Even Fall
Chapter Four

Rating: R
Warnings: Undead, maggots, some angst.
Summary: A battle yields rewards.

Aramais crept silently through the dark and tangled brambles and dead bushes, his heart nearly failing with every small snap and crack, every tug of a dry branch on his clothing. It was daylight, but the sun did little to illuminate the woods surrounding the hunting lodge.

It had taken them days to reach the crumbling stone structure. Once it had been a grand building, finely made and well kept, with kennels to house the fine hunting dogs. Once it had been the ancestral retreat of kings. Now, however, its walls were spotted green with moss, and the yards and gardens were little more than spans of tangled and dying weeds, the kennels black with rot. There were still dogs within the runs, but the way they stood, unseeing, unmoving, told Aramais that they had long ago been afflicted with the plague. One was so decomposed that he could see its fleshless ribs, and part of the skull showed, moss-tinted and grey, on its rotted head.

“We will have to find a safe place for the night before we do anything,” said Derith. “Rumor has it that the King holds ghastly hunts with his dogs, and we would be fair game, I dare say.”

Aramais nodded. “I agree. Let us seek shelter. Sarrin, you and Elaran stay here. Derith and I will seek a place to hide. Meanwhile, have Rui fly around and tell us what she may of the layout.”

Elaran nodded. She spoke to the small grey cat, who spread her wings and flew towards the house, landing daintily on the chimney. Aramais and Derith began skirting around the edge of the untended yard.

They followed a stone path, barely visible beneath the moss and overgrown grass. It led around back of the main house, and to a small stone cottage. The door hung open, but did not seem to be damaged. It also boasted heavy shutters on the windows, which likewise were in good condition. Aramais and Derith checked for any who may be lurking nearby and spying on them, but saw nothing. Carefully they crossed the yard to the cottage.

It was very large for servant’s quarters, and judging from the quality of the now-rotting furnishings and rugs, it was likely a guest house. They crossed the threshold and stepped into the entranceway, swords drawn, moving carefully. There were leaves scattered across the seats and rugs, dead and dry, skittering in the slight wind like strange spiders. Nothing, it seemed, had been in the house in a long time.

They carefully checked the rooms. The ones on the upper floor were in good condition, though musty. There were clothes still hung in the cupboards, cups with stains in them marking where there had once been tea resting on the small table near the window, books opened on side tables and abandoned. There was even the cold and charred remains of a fire. Aramais found it almost too eerie to bear, but at least the place was safe.

He met up with Derith in the hall. “There is nothing here, Derith.”

“No,” said Derith. “It is safe enough I dare say. I found a store room just off the kitchen. It is windowless and there is but one door. It would serve as a place to keep the horse. You go for the others, I will prepare the storeroom. I believe some of the goods in there are fit to eat.”

Aramais departed, returning not long afterwards with Elaran and Sarrin, as well as Derith’s horse. The animal seemed glad to be behind four stone walls, and settled down to feed as soon as Derith removed her harness.

“She could have as big a fit in there as she cared to, and not hit a thing,” said Derith. “Odd that such a huge store room should have so little in it.”

“There may be others around here, living in fear,” said Aramais. “I shall have to ask Whitebird if he found any signs of life when he finishes his survey of the area.”

“Yes, where is your Elf anyway? He left us on the road. I do not like that.”

Sarrin found a dagger that suited him and thrust it into his belt. “Whitebird is a great warrior, he will not betray us.”

“I have no doubt he would not betray us. I am more concerned that the same folk who have emptied this storeroom may have cut him up for parts.”

Whitebird appeared just then, carrying two pheasants. “Derith, cutting up an Elf involves catching him, and that is no easy thing.”

“Fair Whitebird hath returned!” said Sarrin, “and look, he hath looted his majesty’s private hunting grounds!”

“He does not seem to be using them,” said Whitebird. “They are guarded by high iron fences, and are full of wild creatures, no doubt seeking refuge from the plague. We will take only a few, and leave the rest to repopulate for when this curse is ended. Where is Elaran?”

She stepped out of an adjoining room, followed as always by Rui. “I am here.”

“Did Rui see anything of note?”

“She said she smelled much rot on the upper floor of the great house, and that there is a small room far to the back with the shades drawn and the windows bolted.”

“It may mean nothing,” said Aramais.

“It may indeed,” said Whitebird, “but I grow curious when I see rooms so high above ground with the shades pulled. Even the most modest maid knows that no prying eyes can spy on her five levels up!”

“Depends upon whether or not the maid has a fondness for undressing on the balcony,” said Sarrin. Elaran cuffed him.

“Be that as it may,” said Whitebird, trying not to smile, “I still say this room bears investigating. We have traveled far and quickly. Let us rest here for the rest of the day, and tonight. We will need our wits sharp and clear if we are to venture into this house of death on the morrow.”

“Quite right!” said Sarrin. “I go now to claim a room and dream the dreams of a bard adventuring.”

Whitebird passed him the pheasants. “After you prepare dinner.”

“Ah, yes, it is my turn, isn’t it?” He took the birds distastefully. “I cannot comprehend why something so fair on the outside can smell so terrible on the inside.”

“I shall help you,” said Elaran. “If only to make certain they are actually cleaned this time, and not simply spitted in the hopes that the feathers will burn off and no one will notice the entrails are still inside.”

“I will not hear of this!” said Derith. “That so fair a young lady will be reduced to helping this scoundrel bard clean a bird of its guts. I shall clean the bird, whilst you entertain me with your beauty and fair voice.”

Sarrin made kissing noises, and Elaran rolled her eyes. “Very well, let us go clean the birds, though it is hardly a three-person job!”

Whitebird and Aramais watched them go, then Aramais laughed quietly. “I believe Derith is becoming fond of our healer.”

“Elaran is a kind and loving soul,” said Whitebird, “there is much to like. I find it strange she has never wed.”

Aramais began walking towards the stairs, seeking a chamber for himself, Whitebird following him quietly. “She is a healer. She sees much, including young women dying in childbirth. I do not blame her for not wishing to take the chance. It is a harder death than many warriors see, and yet we call women weak. I tell you, I should not want to give birth either, were I a woman.” He looked at Whitebird. “Do Elf-women ever die in childbirth?”

Whitebird shook his head. “I do not know. My life has been spent wandering and warring, I know little of the ladies of my kind.” He smiled. “And Hunter and I were unlikely to find ourselves in that situation. Though I confess, the biscuits he made could frequently create symptoms not unlike going into labour.”

Aramais laughed out loud. “Ah, he must have been related to my camp cook. I daresay there were times I was tempted to assign him to whichever foe I was fighting. Now here is a fair chamber. I think I shall claim this.”

They walked into the room, constructed to accommodate visiting nobility. There was a grand bed, draped with rich covers, the topmost one embroidered with gold thread. The hanging drapes in the large windows were of a matching fabric, and surrounded the room, keeping out the sunlight. The stone fireplace was carved with hunting scenes, and the stone floor was strewn with animal skin rugs. There was a small table set between two chairs, an oil lamp on its leather covered surface, its glass shade painted with deer and hounds.

Aramais walked over to the chest that sat at the end of the bed and set down his pack on its padded velvet lid. He looked about the room speculatively. “Actually, it may be a bit too lavish for me, this is more the chamber of a noble, or an Elf-Lord. Perhaps you should have it.” He glanced at Whitebird. “What say you?”

Whitebird smiled. “It is a large room, we can share.”

The two looked at each other, then Aramais lowered his eyes, feeling slightly uncomfortable. “I do not think that will be a problem. I shall fetch your things.” Then he quickly left.

****

Aramais lay in bed beside the Elf, wondering whom besides himself, and the now-departed Hunter, knew that the great Whitebird was a blanket-hog as well as a scruncher. He grinned at the term; it was one his father had used regarding his mother, and her habit of sleeping as close to him as possible. Now as he lay in bed, the Elf wedged against his back like a growth and rolled into a ball of gold and red fabric, he froze in the chill night air for want of a blanket. Finally he elbowed Whitebird, who took a good five minutes to slowly find his way out of the tangle of blankets. He raised his head and looked blearily at the man beside him, cold blue eyes luminous in the dark.

“What? Oh, I have all the blankets and bed, don’t it?”

“Yes, for the second time tonight.”

“My apologies, Aramais, I know not where the habit comes from.”

Aramais suspected it came from long years of being alone and hunted, and a need for security, but said nothing. Whitebird unrolled himself and moved away from the man, and was asleep again in moments. Aramais claimed the blankets before Whitebird could once more roll himself up into them, then closed his eyes, listening.

He heard nothing in the night, which was both a relief and unnerving. He heard no crickets, no bats or night birds, only the soft breathing of the Elf beside him. But the good thing was he also did not hear the eerie moans and howls of the dead prowling the night. It seemed that they did not haunt this house, and while that meant they were safe for the time, it also meant that it was unlikely they would find the books they sought. However, there was still a chance they would find something that would be of use. Fortunately they would have a full day to search, and with luck they would find nothing undead, other than the hounds in the kennels.

Whitebird abruptly rolled over, and Aramais made a grab for the blankets. However he was not fast enough, and was now only half-covered. He swore quietly, and began disentangling Whitebird from the quilts, then froze as the Elf rolled towards him, resting his head on his chest, one arm firmly around his middle. He muttered something in his own tongue, then was still once more, tightly wedged against the person beside him.

“I am going to write a book about all your habits after this matter is done with,” said Aramais softly to his sleeping companion.

Whitebird shifted slightly in his sleep, then sighed quietly, and did not stir again. After a time, Aramais fell asleep as well, and the two lay in peace the rest of the night.

****

At dawn, Aramais was jolted out of sleep by Sarrin jumping on the bed.

“Awake young lovers, thy day of trial is at hand!”

Whitebird sat up, angry, heavy white hair wild. “There will be no trial, none would condemn me for killing a pest!”

“Touchy, are we? I should think you would be all aglow after a night of passion in such a fair bed.”

Aramais sighed heavily. “Sarrin, the only passion Whitebird and I shall experience will be the thrill of breaking your neck.”

“Ah, I am grieved to hear this, that you would lie so close together and yet deny yourselves passion’s bliss. Up, the both of you. Breakfast is porridge and coffee, but you had best be quick or we shall eat it all.”

Sarrin hopped off the bed and departed, leaving Aramais and Whitebird in peace.

“I shall miss him after he is dead,” said Whitebird. “But the joy of removing of his head from his body shall doubtlessly make up for it.”

Aramais laughed quietly and stood up, feeling stiff and sore. “He raises a good point though. I think insisting that what we feel for each other is mere friendship is nonsense after last night.”

Whitebird looked at him, pushing his hair out of his face. “We slept, nothing more.”

Aramais turned to look at him. “Whitebird, with an entire house to sleep in, we chose to sleep in the same room. And with a couch and a perfectly comfortable day-bed in this room, we chose to sleep in the same bed.”

“That would seem to indicate something, wouldn’t it?” Whitebird slowly got out of bed, his white skin scarred from long years as a warrior. He stretched, then picked up a brush to smooth the tangles out of his mane of hair. “I say we have time enough to sort this riddle of feelings. My Hunter has been dead less than a year, I cannot look at another without feeling I am betraying him. And I will not play games with your emotions.”

Aramais smiled. “Take all the time to grieve you need. I am in no hurry. I enjoy your company. In the meantime we can continue to be a puzzle to Sarrin.”

Whitebird slowly brushed out his long hair, a thoughtful look on his face. “How fond is your friend Derith of jokes?”

“Derith? The man who once shaved his commander’s horse bald, then waxed its tail so that it stood straight up at attention?”

Whitebird laughed. “I was just wondering what Sarrin would make of Derith and I pledging eternal love to each other whilst you and I continued to sleep in the same bed.”

Aramais laughed. “Whitebird, you are an evil being.”

The warrior straightened, tossing his long hair back. “All is fair in love, war, and practical jokes, my friend.”

****

The great stone hunting lodge loomed above them, cold and eerie in the morning silence. The air was fragrant with the spring growth of plants, and the new blossoms. In the distance a few birds within the game yards began to chirp; an infrequent, nervous sound. Other than their tentative song, the only other sound was that of the three men and one woman on the gravel path. Whitebird made no sound.

They were nearly at the great black wooden doors, when Whitebird abruptly skipped sideways and then hopped onto the nearest object; a stone carving of a lioness. Aramais recognized the move, and stopped, looking up at the nervously sweating Elf.

“What did you hear?” he asked.

Whitebird indicated a place on the ground with the point of his sword. “Two young ladies, sisters. They say they had their throats cut one night long ago, because their father was angered they had both dared to love men beneath their station. Then their father hid their bodies and claimed they ran off.” He looked around, shaken. “This plague comes from the evil within the hearts of such folk. To kill one’s child over something so meaningless. To be stricken down by the dead is nothing more than we deserve, I feel at times.”

“Not all folk do such things,” said Elaran. “Not even all nobles. But I agree with you, there are some folk who deserve to have their crimes come back to haunt them.”

Aramais extended his hand to Whitebird, and helped the tall Elf off of his perch on the statue. He stepped lightly down to the gravel path, then picked up his pace, anxious to be away from the wailing dead in the ground. Derith watched this with interest, then spoke quietly to Aramais.

“How does he know this?”

“He hears the murdered dead in the ground,” said Aramais. “I for one am glad to not have such a gift.”

Derith shuddered. “As am I.”

They reached the door, and Sarrin reached for the handles, finding them locked. Without pause, he pulled his dagger and deftly picked the lock. As he replaced the blade, he turned to grin at Aramais.

“Shendklin was a most adept teacher.”

“So I see,” said Aramais.

He watched as Sarrin carefully opened the door and stepped inside, listening. They waited, watching, as he listened. Finally he motioned for the others to step inside. Rui came trotting in first, tail held high, eyes large. She paused and sniffed, then spread her wings and leapt up, flying to the high beams in the ceiling, where she perched.

“Rui will let us know if anyone enters while we are upstairs,” said Elaran.

Whitebird drew his sword, as did Aramais, and together they began making their way up a set of wide, sweeping stairs, their boots making quiet sounds on the polished black marble. Elaran followed, Sarrin beside her, his crossbow loaded. Behind them came Derith, his battle-axe grasped firmly in his large hands.

The house was eerily empty. On the second floor they saw trays laid out on the tables near bedrooms doors, set with breakfasts no one had eaten. The mummified remains of a large dog rested on a rug before a fireplace, curled where it had died. Other things were left out as well; boots by one door, awaiting an occupant, a cloak folded and left on a chair nearby, fabric for a gown set in a basket, the embroidery needle still thrust into it.

“The servants must have fled,” said Aramais quietly.

“Or were killed where they sat,” said Derith. “But then, where are the bodies?”

Elaran walked into the small parlour, where a lady’s cloak was draped over a chair. It had likely just been finished, and was ready to be presented to its mistress. It was of a soft grey cloth, trimmed with white fur, its lining of grey silk. It was embroidered delicately with images of pheasants, and had a pair of gloves to match. She picked up one glove, then looked up as Whitebird came to stand by her side. He smiled at her, seeming to read her thoughts, and she blushed.

“Seems a shame to waste something so pretty,” she said.

Whitebird placed a hand on her shoulder, and softly kissed her brow. “I think the lady who once owned this would be pleased to have you take them. They will do her no good now.”

Elaran took off her own battered cloak, then glanced down at the stained and threadbare dress she wore; the only one she had left. “Perhaps I shall seek clothes to match.”

“You change,” said Whitebird. “We will wait in the hall. No sense having our healer go about in rags when there is fair garb here.”

They stood in the hall, listening for any sound or movement, but heard nothing. The place remained eerily still. Finally Elaran emerged, clad in a new dress of pale blue, her grey cloak about her shoulders. Aramais grinned as he noticed Derith’s head go up. Then he bowed low before reaching out to take her hand.

“My lady, I find it hard to believe that a woman of such grace and charm would burden herself with the likes of us. Well, the Elf is pretty, but even he pales in comparison.”

“Literally,” quipped Sarrin.

Whitebird tossed back his long hair, then sighed with feigned weariness. “’T is such a burden to be perfect, Sarrin. I am glad you are spared the weight of being graced with wit and beauty.”

Sarrin made a face at him. Aramais grinned, and placed a gentle hand on the Elf’s back. “Let us keep going, time enough to discuss Sarrin’s shortcomings later.”

They kept going up, their footsteps echoing quietly in the great house.

****

They smelled the fifth floor before they reached it.

It started as a whiff of decay, but as they climbed higher, the stench grew, finally becoming a wall of stink they could not pass. Whitebird became noticeably ill, and fled down the stairs to the fourth floor landing. The others followed him, gasping and feeling nauseous.

Whitebird sat down hard on the floor, his long legs tucked under him, his hair stringing in his face. He gasped, then said; “Can you hear them?”

Aramais coughed, then covered his mouth and nose with his cloak. “Hear what?”

Whitebird looked up at him. “The maggots. I can hear them.” Then he lunged to his feet and fled downstairs, seeking a window. He flung it open and vomited.

Derith touched Aramais’ shoulder. “Go see to your friend. I will go upstairs.”

“I will come,” said Elaran. “I know what we are looking for. Sarrin? Are you coming?”

Sarrin shook his head, eyes wide. Elaran passed him her new cloak, then tied up her long skirt so it would not drag in whatever they may find. Tying her scarf over her nose and mouth, she went with Derith up the stairs.

Aramais sat down beside the Elf, reaching out to carefully push his hair back from his pale face. He was shocked to see Whitebird’s face was wet, the tears streaming down from his pale blue-white eyes.

“Whitebird…?”

The Elf shook his head. “I am sorry, it’s just… so much death. So much needless death, and for what? The King cannot even claim it is for wealth, or personal glory or power. He is spreading death for the sake of spreading death.” He looked up at Aramais. “He killed my Hunter for nothing! I know it was you who put the arrow in his heart, but it was the King who killed him.”

Aramais gently drew him close, not knowing what to say, feeling uncomfortable as Whitebird broke down and cried against him. Aramais had been raised to hide his emotions, as were many men he knew. Elves were not taught such things, and Aramais did not always know the best way to handle his friend at times like this. He stroked his hair, then gave Sarrin a helpless look. The bard shrugged, making an ‘I don’t know’ face. Aramais sighed, stroking Whitebird’s hair once more, deciding just to hold him and let the Elf cry.

Elaran came running downstairs first, Derith close behind her, carrying something wrapped in his cloak. The pair did not stop, but as they fled, Derith caught Aramais’ eye.

“Run,” he said.

Aramais glanced up the stairs, and suddenly felt an overwhelming feeling of dread. He did not have to see anything to know that something huge, alive with malice and hate, was approaching the stair, its gate slow and lumbering, its eyes blank and stupidly cruel. He knew it as surely as he knew his own name.

He felt Whitebird help him to his feet and drag him towards the stair, Sarrin following close behind. They leapt down the stairs, not bothering to take them one at a time, Whitebird leapt over the railing at one point, dropping lightly to the floor two landings down and halting, awaiting his companions, fear in his pale eyes.

The roar began as a rumbling noise, more felt than heard, rising to a shriek of rage and hate. The stairs began to shake beneath their feet, and they heard the pounding of something truly huge running towards them.

“Run!” screamed Whitebird.

Derith shoved the object he held into Sarrin’s arms, directing the Bard to flee with Elaran. The two ran out of the stone mansion, Rui flying over their heads and out the door. Then Derith pulled his axe.

“What is it?” asked Whitebird, pulling his own sword.

Derith was shaking, eyes wild with fear, and he was sweating. “I do not know. It is big, and it is very angry.”

The three warriors fled out of the stone house, hearing the monster pounding after them, screaming, the floor nearly bouncing with the force of the footsteps that pursued them. They reached the yard and kept running, fleeing as fast as they were able to the guest house. There they found Elaran, who had the horse by the bridle, the wrapped object under her arm. She opened her mouth to ask a question, but did not get a chance to speak.

“Fly!” yelled Whitebird. “Get out of here! Ride as fast as you are able. Make your way back to the old armory, do not return to the village. Stay there until we come for you. We will draw this demon’s attention!”

Elaran got onto the back of the large war horse, urging it forward. It leapt into a gallop and fled through the trees, heading to the road. Just then Sarrin came tearing out of the guest house, his crossbow loaded.

“Sarrin get out of here,” said Aramais. “You are no warrior.”

“No I am not, which is why it is best to stay here with real fighters. I have a better chance of surviving that monster here with you than I do if it catches me alone!”

Aramais conceded that the Bard may have a point. There was no time to argue the matter anyway; the ground was trembling with the jolting force of the pounding feet that came rapidly towards them, bringing the stench of death. Whitebird came to stand on Aramais’ left, Derith on his right. Together they waited.

It came around the corner, black pits staring out of the maggot-riddled and skull-like face, the mouth slack, showing jagged, rotted teeth. There was no intelligence in the face, no life. This was not a creature of cunning, only of horrific cruelty. It was squat and bloated, and plague fluid dripped from every pore, and ran from the mouth in a rancid drool. It looked like the reanimated corpse of a giant, though why it was not deterred by the sunlight they did not know.

Sarrin fired his bow, the heavy bolt striking the monster in the head. The shot tore through its face, tearing away dead, maggot-riddled meat, but did nothing to slow it. It raised an immense fist and tried to pound it down onto Whitebird, but the Elf darted aside. Swinging his sword, he broke open the ghastly hand, retreating at the stench and pus that came out.

“We need fire!” yelled Aramais. “If that creature gets slime on us we are done for!”

Sarrin raced back into the house, and Aramais heard a crash. Moments later Sarrin returned with a broken oil lamp, flint, and a handful of rags. Aramais recognized the rags as the remains of his least damaged shirt.

“Keep it busy!” said Sarrin, and began tearing the shirt into strips.

“Hurry!” shouted Derith.

Sarrin did not answer, but kept began tying scraps of rag around his arrows, then soaking them in oil. As quickly as he had one ready, he lit it and fired it. The burning arrows punched into the greasy dead flesh and began to sizzle.

The monster struck blindly at whoever was closest, pounding its great fists onto the ground, making booming howls of outrage as it missed time and again. Most of its wrath was directed at Whitebird, and it repeatedly struck out at the Elf.

“Derith!” said Aramais. “Find more oil. We’ll drench this monster and set it alight like a torch!”

Derith nodded and ran into the house, leaving Aramais with Whitebird to keep the monster busy. The undead giant swung at the fast-moving Elven warrior, missing, then spat a huge glob of plague-slime at him. Whitebird barely managed to get out of the way, and Aramais lunged in, hacking at one huge leg. The blade of his sword sunk in like an axe into termite-chewed wood, and chunks of meat fell off. He yanked the blade free and swung again, breaking the bone this time. The giant’s leg buckled, but this did little to stop it. It spat slime once more at Whitebird, missing yet again. But then the great fist lashed out and struck the slender Elf with force enough to throw him several yards across the yard.

Aramais screamed in horror and dismay at the sight of Whitebird flying through the air, striking the ground with such force he rolled several feet more before he came to a stop. He lay on the grass, still, and Aramais feared he was dead. He had not time to think on it however; the giant turned and struck out with its mighty fist at him. He dodged, and watched as a burning crossbow bolt shot into the huge fist.

“Derith hurry!” yelled Aramais.

Derith did not respond, and Aramais was not certain he heard him. He leapt aside as the giant once more tried to strike him, and he swung his sword, shattering the fist into disgusting chunks of fell matter.

Amaris suddenly heard a shriek of pure wrath, and saw something blazing white come running up behind the giant. It moved with unearthly grace and lightness, running up the monster’s back. It had a sword, and Aramais leapt back as the creature of white light brought the blade down repeatedly on the giant’s head. The monster screamed, and for the first time seemed to be in pain. It swung its one functional hand at the fast-moving blaze of light, but missed.

Aramais drew back, unaware that his sword had dropped from his hand as he watched the grotesque ballet before himself. The light moved with strange liquid grace, and at times he thought he caught glimpses of a moving body within it. Slowly the giant struck at it, trying to pound it, break it, but the light just kept moving. As Aramais watched, the giant seemed to fall to bits, the smouldering arrows sending up wafts of greasy smoke.

Derith came running out of the house with a small bucket, filled with all the lamp oil he could find. He gauged his movements carefully, making certain as much of the precious fuel as possible splashed onto the dead skin of the giant. Sarrin came up with his crossbow, a flaming bolt loaded in it, and aimed at the giant. Before Aramais could yell, the blaze of light leapt off of the giant, then turned to face it. Then it was Aramais realized he was looking at Whitebird.

Sarrin fired, the arrow striking the giant, and the creature went up like dried tinder. It bellowed and screamed, thrashing, but with only one leg it could not flee. They backed up, watching as it flailed and shrieked, then finally grow still. Finally there was only the sound of the fire, and the slow hiss of burning flesh.

Aramais watched as the light surrounding Whitebird faded. The Elf was plainly injured, but when he made a move to go to him, Whitebird put up his hand, motioning for him to stop.

“Do not come near me! Boil water, I am slimed!”

Derith, Aramais and Sarrin all ran to do as they were told, while Whitebird removed his fouled clothing. They found a huge cauldron and filled it with water, then built a fire under it. Soon the water was rolling and steaming, and Sarrin went out to call Whitebird.

“He can’t get in that, he’ll be boiled to death!” said Derith.

“This is the only way we have found to stop the plague!” said Aramais.

“Aye it will be stopped if he’s dead, that is for certain.”

Sarrin came into the kitchen, followed by Whitebird. He was clad only in his breeches, and great livid bruises and welts were already visible on his shoulders and breast. “Well what do you suggest, Master Derith?”

“There are antiseptic herbs, Elaran pointed them out to me. Throw the herbs into the water, and let it cool just enough to be endurable.”

Whitebird nodded. “Very well. I do not fancy being parboiled.”

Derith dragged Sarrin out with him to cut the herbs, while Whitebird and Aramais faced each other.

“Aramais, if this does not work, if the plague should take me, I want you to shoot me. Do not let me become a walking corpse.”

“It will work,” said Aramais.

“But if it does not.”

“I will shoot you.”

Whitebird nodded. “I thank you. I hope it will not come to that.”

Sarrin and Derith returned quickly, each with an armload of the stinking herbs, and a few other smelly ones thrown in for luck. The herbs were a dark purplish green, with vibrant purple blooms. As soon as they were chopped and thrown into the water, the once-clear liquid turned a beautiful royal colour. Whitebird watched this unhappily.

“Lovely,” he said. “I get to experience what it is to be a teabag.”

They poured in just enough cold water to make the bath barely tolerable, then left Whitebird alone. They went back into the yard and began piling deadwood over the remains of the giant. Aramais found a shovel and began scraping up the dead matter and adding it to the fire, while Sarrin and Derith checked each other for traces of slime. They found none, but opted to change their clothes and bathe anyway.

****

It was well over two hours before Aramais returned to the kitchen. He had found some clothes that seemed to be about Whitebird’s size, and was bringing to him. However when he pushed against the door, he found it locked. Panic clutched his heart.

“Whitebird?”

“Yes?”

Aramais heaved a sigh of relief. “I found you some clothes, open the door.”

“No.”

He blinked in surprise. “No? What do you mean, ‘no’?”

“No. As in no I am not opening that door for you or anyone else.”

The fear returned, and Aramais could hear it in his voice as he screamed. “Whitebird open the door!”

There was a long pause, then the soft sound of bare Elven feet coming towards him. They stopped just behind the door.

“There is no need to panic, Aramais. The bath seems to have removed all the slime. Of course you shall have to keep an eye on me until morning, but I think I will be well.”

“Then what is wrong? Why will you not open the door?”

There was a heavy sigh, then the sound of the bolt being drawn back. Aramais gently pushed the door open, then stepped into the kitchen to face a highly displeased Elf.

Whitebird was naked save for a towel around his middle. His flesh was still as fair as ever, save for the bruises. However his hair and eyebrows were now vibrant shades of streaked purple.

Aramais fell to the floor howling in laughter. Whitebird snatched up the clothes he had brought and walked away to dress.

“You could have told me those plants would stain!” said Whitebird.

“I did not know!” said Aramais. “Honest!”

“Well I can tell you this; you are not going to see me naked for a very long time. Every hair on my body, and thankfully I am no man or that would be even MORE of an embarrassment, is purple.”

“Really? Let me see.”

Whitebird threw an aged and hardened sweet roll at him. It struck his head and shattered into itchy crumbs. Aramais laughed and rose to his feet, shaking crumbs off of his clothing.

****

They gathered together anything of use they could find; new clothes, a few weapons, some dried stored goods, then set off in the direction Elaran had fled. At the sight of Whitebird’s thick mane of purple hair, Sarrin was about to make some witty remark, but was stopped cold by one glare.

“Not a word,” growled the Elf.

“No, wouldn’t dream of it!” said Sarrin. He watched Whitebird pass, his purple hair blowing out behind him.

They spent the remainder of the day walking, trying to put as much distance between themselves and the hunting lodge as possible. As evening fell, they made a fire in the middle of the road and made their evening meal.

“What did you find upstairs?” Aramais asked, watching the fire.

Derith made a face. “Death. Rot. Maggots. ‘T was easily the most horrid thing I have ever seen in my life. Those people had not been dead but a few days. ‘T would seem there were indeed survivors nearby, and the giant was killing them and dragging them back to its lair. But…”

He broke off as he heard the sound of hooves coming towards them on the road. They rose to their feet, weapons drawn, and watched. Moments later a great war horse came into view, Elaran on its back.

“I thought we told you to flee,” said Aramais.

“You did,” she said. “But I got worried.” She pulled the horse to a stop, then looked at Whitebird. “What did they do to you?”

“Nothing,” growled the Elf. “It is the latest fashion.”

Derith helped Elaran off the horse. Aramais got up and began taking care of the weary beast, smiling as he noticed Rui asleep on the animal’s hindquarters. Elaran sat down by the fire and passed Whitebird a leather satchel. He took it, and opened it.

“What is this?”

“Just a bit of hope,” she said.

Whitebird opened the satchel, and his breath caught as he saw the black spine of a metal-bound book. He carefully drew it out, looking at the engravings all over the spine and cover, the metal flashing in the firelight as he turned it over in his hands.

“It is one of the books!” he said.

Elaran laughed. “It is! I saw it on a pedestal, and I grabbed it!”

“Waking up the giant in the process,” added Derith.

“Well he will trouble us no more,” said Whitebird. “I wonder why this one was left behind?”

“It was not unguarded,” said Aramais. “Whomever moved the others may have meant to come back for it.”

“That means when they find it is missing they shall come seeking the thieves,” said Derith.

“Well let them seek,’ said Whitebird. “Let them endure a little fear and doubt. We certainly have had our share” He carefully opened the book and peered at the pages, which were thin sheets of beaten lead.

“Can you read it?” asked Sarrin.

“Not in this light. Not even my eyes can see what is written here. We shall wait for daylight, and see what the dawn brings.”

They did not sleep that night.

They stayed in the light of the fire, talking, nibbling dried fruit they had found in the storeroom. Sarrin played his mandolin quietly, but they did not dare get too loud, for fear of attracting unwanted attention. It was not until the dawn came, and they saw that Whitebird was well, that they dared to lie down for a few hours rest in the safety of daylight.

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