs; the dead here it seemed were truly dead. They returned at last to the room with the vase. Much of the day had worn away, and Whitebird was well-near collapse. He had not complained once throughout the ordeal, but it was plain to Aramais that the Elf would not be able to withstand much more of this. Shendklin too, had noticed, and her eyes met Aramais’ in silent agreement.

“It grows late,” she said. “If there are undead here, they will be awake soon. I will check this door for traps, then let us be on our way. We can inspect the second passage tomorrow.”

Whitebird nodded, exhausted and shaking. “Very well. But tomorrow we must attempt to reach this place all the earlier. I do not wish to be caught here after dark. I did not realize the passages would be so long.”

Shendklin examined the second door that led to the yet-unexplored catacomb. She found a tiny opening like the one in the first door. She ducked and squeezed the handle, but this time nothing happened. She squeezed the door handle again, and still there was no dart. She crossed the room and studied the floor, finding what she sought. She bent and picked up a small dart.

“This trap has been sprung by someone else,” she said.

Aramais opened the door, and saw the tell-tale signs that someone had indeed been there. In fact, he could hear voices in the distance, arguing. The three paused, listening, but the voices were too far away for them to discern what they were saying.

Whitebird glanced outside at the sun, still in the sky, though not by much. “It is not undead,” he said.

“Thieves?” asked Aramais.

“That would be my guess,” said Shendklin. “I will go down and look.”

“Not alone,” said Whitebird. “It may be a new monster we have not seen yet. We all go or none of us go.”

She rolled her eyes. “Fine. But I doubt it is more than a few of my fellow tradesmen.”

They crept into the passage and began following the slope downwards. As the neared the voices, Aramais was certain Shendklin was right; it was thieves.

“You’re a fool, Brenin, a plain fool. There may be the wealth of the gods themselves down here, but it will do us no good if we die, or worse! Now is the time to leave!”

“Coward! Get that tiara, while I go for another chest.”

“I won’t do it! We’ve got more than we can carry now! There’s only the two of us! We can take some now and come back for more when the sun is up!”

“Rhasis if you think of bailing on me now I swear…!”

Shendklin stepped up to the pair. “Brenin you’re a greedy idiot. No wonder no one likes you.”

Both rogues turned. The larger man curled his lip at her. The smaller, younger man immediately smiled, his delight at seeing her obvious.

“Shendklin! Shendklin my little rogue! How are you? I thought you’d swung!”

She stepped forward and hugged him. “I managed to escape, with a little help.” She squeezed him tightly, then stepped back. She pushed his dark hair away from his face. “You have to get out of here. It’s getting dark.”

“He’s going nowhere and neither are you!” snapped Brenin. “You can either grab a chest or take off your clothes. Either way, make yourself useful.”

Whitebird stepped out of the dark, Aramais close behind him. “I do not like your tone with our lady friend there,” the Elf said. “She has some bad habits, true, but wasting her virtue on cretins is not one I have noticed.”

“Not that you noticed,” muttered Shendklin, and grinned.

Rhasis backed up, glancing from Shendklin to the man and Elf. He knew both of them, and had lost more than one friend to them. Whitebird especially he feared, knowing his habit of leaving thieves and bandits hanging by their own guts.

“Shendie?” he asked, his tone nervous.

Shendklin put her hand on his arm. “It’s okay,” she said. “They are with me. Rhasis, this is Aramais, and Whitebird. They are my friends.” She looked over her shoulder at the pair. “Rhasis is my friend too, so no killing each other.”

Aramais sheathed his sword to show his compliance with her request. Whitebird loomed at his side with a cold gleam in his eyes Aramais had seen far too often. However, he made no move to harm the thief. Rhasis grinned nervously.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Well I’m not!” said Brenin. “Get out and be gone with ya if ye won’t help!”

“And that is Brenin,” said Shendklin dryly. “He’s a pig and a drunk and a greedy fool, but once you get to know him he is completely loathsome.”

Rhasis stepped away from Brenin, then glanced nervously at Aramais. “We… we can’t leave yet.”

“The treasure will do you no good after you are dead,” said Aramais.

“I speak not of treasure. There is another of our brethren back in the passage. He... is covered in the plague slime. I know you can’t save him, but perhaps…”

“We will not go into the dark at this hour,” said Whitebird. “We must depart, and we must do it now!”

“I only ask a quick death for him! Please, I could not do it.”

“Who is it?” asked Shendklin.

“Bryannon,” said Rhasis.

She gasped, and then fled into the dark, searching for her friend. Aramais cursed and followed her.

Whitebird called after them; “Be quick! I shall await you in the upper chamber.”

Aramais and Shendklin were not gone long. They searched the corridor, but could find no sign of Bryannon, or indeed any indication of plague-slime. Shendklin was distraught and grief-stricken, but when Aramais reminded her they had no more time to search, she nodded and came with him, taking his arm as they walked, weeping.

“We will look for him tomorrow,” said Aramais gently.

“But… he will have turned...” she said, her voice tight with sadness.

“I am sorry, Shendklin. Truly I am.”

Aramais led her back to the spot where they had left Rhasis. He moved towards her, putting a comforting arm around her.

“He was not there,” said Aramais. “And we cannot take the time to look for him. We must go.”

He began making his way up the ramp, pausing to look at Shendklin, who was crying against Rhasis. Aramais knew Bryannon; he went by the name of Bryannon the Crow, and Aramais had faced him on several occasions. He had a difficult time matching the image of the lethally fast and dangerous rogue who had killed several of his men over the years with the young woman weeping for him.

“Shendklin?” he said gently.

She nodded. “I’ll be right there,” she said.

She put her head against Rhasis’ shoulder, hanging her arms around his neck. Slowly, Aramais began walking up the ramp, but he did not like this situation. There was something wrong here. He paused, listening, still able to see the trio below, but not easily seen by them.

“There, there, Shendie,” said Rhasis softly. “We’ll take you home.”

Shendklin was still distraught. “Why him? He was always kind to me, he practically raised me! He was a good person.” She sniffed. “We have to end this damn plague.”

“We do,” said Rhasis. “We’ll help, me and ol’ Brenin the Bastard.”

Shendklin smiled slightly, hearing Brenin grumble under his breath. Rhasis gave her another hug, and said; “We’ll take you home. Are you in the shack?”

She shook her head. “No, it’s not safe. We’re in the old armoury hideout.”

“It’s still standing? It’s not filled with undead?”

She shook her head again, drying her eyes. “No. It’s safe.”

He nodded. “That’s good.”

The blows came at the same time, from two different directions. Rhasis shoved his dagger into her guts, while Brenin drove his own blade into her back. Shendklin made a small cry, her eyes wide with shock and disbelief, and she stared at the man she had long believed to be her friend. She could do nothing as he yanked the dagger out, then turned and flung it at Aramais as he ran down the ramp to Shendklin’s aid. The blade struck him, then fell to the floor with a clang, having met the chain mail Aramais wore beneath his shirt and tunic. He saw Shendklin drop to her knees, blood running down her clothing and pooling around her.

“Whitebird!” he yelled, and pulled his sword.

Whitebird tore down the ramp and passed Aramais, both swords drawn. He moved so fast that Aramais did not see him so much as feel the breeze of his movement, and heard the flutter of his cape. He slew Rhasis so fast that the thief simply stood with an astounded look on his face, finally slumping to the floor, his head falling off his shoulders as he dropped.

Brenin dropped to his knees and yelled for mercy, but Whitebird did not slow in his advance. Brenin’s head rolled as had his companion’s. Whitebird sheathed his swords and knelt down beside Shendklin, gently picking her up, cradling her again his chest. Aramais came to kneel down beside the two, and reached out to take her hand.

Shendklin looked at Whitebird’s face, then raised up a hand to gently touch him, her fingers leaving smears of blood over his pale skin. She smiled, and he saw the familiar glint in her eye that meant she was up to some mischief. She took a handful of his thick hair and pulled him close, kissing him.

“Always wanted to do that,” she said softly. Then she went limp, seeming to deflate as her spirit left her body. Whitebird gently carried her over to the ramp, away from the bodies of the Rhasis and Brenin, and set her down upon the black marble.

“We must go,” said Whitebird. “We will come back for her tomorrow.”

They fled the crypt, running across the graveyard as the sky darkened, and the snow began to fall. Whitebird leapt and caught hold of the gate, climbing over it, then pausing to wait for Aramais. The guardsman climbed over, without the light grace of the Elf, more or less falling from the top in his haste to leave. Together they made their way back to the stronghold.

Elaran and Sarrin looked up as the two entered, flakes of swirling snow following them. Aramais pulled the door closed, and Whitebird slumped to the floor, covered in blood. He began to weep, and Aramais dropped down beside him, putting his arms around the Elf.

Elaran came over to them. “Whitebird, are you hurt? The blood…” She looked around. “Where is Shendklin?”

It was a long time before they could tell her.

***---***

They returned to the crypt in the early morning. The graveyard was silent, and the even coating of silent snow told them that no undead were roaming this area. The cemetery had not been defiled by plague zombies.

Sarrin located a yet-unused mausoleum; a large and beautiful structure of white marble, flanked on other side by black stone horses dressed in funeral attire. They found a fur cloak amongst the treasure piled by Rhasis and Brenin, and they laid it upon the stone table in the mausoleum. Then, slowly, hour by hour, and chest by chest, they loaded the treasure into the stone house. They poured the gold and gems all over the table, and scattered it deep upon the floor, then brought the empty chests back to the passage to leave them among the bodies of Shendklin’s murderers.

When at last all was ready, they placed her on the same litter she had once helped to carry Sarrin on, and bore her out of the passage and to the stone house. They lay Shendklin on the table, on the gold and fur, then covered her with a cloth-of-gold sheet they had found in one of the chests. Aramais noticed something on the floor among the treasure, and picked it up. He smiled, and showed Whitebird the little gold statue.

“A dragon, to devour those who annoyed her illustrious personage.”

Whitebird smiled, and took the little dragon sculpture. He set it beside her on the table, then stepped back. He sighed.

“Play the damn song, Sarrin,” he said softly. Then he pulled out his dagger and began carving something into the door.

Elaran stepped close to Aramais, linking her arm through his while Sarrin played the unicorn song. Then when he was done, they quietly filed out of the mausoleum, and Whitebird pulled the door closed. They paused, and read the inscription;

‘Shendklin, Queen of Thieves.’

They gazed at the door in silence, and then slowly, quietly, they left the graveyard.

***---***

Spring finally arrived.

Aramais stepped out of the old armoury and looked around at the blooming and budding plant life, sniffed the sweet scent of spring born anew. He loved spring and all its wonders. The new life, the warmth, the smells, and how all the world seemed so clean, as though it had just awakened that very day. He took a deep breath, trying to take in as much of the fresh air as possible, then seated himself on a large stone to look around.

It was far too quiet.

There were still the sounds of birds and beasts, and other living creatures. But Aramais knew that from where the armoury was located, the sounds of village life should have reached him. He knew those sounds well; men singing in the fields, horses and oxen in harness ploughing the deep black earth. The sounds of the women talking and laughing as they sowed the seeds, and children paying noisy games, delighted at being free now that the snows were gone. But Aramais heard none of this as he sat on the rock, waiting for Whitebird.

The Elf had left at sunrise yesterday to make his way to the nearby village and see if anyone was alive. After Shendklin’s loss, Aramais had been unwilling to possibly lose another member of their party, but there was no arguing with the Snow Elf. They needed to know if anyone had survived the winter. If any among their group was capable of making the trip and surviving, it was Whitebird. So he had departed, promising to be back the next day. Now Aramais waited, hoping Whitebird was all right.

He glanced up as he heard Sarrin approach. The bard still had a slight limp, but his ankle had healed, and he was well enough to travel. He came to stand beside Aramais and rested a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“Such a fair and merry spring day,” said Sarrin, looking around. “Why do I feel as though I have been to a funeral?”

Aramais pushed his long brown hair back. “Because all the world is a graveyard.”

Rui hopped onto his lap and rammed her head into Aramais’ hand, demanding attention. He smiled at the cat and rubbed her ears, while Sarrin seated himself on the ground beside Aramais. Together they waited. They had not been there more than a half hour when they saw a glimpse of white through the trees. A moment later Whitebird appeared, dirty, but grinning, and victoriously held aloft a goose he had shot.

“If nothing else, this makes the trip worthwhile!” said the Elf.

Aramais grinned broadly, and Rui took a flying leap at the goose, pulling out a feather and savagely attacking it. Sarrin laughed.

“Behold the mighty hunters! Whitebird brings home the fare, and Rui makes certain it is properly dead.”

Whitebird approached them, still smiling, though he had plainly been in a fight. He was filthy and covered in blood, though Aramais did not believe it was his.

“What befell you?” he asked.

Whitebird’s ice-blue eyes gleamed. “Grave robbers. Since they were so interested in the dead I sent them to meet them. And I bring good news. I found two of the townsfolk. They are living in an old stronghold a few miles off, but they are safe, and have a few animals. They have even ploughed a small field. They have invited us to partake of their hospitality. I was hoping they may be willing to sell us a pony.”

“They may even have some strong and able folk who can aid us in our quest for the books,” said Sarrin.

Whitebird nodded. “Aye they might, though I do not know how willing such folk may be to leave their village. But at the very least we can have wine and a warm bed, and hear new songs. Let us go tell Elaran.”

***---***

The four spent the day preparing to leave, then retired to their beds early, rising as the first light of dawn touched the horizon and any wandering monsters would be making their way to shelter. With Whitebird in the lead, they began making their way down the hill towards the stronghold.

Elaran watched the sky, holding her cat close. “It looks like it may rain.”

“Of course it will,” said Sarrin. “That’s how the world works. The days are sunny and warm until we are forced to make our way into the wilds, then it rains! Ah, blessed darkness and rain, players in the greatest of romantic tragedies! Should I ever be found dead, I hope that it is in suitable circumstances.”

Whitebird gave Sarrin a sidelong look. “You are a very odd little man, Sarrin.”

“Thank you my lord. More than death I fear mediocrity.”

“Fear not,” said Whitebird dryly. He glanced at Elaran. “My lady would you care to ask your kitty if we are heading in the right direction?”

Elaran nodded, and released the cat. Rui flew high into the sky, rolling and banking, and briefly forgetting what she had been asked to do and heading after a small bird. Elaran called out her name, and the cat remembered her business, rising high to look for the fort.
“Rui says the fort is straight ahead, so we are on the right path.”

“Does she say how close it is?” asked Aramais.

Elaran shrugged. “Rui says close, but she can fly, so she travels much more quickly than we earth-bound creatures. But she does say that she sees the fields. There is a burning pit about a mile away from the stronghold with human bones in it. Likely that is where they have been disposing of their dead.”

“Cold comfort for the grieving to have their loved ones roasted,” said Aramais. “But a wise move.” He looked at Whitebird, and felt a wash of affection and concern for the Elf. “Should you be coming to this village with us?”

Whitebird looked surprised. “You weary of my company?”

“I have grown very fond of your company, that is why I ask. There seem to be many tales and falsehoods about Snow Elves, not the least of which is the one that your heart is a pure diamond of exceptional quality and beauty. I do not wish to see something befall you as a result of a myth.”

“I am not that easy to kill,” said Whitebird. “But I thank you for your concern.”

Sarrin made noisy kissing sounds, and Elaran gave him a smack across the top of his head.

“Mind your manners.”

“My lady I would, but alas! I have none!”

“Now that I can believe.”

They reached the road, and began walking along it towards the stronghold, following a route that would take them past the graveyard where Shendklin lay in her stone crypt. As they neared it, they paused, and looked in the direction of the cemetery.

“Should we go visit her?” asked Sarrin quietly.

“We have no time,” said Elaran. “We dare not linger.”

“When this trial is over, we shall visit her daily,” said Whitebird. “But for now we must comfort ourselves that she will understand.”

Slowly, casting glances towards the cemetery, they continued on their way.

***---***

“Should we camp on the road?” asked Aramais. They still had a little daylight left, time enough to make camp and get themselves safely settled.

Whitebird nodded. “We are certainly in no danger of being run over, and we will be able to see if anything approaches. We will keep the fire high. The wandering dead have sense enough to fear flame, and we will post watches. Tomorrow we will reach the stronghold.”
“I’ll take the last watch,” said Elaran, sitting down heavily on a milestone. “I’m too tired to take the first.”

“I shall take first,” said Aramais.

“I’ll watch with you,” said Whitebird. “I’m not ready to sleep yet. Sarrin I will wake you in a few hours.”

They set up their camp in the middle of the wide flat road, then gathered deadwood before having a meal of cold provisions. Then they settled in for a tense night, listening for the faintest sound of walking dead.

Sarrin and Elaran fell asleep, but their sleep was restless, and several times Sarrin sat up to look around and assure himself that all was well. Whitebird watched the bard settle himself once more, then looked at Aramais.

“What shall we do when we reach the village? Shall we stay?”

Aramais stared at the fire, idly prodding it with a long stick. “If we stay we will die, you know that.”

“We have no idea where the books are.”

“We have no idea if the books are even of any use! They could be anything, or nothing at all. I say we proceed to the hunting lodge as planned. We have no better idea. And we may find something there that is of use. Perhaps there is even someone in the village who can assist us.” Aramais looked at Whitebird again, his expression thoughtful. “Why do I fear for you? You have been a warrior longer than I, you are not without skill. Why now do I want to lock you in a tower? I fear for you, Whitebird.”

“It is a good time for fear, Aramais. I have lost Hunter, you have lost your friend Shendklin. All four of us have lost our homes.”

“It’s more than that. It’s these fool myths. I would grieve to lose you in battle, but to have you slain for some mythical diamond….”

“Slay me for my heart of diamond, slash my throat to spill my blood and make the crops grow, flay my skin to make a magic glove to cure leprosy, cut off my hair and weave it into a blanket to ensure a woman does not miscarry…”

Aramais shook his head. “Where do these mad thoughts come from?!”

Whitebird picked up bit of dried meat and nibbled it. “They are not myths, Aramais. They are lies. Cruel lies spun by a man so greedy for Elven land he did not care how we were destroyed. Warriors could not be spared, so he had his priests spread lies amongst a people so impoverished and desperate they would believe anything.”

“Whitebird we cannot take you to that village, you could be torn to shreds!”

Whitebird smiled and rested his head on Aramais’ shoulder. “You are a dear friend, Aramais.”

Aramais put his arm around the Elf, drawing him close, his body cold with worry for his friend. “Be that as it may, what if the worst happens? What if these people, recovering from what surely must have been a desperate winter, look upon you as a gift? Blood to make crops grow! A diamond worthy of the ransom of a god! Hair…”

“…to make certain a woman does not miscarry,” said a voice.

Aramais and Whitebird both rose abruptly to their feet, but the voice came from no demon, it came from an elderly man. He gestured towards the fire.

“May I sit?”

Aramais stood staring, mouth open in pure surprise. Whitebird took the elderly man’s arm and led him to the fire.

“My dear sir please be seated! Are you mad, coming out here alone at night? You could have been killed, or worse!”

The elderly man seated himself, his movements slow and shaky. “Desperation drove me. My daughter begged me not to come seeking you, but I was so afraid for her. Now I arrive only to hear your discussion, and I see I have been a fool.”

“Someone you love is ill,” said Whitebird.

The old man nodded. “My name is Tamrath. During the last winter, we lost many from the village to the plague. My son, my two daughters, my wife, and all five of my grandchildren. My son’s wife lives still. But she was splashed with plague-slime from an undead creature. We did not know what else to do. We…. We cut her left hand off.”

“Did she live?” asked Aramais softly.

Tamrath nodded. “Aye, she lives yet. This was five weeks ago, and she has not yet recovered. She is with child. Then two of my neighbours said they spied a Snow-Elf. When I heard that, I knew I had to find you, to save her…”

The old man lowered his head and began to weep bitterly. Whitebird put a comforting arm around his shoulder, and looked at Aramais. “So it seems that not only Elves are harmed by these lies.”

Aramais came over to Tamrath. “We have a skilled healer with us, who may be able to help your daughter, and her child. So your quest has not failed. Though now you must ask yourself what she would have done had the walking dead claimed you as well.”

He shook his head. “I did not think of that. She is all the family I have left. I had to help her.”

Aramais began preparing some hot tea for him, then sliced some meat to put on bread for the old man. He was thin, and likely had not much to eat during the cold months. He brought the tea and meat to Tamrath, then smiled slightly as he saw the old man carefully tucking a long thin brain of silver-white hair into his pocket. Aramais glanced at Whitebird, who shrugged.

“What harm can it do?” the Elf asked.

***---***

They set off early in the morning, Elaran and Tamrath speaking together as they walked along the road. Aramais still had grave misgivings about taking Whitebird to the village, and he found little humour in Sarrin’s teasing implications about his feelings towards the Elf. At one point he grabbed the bard by the back of his tunic and would have happily choked him had he thought no one would notice. He dangled the bard by the back of his tunic and growled at him.

“If we get to that village and Whitebird is cut up like a prize pig, who is going to help us find the books? We still have a quest before us, and a very long road, and I can do without that which you put forth as wit!”

Sarrin did not look especially daunted. “My dear guardsman, do you honestly think a small group of even very desperate villagers will be a match for the White Death? If all else fails he can run up a tree, I daresay he’s fast enough. Or do you fear he will find one whose company is more accessible than your own?”

Aramais released him and resumed walking. “I wish you would give that joke a rest, ‘tis getting tiresome.”

Sarrin followed alongside of him. “Is it? Perhaps you should recall who began it.”
“Aye, I began it and I am ending it.”

“She loved you, you know.”

“Sarrin what are you talking about?”

“So soon they forget. I was speaking of Shendklin. You hurt her deeply with your game, pretending to love the Elf.”

Aramais stopped to stare at Sarrin, astonished at what he had just heard. “How was I to know that? She said nothing!”

“And if she had, would you have cared?”

“Shendklin was a friend, of course I would have cared.”

“But only a friend, I see.” Sarrin shook his head. “I am sorry to have been angry with you, Aramais, I see you did not know. She thought only of you. Every time she and I were together, it was you she spoke of. And I tolerated it, because she was all I thought of.”

They resumed walking. “Then I am sorry for your loss, Sarrin. That was a hard situation for you, and her too. But I did not know she felt anything for me. Indeed how could she? I nearly hung her once.”

Sarrin smiled. “She found your fascination with upholding the laws of this land amusing.”

“She certainly found making me chase after her amusing.” Aramais thought about what he had just said. He sighed heavily and shook his head. “I did not know, and now that I do it is too late. I am indeed sorry.”

“Would you have returned her love?”

Aramais thought, then shook his head. “I do not think so. We were too different. But perhaps in time she would have forgotten about me.”

Sarrin smiled slightly. “Perhaps. Not knowing is the worst part of any situation. But perhaps.” He gave Aramais a mischievous look. “So what of you and the Elf?”

Aramais aimed a half-hearted swat at the smaller man, who easily dodged it. “Ai you are worse than a child with your questions!”

“I was curious, is all. Aramais and Whitebird, warriors and lovers. It would make for a good ballad.”

“Be gone, mosquito! Write of Whitebird and Hunter.”

“Oh that is a subject already done many times over, and by greater bards than I.”

“Then borrow a tune of theirs and leave me be!”

“You did not answer my question,” said Sarrin cheekily.

“Your question is not worthy of answering!”

“You are no fun, sir.”

Aramais made a noise of exasperation, watching as Sarrin made his way to Whitebird’s side. “Yon brave guardsman is in love with you,” he said to the Elf.

“Is he?” said Whitebird. “Good. On our wedding night he can present your heart and liver to me on a plate as a bedding gift.”

“Ack! I am threatened! I must flee.”

Aramais chuckled as he watched Sarrin make his way quickly and lightly to Elaran’s side, trying to hide behind her. She swatted at him, and he evaded her wrath, then paused as he noticed something ahead. “Is that the stronghold?”

Tamrath paused and shielded his eyes from the sun with one hand. “Aye that’s it. We have reached it.”

Whitebird looked at Aramais and smiled. “You need not fear for me, my friend. Should it seem as though I am in danger, I assure you, I shall not linger.”

Aramais put an arm around his shoulders. “Good. There has been enough needless death. I will not see one more.”

***---***

The stronghold was old and crumbling, and it was doubtful that it could stand against any foe greater than the walking dead. But fortunately, that was all it need stand against. At the moment the great wooden gate stood wide open, children running free and laughing. Nearby, cows in a makeshift enclosure chewed hay and swatted their tails, watching the newcomers with brown-eyed interest. The old barracks had been converted into living quarters, and the small courtyard was now the common kitchen area.

“Your people are not doing so badly here,” said Aramais to Tamrath.

“No, not so badly. We seldom see the dead out here, but we keep the gates locked at night. We live peacefully enough, and the cows and sheep can be taken out during the day to graze.” He pointed towards what had once been a building for the night watch to huddle out of the rain and have a hot drink. “My daughter and I live there.”

Elaran reached for his hand. “Come then, and I will look after your daughter.”

Elaran and Tamrath went to the building, Rui following after them. Sarrin, Aramais and Whitebird paused to look around.

“With a little work, this could be converted to a walled village,” said Sarrin.

Aramais nodded. “It seems they have already thought of that. They are pulling up the flagstones to plant gardens, and the school master has already hung out his sign where once generals plotted their battles.”

“Speaking of battles,” said Sarrin quietly, “our Snow Elf is drawing a crowd.”

Aramais looked around, placing his hand on the hilt of his sword as he noticed the group of men and women cautiously drawing near. They did not seem dangerous, but he was taking no chances. Beside him, Whitebird stood his ground, but his hand as well was on his sword. He made no move as a woman came up to him, and very carefully reached out to touch his heavy white hair.

“It is true then,” she said. “Ben and Adlan spoke the truth. You are a Snow-Elf.”
“I am,” said Whitebird.

“You have come to help us?”

“I will do what I can, my lady.” Whitebird glanced over her shoulder to gaze at a man behind her, staring intently at him and holding a short, heavy-bladed knife. “That is, anything short of getting my throat cut.”

The man gave him a long stare, and then slowly walked away. Aramais watched him go, then looked around at the gathering crowd. They were thin, and their clothes worn, and it was plain the winter had not been easy for them. But they seemed more curious than anything. Still, Aramais kept his hand on his sword.

An old woman stepped close to look at Whitebird, peering at him nearsightedly. She looked him up and down.

“Skinny thing. Hardly enough there for one field.”

“Madam,” said Whitebird, “the only way you are going to get me into your field is after a very long and unpleasant fight.”

“Grandmother, please!” said a younger woman. She took the elderly woman’s hand. “Do not be rude, the Elf came to help.”

“Then cut him open and get on with it!”

Aramais took Whitebird’s arm and began leading him away. “I believe it is time we departed.”

“Aramais! Is that you?”

He stopped, and looked in the direction from which the voice had come. Aramais stared in surprise at the man he saw, seated on the stone steps, a tankard in one hand.
“Derith? Derith by the gods is it you? Whitebird! Sarrin! This is my friend Derith, we served together! Derith I thought you were dead!”

The warrior stood up and came to embrace Aramais. “Not so, you should know I’m not that easy to kill! Where have you been?”

“I could easily ask you the same question!”

“Well come and let me buy you and your friends a pint.” He gave Whitebird a look of curiosity, but said nothing as they walked towards the little makeshift tavern. They seated themselves at a table, and Aramais told Derith what he had been doing since last they saw each other.

“Well you’ve set yourself a task and no mistake,” said Derith. “I would love to see an end come to this mess as well. We’re safe enough here for now, but the patrols report that the area of death around the King’s Castle is spreading. Soon these fields will be dead, and the people dead with them, or worse. Fleeing is no good. We have to stop this or we’ll all be a jolly lot, eating corpses and leaving rotting bits of ourselves where ever we go.”
“That is why we seek these books. There may be answers in them, answers to what we seek.”

Derith looked thoughtful. “It may be worth our while to go to this hunting lodge after all. If what you say about dear Randereth is true, then it is most likely the books have been moved. But there is a great deal of activity up there still. We may not find the books, but I’ll warrant we will find something useful.”

"Then you mean to come with us?” asked Aramais.

“If you can tolerate my company.” Derith took a drink from his mug, then turned to look at the beautiful white Elf. “So do you mean to indulge the myths of these good folks?”

Whitebird raised an eyebrow. “So you know what they say about my people is false.”

“Aye, that I do. I have seen an Elf or two slain for crops and cures. Neither of them had a diamond for a heart, and the blood that was spilled ruined fields for miles around, like the gods were cursing those who would lay hands on something as fair as an Elf.”

Whitebird looked shocked. “Killed the crops?! Are you quite sure of this?”

Derith nodded. “Aye, as sure as I am sitting here speaking to you. The crops in my old village were never of the best quality, but after the men captured and killed two Elves, it was like the land was cursed. Perhaps it was. I was but a child at the time, but I remember. The trees rotted in the ground at the roots, and what did grow was bitter and inedible. Within two years we had to depart. Yet….”

“Yet?” asked Aramais. He cast a sidelong glance at Sarrin, who was watching Derith speak with great interest.

“Well…. It was odd. A village not eight miles from ours found and saved a Snow Elf. They cared for her, and in return, she gave them a little blood and some of her hair. They poured a few drops in each field, and the crops that year were of exceptional quality. They even managed two full harvests.”

“It may have been but a coincidence,” said Sarrin.

“Oh that it may,” said Derith agreeably.

“Or it may be the key to the legend,” said Aramais, gazing thoughtfully at Whitebird.

“That these gifts must be given willingly,” said Whitebird. “They cannot be taken by force. I would be willing to part with a little blood if it will help, but I will not have my throat slit.”

“That will not happen,” said Aramais grimly.

Sarrin smiled at Whitebird. “We will look after you, dear frail Elf.”

Whitebird smiled. “I thank you, dear Sarrin.” He looked at Derith. “So what do you know of this hunting lodge?”

“It lays miles off the road, deep in the woods. I have been there once or twice, hoping to catch our former King unawares. During the day it seems deserted, but at night there is much activity. Strange smoke hovers about the roof, and, noxious lights and odours surround it. There are screams, and chants that can be heard echoing through the surrounding trees. There is sorcery happening there, and sorcery is at the root of this plague. I do not know if we shall find anyone or anything of great consequence, but we will find something, mark my words.”

“Now for the next question,” said Whitebird. “Are there horses we may use?”

“Just mine,” said Derith, “but you are welcome to use her as a pack animal, providing you take me with you. And I warn you, I will not be left behind in this matter. I have a score to settle with this King.”

“We all do,” said Aramais. “And I would welcome a chance to fight beside you once more.”

Derith smiled, then glanced up at the sky. “It will be dark soon. Come, you may share my quarters. Let us get your belongings stowed, then you can help us to shut and bolt the gates, so we may curse the night in safety.”

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