Even Fall
Chapter Six

Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Summary: There are many scary things in the woods at night...
Notes: Here it is, what there is of it. Grr. Next chapter will be longer, I promise

East. It was easier said than done. Long had the lands to the east been left untended because of rumours of strange creatures living within the depths of the wild and ancient woods and meadows. Beyond the Cherry Wood’s borders the forest became denser, and far older, the fruit and nut trees replaced by aged pines, hung with lichen and long green moss like the hair of a swamp hag. The song of the few surviving birds became the unearthly call of strange creatures, and the air was cold and very still. A mist had risen from the dark earth, and it seemed they wandered the dreamscape of some undead god. Ahead of the party walked Ryskul, his crow on his shoulder, his hound at his side, leading them through the dark forest. Behind them, almost out of range of vision, occasionally briefly glimpsed, the dead followed.

“So…. just how far east?” asked Sarrin, drawing his cloak more closely around his shoulders.

“East,” said Ryskul.

“In other words, you don’t know.”

Ryskul kept his eyes on the ground, following a path only he and his hound could see. “The spirits said east. They gave me no more information. It is not their duty to coddle mortals. We are fortunate they gave us that much.”

“They didn’t hint at a location, or a structure? They didn’t say whether we should…?”

Ryskul turned on the bard, blazing with a sudden eruption of green fire, his eyes becoming the colour of molten glass.

“THEY SAID EAST!”

Sarrin backed up, shaking, eyes large. Ryskul stared him down for a time, then the fire died, and he turned away to resume walking. Meekly Sarrin began following after him once more. For a little while there was silence.

“I just thought they could have been a little more precise,” muttered Sarrin.

Ryskul stopped and sighed heavily. Aramais decided that now was a good time to intervene.

“There are few buildings in this direction; any we see are likely to have the book.” He grinned. “Don’t tell me that Sarrin the Bard has at last wearied of this adventure?”

“Daily!” Sarrin said “But I shall have a grand epic lay to sing when all is said and done. I am just now writing about young Ryskul here. What rhymes with ‘irritable’?”

“Sarrin,” said Whitebird wearily, “Let Ryskul be.” He glanced up at the sky. “It will be night soon, though it is already dark enough. We will need shelter. Curse these walking dead. Have we not troubles enough without their fetid presence trailing after us?”

“There is an old cottage not far ahead,” said Ryskul. “It is old and uninhabited, but it will serve us for tonight. After that we must seek shelter as best we may. There will be no more cottages, though with me close at hand the walking dead are unlikely to be too great a threat. Assuming Sarrin does not cause me to depart in the name of saving my sanity.”

“But you are a Shamanancer, I am a bard!” exclaimed Sarrin. “We are bound as are two lovers! Surely you could not leave me?”

“Not unless I am being chased by starving wolves and have need of a handy piece of meat with which to distract them.”

Sarrin rolled his eyes. “I am so unappreciated. Never have I been so mistreated, at least not since I ceased to play the Unicorn Song.”

Ryskul gave him a quizzical look. “Why did you cease to play it?”

“It was the favoured tune of a dear companion of ours,” said Whitebird. “She was slain by ones she named friend. That song has not been played since the day of her funeral. None of us who knew her can bear it.”

“I am sad to hear that, for I quite like that tune, silly and sad as it is,” said Ryskul. “Though I confess to being more fond of another.”

“And what tune would that be?” asked Sarrin. “If I know it I shall play it for you.”

Ryskul smiled, looking a little chagrined at himself. “Nay, I think not.”

“Oh do tell, it is the least I can do after tormenting you so!”

Aramais glanced at Whitebird, and smiled. “I have a bad feeling about this.”

“As do I,” said Whitebird. He gazed at Aramais, and the guardsman could read within Whitebird’s pale blue eyes the shame he felt over his recent antics, and his wish to be forgiven. Aramais gently took his hand, squeezing it. He still did not know how he felt over what Whitebird had done, but clearly the Elf had not been in control of himself that night. Aramais tugged him close and kissed him; a brief kiss on the lips to let him know he was not angry. In truth Aramais was not certain what he felt, only that he never wished to see Whitebird running into the woods to cavort with forest spirits again. Whitebird smiled, and briefly nuzzled him, clearly relieved. They continued to walk, arms around each other.

“Will you name your song?” Sarrin gently cajoled.

Ryskul smiled, the expression mimicked by the blind crow. “Pussy Cat’s Parade.”

“Oh you must be joking!” screeched Elaran. “That is without a doubt the most annoying, vexing, teeth-grinding…”

Sarrin began to play and sing. Ryskul happily joined. Bard and mage failed to pay heed as the rest of the party began walking more slowly to escape the tune. Even the walking dead seemed to fall back to escape the inane ditty.

“Spirits of river and wood save us,” muttered Whitebird.

***---***

It was dark and quite late by the time they reached the cottage, and they were glad to be within its mossy stone walls. The weather had turned foul, and thunder boomed and crashed so loudly that the ground shook. The night was blacker than a catacomb, and it was only by chance that Sarrin happened to have upon him Shendklin’s hooded lantern, stashed in his pack, where it had been since her death. He had almost forgotten about it. Its soft glow was the only thing that enabled them to find their way to the old cottage. They hastened inside, and closed the wooden door, barring it.

“Do the dead still follow?” asked Elaran as she took off her cloak and hung it up to dry. Rui and the kitten sat on the table and set about drying each other, while Derith began a fire.

“I cannot tell,” said Sarrin as he peered out the window. “I see only darkness.”

Aramais took Whitebird’s cloak and hung it up beside his own, then looked around. The cottage had only one room, though it was divided in half by a curtain, one portion for daily life, the second a bedchamber. The plaster on the walls, once coloured a soft yellow, was crumbling, and the floor was covered with dust and debris. The crooked pictures hung upon the walls were nibbled by insects, and covered in dirt and cobwebs. In the sleeping area a quilt made of bright scraps of velvet and silk was hung carefully over the foot of the one bed, a home now for bugs and spiders. The bed was a large one, and beside it rested a small cradle, crafted lovingly of rustic wood and lined with tiny quilts, embroidered with bees, birds and flowers. Whitebird gazed around, his eyes filled with sorrow.

“This place makes me sad,” said Whitebird quietly. “Once it was a home, a place of love and sanctuary, left now to rot.”

Aramais gently placed an arm around the Elf’s shoulders. “Perhaps it shall be again one day.”

Whitebird simply shook his head. Aramais had noticed that such things seemed to cause Whitebird much despair; an empty cottage, a rotting boat left in the reeds, a field left untended with the scarecrow still in the middle, unheeded and crumbling. He seemed to grieve endlessly for what had passed. Small wonder, given that his own home and family were destroyed. Aramais felt a deep sadness for him, reaching up to gently touch Whitebird’s face.

“Things change,” he said quietly, “but not always for ill.”

The thunder boomed so loudly that the old pots on the shelf near the hearth jumped. Then came an explosion of rain, falling so hard and fast it was as if the gods had moved a waterfall to rush down upon them.

“Let us pray the roof holds!” said Elaran.

Derith had managed to get a fire lit, then rose up to his full height, stretching. “Well I say we find a broom and clean off this floor, perhaps check to see what shape the bed is in. If this storm continues we shall be trapped here, so may as well make ourselves comfortable.”

“The weather has been uncommonly fair,” said Ryskul. “A storm such as this is overdue. We should count ourselves lucky it waited until we found adequate shelter.”

Derith went outside to tend to the horse, but no sooner had he opened the door when a form clad in white leapt on him. Aramais drew his sword and was about to kill the thing, but quickly realized it was not the undead. It was a girl of about seventeen with waist-length black hair, clad in the remains of a once grand ball gown.

“I have caught up with you at last! I was so afraid! I have been trailing you through the woods but I was so tired… so very tired…”

She brought a hand to her brow and swooned gracefully. Derith, utterly at a loss, watched her pitch over backwards and hit the floor with a thud. He then looked at Elaran.

“Is she dead?”

Elaran snorted. “She fainted you twit. Go take care of the horse, I know how to deal with delicate fainting ladies.”

Derith raised an eyebrow, but did as Elaran said. Elaran reached down and hauled the girl up by her arms, taking her over to a chair and seating her in it.

“Now, if you can tell us how on earth you ended up out in the middle of the woods, we would love to hear it. And why you are dressed in such a manner! There are no grand houses for miles!”

The child leaned back in the chair, hand to her brow, bosom heaving, cheeks flushed.

“No, I cannot, I am far too weak! I must rest! Oh, someone I beg carry me to a bed so that I may recover! And brandy! I must have brandy.”

Aramais and Whitebird exchanged sidelong glances. “We have no brandy,” said Aramais.

The girl lowered her arm and gave him a vexed look. “No brandy?”

“No.”

“Well then whiskey! Or wine! Or port!”

“I could make some, said Sarrin, “though it may take a while.”

She crossed her arms, becoming irate. “Well what sort of a rescue party are you?”

“We’re not any sort of a rescue party,” said Aramais.

She rolled her eyes. “That’s nonsense, clearly you are out here to save me, what other possible reason could you have for being out in this miserable wood? Now which one of you is my prince?”

Sarrin raised an eyebrow. “Prince?”

“Well every rescue party has a prince for the fair maiden to fall in love with! Which one of you is mine?” She turned her gaze to Elaran. “You, crone, prepare my bath.”

Elaran’s jaw dropped and her eyes grew wide. “Crone! Now see here…”

“Do as you are told, I’ve had a dreadful experience and I must have a bath. You of course brought clean clothes for me; I certainly cannot wear this dress any more.”

“My lady,” said Whitebird, “I fear you…”

She hopped up with great delight upon seeing the beautiful Elf. “My prince! You have come for me! Take me away to your palace, and we shall live happily ever after!” She paused, confusion entering her large eyes, which were an unusual shade of shimmering violet. “Why are you purple? No matter. Take me to your great palace!”

“No.”

Clearly that was not the answer the dear delicate darling had anticipated. She blinked her large eyes in surprise. “No?! What do you mean, no?!”

Whitebird stepped over to the child. “No we are not a rescue party, no I am not a prince, and no I am not taking you anywhere. We are on a serious mission and we haven’t time for deluded spoiled brats. And no, Elaran is not pouring you a bath and no we are not your servants. And I cannot for the life of me think how you ended up out here but you are fortunate to not be one of the undead.”

She stamped her foot. “I am a princess and I cannot be turned into the undead! My father would never permit it!”

“And just who is your father?” asked Aramais.

She gave him an arch look and curled her lip at him in disdain. “I do not recall giving you permission to speak to me, guardsman!”

“That’s it,” said Whitebird. He picked the insolent brat up, slinging her over his shoulder, “Sarrin if you would be so kind?”

Sarrin opened the door. Whitebird carried her over to the door, screaming and kicking and pounding her small fists on his armour. He tossed her outside into the mud, then closed the door, barring it.

“Is that really a wise idea?” said Elaran. “A spoiled monster she may be but we can hardly leave her to the tender mercies of the foul undead.”

“We will not leave her to the monsters,” said Whitebird. “But I for one will not be bullied by a brat.” He glanced at the door as he heard her begin beating against it.

“She does present an interesting question, however,” said Darrin. “Namely from whence did the little treasure come?”

“There is a castle on the far side of the woods,” said Ryskul. “I’ve been there. But there is no king dwelling there. It is the home of Lord and Lady Stillin.”

“Lord or King makes no difference,” said Whitebird. “In this land of death and plague how comes this child to be in the middle of the woods so far from home, and untouched? Even with Ryskul’s protection, we have still been followed. She is unattended. Why have the dead not claimed her?”

The girl pounded on the door, screeching and threatening.

“Perhaps the dead do not want her?” suggested Sarrin.

Whitebird smiled. “Perhaps. But there is an equally good chance her parents have made some pact with the King; their servitude in exchange for the safety of their lands and family. The King would need living servants to carry the plague further south. I find it unlikely an undead creature would be welcomed into an inhabited region.”

“So the brat has some use after all,” said Ryskul.

“Perhaps she is your missing piece,” said Sarrin.

Ryskul made a face. “I sincerely hope not.”

“Open the door, Whitebird,” said Aramais. “We can get her to lead us to her parents’ home. With luck we will learn something to help us stop this madness.”

Whitebird opened the door, and the girl stumbled into the room, wet and outraged. Before she could open her mouth, Whitebird spoke.

“We’ve talked it over and we have decided to kidnap you and take you to your parents for ransom,” he said.

She immediately went from vexed to delighted.

“Really? You have? You will take me in shackles to the home of my father, where I shall be wept over for my sorry plight, my hands bound, and my body ravished?”

“Something like that,” said Sarrin.

She hopped in glee, then looked around. “So who shall ravish me first?”

“Why don’t we discuss that at a later time,” said Aramais. “We’re all rather tired. Perhaps you would care to help Sarrin prepare dinner? Being forced to perform menial tasks is rather part of the whole being kidnapped ordeal.”

“Oh! All right, very well then. But I can’t cook.”

“It’s all right,” said Sarrin. “I’ll tell you what to do.”

“What is your name?” asked Elaran.

“Meri-Suzanne,” she said.

“Lovely name. Well I am Elaran, this is Sarrin, Ryskul, Aramais, Whitebird, and our last companion Derith is in the stable.”

The girl smiled broadly and waved at them, then allowed Sarrin to lead her off. The group watched her go.

“Oh this is going to be painful,” said Whitebird.

***----***

It was worse than painful. Meri-Suzanne babbled endlessly, and about nothing, and she could do it for hours. She chatted about moss, and the weather, and why sheep were woolly, and the sky, and the clouds, and dresses, and shoes, and scarves, until finally the mood of the entire party was soured, and Rui had taken to the sky to escape the jabbering. Whitebird’s kitten could not yet fly, so it curled up in the hood of his cloak, content to ride along. Derith had ridden on ahead, doubtlessly to scout the way well out of earshot.

“Why don’t you shut up?” asked Ryskul abruptly.

Meri-Suzanne gasped with horror. “How DARE you!”

“No I didn’t mean it as a command, it was an honest question. Why don’t you shut up? What makes it so very difficult for you to close your mouth and enjoy the world around yourself? Are you under some form of dire curse, that if you do not babble mindlessly and endlessly that you shall be struck down? I would just truly like to know why you cannot for five minutes close your bloody yap!”

Meri-Suzanne burst into obnoxious wails and flung herself to the ground, sobbing loudly. The party ground to a halt, and Ryskul found himself the object of ire.

“It was merely a question,” he said.

Aramais growled, then went over to the girl, helping her up and brushing forest debris from her clothes.

“There, there, child, don’t mind Ryskul. He was raised by wolves.”

She snuffled pathetically. “Really?”

“Yes. Big grey ones that smelled horribly and had no table manners at all. His mother didn’t want him, you see. He was fair too hairless to be an ogre.”

Meri-Suzanne’s eyes shone with yet more tears. “But that’s so terrible!”

“Yes. So try to forgive him his rudeness.”

She nodded, then looked at Ryskul. “I’m sorry you were so ugly your mother sent you to be raised by wolves.”

Ryskul was staring blades of ice at Aramais. “It matters not. Wolves may have dreadful manners but they are masters of spell craft. Why it would be nothing at all for me to summon a plague of cockroaches and command them to infest a man’s nether regions.”

Aramais tried to dismiss the remark, but could not deny feeling the smallest bit concerned. Meri-Suzanne’s eyes lit up.

“You can do that? What else did the wolves teach you? Please, I’d like to know.”

Ryskul and Aramais held eye contact for a little while, then the mage turned to Meri-Suzanne. “We will walk together. I will teach you a small spell.”

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