Dunagan sighs as the fight comes to an end with a brilliant blast of colorful lights. With a few steps he maneuver's himself behind Haisnar and begins to pull the knight's arms back.
"Anyone got some spare rope so I can tie this fella up?"
"Anyone got some spare rope so I can tie this fella up?"
Pellius shakes his head but quickly puckers his lips. The whistle is heard all over the area but a certain chestnut whinnies in answer and gallops over to the magus.
"I have some rope; it's coming over right now."
With the rope in hand and Haisnar grappled, Pellius and Dunagan finish tying up the knight-captain. He turns to Dierik, "What do you want done here, sir?"
"What is to be done with him? Surely we cannot return to Vigil to see him stand trial. Are there outposts of Watchknights between here and Freedom Town? Do the Precentors exercise authority there?"
"And what of the others? There only crime was following this fool." Pyotr and Dunagan clamp down as Haisnar lurches violently against the half-orc's words.
"Anyone got some spare rope so I can tie this fella up?"
Pellius shakes his head, "I have some rope on my horse's saddle; give me a second while I get it." The magus takes off to where he left Signior.
With the rope in hand and Haisnar grappled, Pellius and Dunagan finish tying up the knight-captain. He turns to Dierik, "What do you want done here, sir?"
"What is to be done with him? Surely we cannot return to Vigil to see him stand trial. Are there outposts of Watchknights between here and Freedom Town? Do the Precentors exercise authority there?"
"And what of the others? There only crime was following this fool." Pyotr and Dunagan clamp down as Haisnar lurches violently against the half-orc's words.
"I don't know of any outposts but we will probably meet up with patrols. We could hand them all over to them."
"Or we could give him to the Orcs as a show of good faith." The Dwarf chuckles as his steel-like fingers push into the knight's forearms, holding his hands steady in preparation for the make-shift shackles.
Haisnar puts up little resistance as Dunagan and Pyotr wrestle him down and truss him up with Pellius’ rope.
"What is to be done with him?
"What do you want done here, sir?"
“Pellius is right,” says Dierik “We’re likely to pass a few patrols between here and Fallenford, but no Watchknight outposts. Of course, there are Lastwall forces entrenched on the Belkzen border. We’ll have to pass through them. But I doubt they have either the authority or interest in taking on a prisoner if there are orcs just over the horizon.”
Dierik sighs “I’m inclined to let him and his men go. We’re not exactly Vigil’s favourite sons, I think any attempts on our part to bring a decorated hero of the one hundred and seventy-three* before the courts would be troublesome.”
Dierik picks up the twisted spaulder Haisnar’s sword clove from his armour. A brief attempt to reattach it to his battered plate mail is in vain, so he turns the piece of metal over idly as he continues. “Kelya should look at the injured man. We’ll bring him and Haisnar back to camp, and let the other two follow their friends,” indicating the Chelaxian pair now riding awkwardly away on their shared horse.
Haisnar stares ahead as his fate is discussed. His vision has returned, but he doesn’t seem to take anything in as he despondently regards the horizon.
*173 knights, including Haisnar and Dierik, rode in the charge against orc warlord Graukrad.
"Or we could give him to the Orcs as a show of good faith."
Pyotr stares at the dwarf aghast. "We shall do no such thing! It's... It's unthinkable...!"
I’m inclined to let him and his men go.
Pyotr looks away for a moment. "Discretion is the better part of valor, eh? And temperance, I suppose, the greatest portion of justice." He turns back to Ironcoffer. "You are the aggrieved party, here. The decision is yours."
With Dunagan's help, he pulls the bound man to his feet. He turns the knight to him. "You would do well to learn such mercy."
Pyotr collects the Knight-Captain's sword from where it fell, reciting the first lines of The Acts, "I will learn the weight of my sword. Without my heart to guide it, it is worthless—my strength is not in my sword, but in my heart. If I lose my sword, I have lost a tool. If I betray my heart, I have died..." He turns to Ironcoffer. "Confiscate his arms and armor, his horse, and his pennant. Let him return to Vigil on one of these gelded nags, in common travelers garb. Grant him a cudgel to defend himself. We are less than a day's ride from the city, and well within the patrol routes. He will be safe enough."
"You have forgotten the first lesson," Pyotr says to the trussed knight. The half-orc pulls a rough, hand carved, sword-shaped token hanging from a leather thong. He ties the symbol around Haisnar's neck. "When you learn the weight of this sword, you will be ready to retrieve this other one. I charge you, on whatever remains of your honor: Return to Vigil; head straight to the Cathedral; there before the priests, the lords and ladies, and all the common folk confess your crimes and seek the Lady's mercy. If you find atonement, you will find your possessions in Freedom Town. I will know if this is done."
Pellius stands and nods in agreement at Pyotr's words; his sentence is by far the best he's heard.
"Your sentence is wise if we were dealing with someone who could be trusted. What I see here is someone who has nothing to gain from going back to Vigil. I would personally feel much better sleeping at night if he were escorted by a patrol but... we may not have that luxury."
The magus then jumps on Signior and heads over to the other two horses bringing them back, leading them by their reins.
Dierik listens carefully to the half-orc’s words, and at the end of his proclamation, nods gravely in agreement. “Then as the aggrieved party I agree. Let it be done as Pyotr the Unwelcome says. Your arms and armour will be confiscated, but allow him to keep his pennant, for it is the token of the lady whose loss has driven him to this juncture.”
“We’ll take him back to the wagons, and divest him of the trappings he has forfeited there. Bring the wounded man too. When Kelya has healed him, the pair can return to Vigil in each others company. Close to the city we may be, but in never hurts to have an extra pair of eyes in these wild lands.”
“The other two we can release here. They’re outnumbered and thoroughly bested, they’re no more threat to us.”
"As you say." Pyotr lifts the wounded man to the back of one of the horses. "Bonegrit, you are the better horseman by far. Will you take one side, and endeavor to lead us down the gentlest path? I will take the other side and hope to keep us both in the saddle."
The city-life suddenly snaps back into the Dwarf after the adrenaline of combat begins to fade. His jest turns to a stern look as he watches Dierik try to affix the broken spaulder to his armor. The forgemaster speaks up after Dierik finishes, "Sir Ironcoffer, I should be able to fix your armor up, but I'd ask in return that you allow me to study your blade."
When the others head towards their mount, Dunagan tugs the defeated knight's make-shift leash, leading the knight towards Cornalium. The Dwarf clamors on top of Cornalium with the Knight Captain trailing behind. The Dwarf and his "mighty steed" make their way alongside the others headed towards the camp. Dunagan tries to keep Cornalium at a slow pace, but the horse seems to be just stubborn enough to keep Haisnar of balance by a sharp tug every so often.
Bonegrit mills about uncomfortably as the affair is sorted out, but takes the opportunity the action affords him to uncork his waterskin and set to cleaning the wounded man's blood from his hands. As everyone seems to settle on what to do with Haisnar and his men, Bonegrit's mouth splits into a slight frown. He looks over at the defeated knight with a piercing stare, as if he were searching past the defeat to see the ego. The half-orc can scarcely read men he's familiar with however—they aren't like the beasts Bonegrit is accustomed to who wear their needs plainly. Unsatisfied with what can be gleaned from the glance, the ranger jogs over to where Dierik and Pyotr are conversing.
"I'll not second guess either of ya. Maybe this is the right call; it's certainly not the wrong call. But he isn't going to stop at this. He's risked everything on this gambit, and it didn't pan out. Next time, he'll have nothing left to lose. Remember that." Having said his piece, Bonegrit fetches Amiro and rides ahead of Pyotr and Haisnar's wounded second, as per Pyotr's instructions. He does not make an audible reply to the other half-orc's quest, but simply nods out an agreement as he extends a hand down for the leading rope.
"Sir Ironcoffer, I should be able to fix your armor up, but I'd ask in return that you allow me to study your blade."
Dierik smiles at the dwarf. “And there I was thinking I was paying you three gold pieces a day to fix up my armour. Your etiquette is lacking, Master Dunagan, but then consider our good captive here, who’s supposedly been trained in etiquette since he could dress himself without aid. I guess manners don’t really count for much, and I’m starting to consider your lack thereof something in your favour rather than your detriment.”
“Sort out my armour. Do a good job, and you’ll get your look at the sword of your forefathers.”
He's risked everything on this gambit
“Well, he’ll certainly have a lot of explaining to do when he arrives at Vigil’s gates in naught but his tunic and underbreeches. But risked everything? Probably not. He’s still got a position of import, and not a little sizeable wealth to his name, if what I’ve heard is true. One thing’s for certain, I’ve no plans to gaze upon Vigil’s walls again in my lifetime. He’ll have to ride far to get a second chance for my head!”
The adventurers prepare to return to the caravan. Pellius fetches the horses of the defeated party. Bonegrit and Pyotr lift the wounded, unconscious man across the broad back of one of these steeds and tie him to the saddle so he can not slip free. Dunagan tethers Haisnar to Cornalium. Pellius mounts Signior and takes the reins of the knight’s black destrier. Delkaneth climbs onto Harika and takes the reins of the spare riding horse. They leave behind two more animals, and the two warriors of Haisnar who surrendered to them. Dunagan has reclaimed the rope he animated to entangle the man who charged him.
Delkaneth’s grim nod is returned in kind. Perhaps respect has been won after all. The two men watch the victors ride away, then mount up themselves, jerking their horses around to the east, following the path taken by their companions who fled earlier.
Dierik leads the group back over the moorland, Calibar’s Monument receding in the distance behind them. Haisnar stumbles along in Cornalium’s wake, just about succeeding in keeping his feet. His earlier bravado and biting tongue has vanished, replaced by a brooding silence and a expression that might be grief, regret or impotent rage.
It seems to you that Haisnar’s grief is real, but only as a consequence of a failure to exact his revenge (and the subsequent humiliation) rather than any conclusion that his actions were wrong. No doubt his hatred of Dierik now burns brighter than ever.
The return journey to the caravan is made without incident. Second Master Santrian has everything prepped; all the beasts of burden are in their traces, the camp cleaned up and the wagons are ready to move. One of the sharper eyed members of the crew calls “Dierik’s the victor!” on seeing him at the head of the small group of horses, and a cheer goes up from all and sundry.
Santrian and Callan ride up to greet their leader.
“Good to see you hale and hearty,” says Santrian, whilst Callan throws a casual sneer at Haisnar, still behind Dunagan’s horse and looking exhausted after his hard fight and harder forced march.
“He was as slippery as you expected, Santrian,” returns Dierik, “But the men you hired in Vigil proved adept in thwarting the treachery of him and his band. Now fetch Kyla, one of these unfortunates is sorely injured, and I’d like to see him restored before we send them back down the road.”
Jeers and catcalls follow the cheers as Haisnar is led up to the caravan in his sorry state. Ignoring his crowing men, Dierik turns to Haisnar and instructs him to divest himself of his weapons and the beautiful set of plate mail that he wears. His bald head low, Haisnar complies, throwing his longsword down upon the grass and and clumsily unbuckling the different sections of heavy, gold-embossed armour. Eventually, he is wearing nothing more than his sweat stained doublet, the wooden symbol of Iomedae around his neck, and the distinctive black gauntlet on his left hand, which he makes no effort to remove.
You will recall that Haisnar has always worn this gauntlet since his hand was mangled horribly whilst batting orcs.
Meanwhile, Kyla has been tending the wounded warrior, whispering prayers to Desna as she ministers to him. It seems Kyla’s entreaties to her goddess are heard, for by the time Haisnar has stripped himself, his remaining hireling is standing, pale and shaky on his feet, but nonetheless strong enough to walk and ride.
Dierik orders two of his men to load Haisnar’s surrendered arms into his carriage, before he approaches his enemy. In Dierik’s hand is the lady’s token that was tied to the tip of Haisnar’s lance, which Dierik retrieved before they left Calibar’s Monument. His whispers fiercely to Haisnar as he returns the pennant to his adversary.
“Keep this, and think further upon where it has led you. Dierik Ironcoffer cannot apologise for the loss of your woman. But, perhaps you should consider something. If she was so eager to abandon you for the arms of another, did you ever really hold anything special together?”
Pellius busies himself in getting ready to hit the road again by putting back the rope in Signior's saddle and ensuring all is ready.
He casually nods a 'congrats' to his new found companions on a job well done.
Eventually, he is wearing nothing more than his sweat stained doublet, the wooden symbol of Iomedae around his neck, and the distinctive black gauntlet on his left hand, which he makes no effort to remove.
Pyotr stands placidly aside, holding Hammer's reigns, as Haisnar disarms. Eventually, he stands bearing nothing but one black gauntlet.
Damn the man, and his pride. Keep the gauntlet. All will see, and all will know that Ser Haisnar Rosenholt was laid low.
"Sir Ironcoffer, I should be able to fix your armor up, but I'd ask in return that you allow me to study your blade."Dierik smiles at the dwarf. “And there I was thinking I was paying you three gold pieces a day to fix up my armour. Your etiquette is lacking, Master Dunagan, but then consider our good captive here, who’s supposedly been trained in etiquette since he could dress himself without aid. I guess manners don’t really count for much, and I’m starting to consider your lack thereof something in your favour rather than your detriment.”
“Sort out my armour. Do a good job, and you’ll get your look at the sword of your forefathers.”
"Hah! You couldn't pay me a hundred gold a day to pass up having a look at that blade of yours," Dunagan retorts at the offer of gold and is dead serious. He strokes his beard and cracks a smile at Dierik's words that come next. Eventually he speaks up after pondering the subject, "Very wise words. We are all but the outcome of our actions not our words. Good arms and armor do not speak and yet they still accomplish much. A legacy is not created with pleasantries and platitudes, but by force of will!"
The humbled Haisnar is allowed to remount his mighty destrier, wearing no more than his doublet and bearing no more than a cudgel which is no more than a fallen branch picked up from the roadside. His companion, now somewhat healed by Kyla’s prayer, leads his own steed up to flank Haisnar, but the man cannot bring himself to look his master in the face after the morning’s debacle.
Without a word, the knight captain kicks his charger into a walk, and his companion follows suit. Together they ride slowly away on the road towards Vigil. Dierik’s crew watch them go, and this time the sight of a proud man laid low and stripped to undergarments stills their tongues.
“Come on lads and lasses, let’s get this show on the road,” cries Santrian, and with the customary creak of wagon wheels and snort of oxen, the caravan moves off.
Dierik ties Isabellina’s Arrow to the ‘Flagship’ – as his men are oft to call his personal coach – and retires inside. Crinkles Cupporchin waves the adventurers over to the ‘Mealwheels’, his makeshift travelling kitchen, and offers them each a crumbling hunk of blue cheese for breakfast.
The morning rolls by quietly as the caravan gradually puts more ground between it and Vigil. After an hour or so, Dierik reappears and remounts his horse. At some point before noon, when those who accompanied him to Cabilar’s Mount are all in earshot of each other, he nudges Isabellina’s Arrow up to ride beside them.
“You made admirable seconds today. It occurs to me we gained a spare horse following this morning’s spot of exercise. Consider it yours as a sign of my thanks. Keep him to carry your gear, or sell him in the Freedom Town and split the profit, whatever you wish.”
“Also, Pyotr,” Dierik extends his hand and opens his palm, within nestles a simple holy symbol of Iomedae, fashioned of silver where Pyotr’s was wood. “Please take it. These days, I find I offer my prayers to Desna more than the Inheritor anyway.”
“Also, Pyotr,” Dierik extends his hand and opens his palm, within nestles a simple holy symbol of Iomedae, fashioned of silver where Pyotr’s was wood. “Please take it. These days, I find I offer my prayers to Desna more than the Inheritor anyway.”
"A gracious gift, though it would please me better if you still desired it for yourself. Nevertheless, I will see it put to worthy purpose."
Pyotr drifts into meditation, reconciling the sacrifice of Calibur against the disreputable actions of Haisnar. Lost in thoughts, he allows Torshen's Hammer to amble along, at a pace of his choosing, until he finds himself well to the front of the caravan.
Later in the afternoon, Bonegrit and Pyotr are riding in the vanguard when they notice two objects floating in the Esk. As the river’s strong current carries these two objects towards them, they reveal themselves to be a pair of corpses, both human. Numerous black-feathered arrows* stand like porcupine quills in both bodies.
Behind them, a few shouts ring out as the rest of the caravan sees the floating corpses.
*The orcs of Belkzen commonly fletch their arrows with the feathers of crows and ravens.
Dunagan perks up when he sees the bodies wash past him. He looks upstream trying to make out their assailants while riding towards Pyotr and Bonegrit.
With little time, as the unfortunate men are rapidly swept downstream, Pyotr dismounts and races to the banks.
"Quickly, pass me a line!"
With little time, as the unfortunate men are rapidly swept downstream, Pyotr dismounts and races to the banks.
"Quickly, pass me a line!"
Pellius has strong flashbacks when he sees the floating corpses. For a second, the magus thinks he sees his old companions from that fateful patrol duty but then Pyotr's shout breaks the spell.
He quickly dismounts, grabs the rope from Signior's saddle, and throws it to the paladin.
Dunagan sees nothing threatening upstream.
Pellius tosses the end of the rope even as he braces it against the pommel of his horse. With rope clamped between his tusks, Pyotr makes an ungainly dive into the fast-moving river. Using a combination side-stroke and doggie-paddle he manages to struggle out into the depths in time to catch the first of the corpses as it comes floating by. Spreading his arms wide, he easily snags the second as the current carries it into him.
Securing the two unfortunates against his shoulders, he allows the steady flow of the river to swing him downstream and towards the bank. With the rope firmly secured to Signior's pommel, Pyotr is able to struggle up onto the muddy edge, pushing the fallen humans ahead of him.
After dragging the two corpses well out of the reach of the current, Pyotr rolls over to his back and lies panting, exhausted from his exertions.
The two dead men are soldiers of Lastwall. Badges of their tunics mark them as hailing from Castle Firrine, a fortified garrison to the south which also supplies troops to man the frontier with Belkzen. The first man is lightly armoured in a soggy leather hauberk, with a bracer about his right wrist. An empty quiver and an empty scabbard hang from his belt. He is young, not even close to twenty years of age. An arrow in his throat, and three more in his torso, slew him. The second man is significantly older, well into middle age, balding, but with long hair and a great handlebar moustache. Only remnants of his armour remain upon his heavy frame; a gauntlet on his right hand, a single greave. Straps and buckles around his belt and an iron torc at his neck suggest he was wearing a suit of chain mail that was crudely removed following his death. There are even a few links of chain pinioned to the flesh of his back by the six arrows embedded there.
A study of the injuries suggest they have been dead for about a day, perhaps less, perhaps two days at a stretch. Blood no longer flows from their wounds, but corruption is yet to set in
Pellius recognises neither man.
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Seeing Pellius approach and Pyotr rushing for the water, Bonegrit urges Amiro forward and towards the muddy banks of the Esk. He stops just short of the slope, however, as he does not wish to risk his horse on something as trivial as fetching bodies. In short order, he swings his left leg over his saddle and leaps from Amiro's back, both feet planting firmly in the damp earth for but a moment before he rushes down the bank to lend aid to Pyotr. Bonegrit grips the rope as it begins to go taut downstream, pulling with all he can muster to help the half-orc and the two dead men reach land quicker. As Pyotr comes to rest on a nearby bank, Bonegrit scrambles down to help pull the bodies onto dryer ground before extending a hand to help the other half-orc to his feet.
"Friends of yours?" Bonegrit manages the words through a forced chuckle, a jab clearly intended for the now soaked and filthy Iomedaean. "Let's see what we have here..." the words trail off as Bonegrit squats down next to the dead soldiers. He lifts the wrist of the younger, then the older, confirming they hold no residence in Vigil with the lack of Shield or Sword Marks. Bonegrit's eyes then follow to the wounds that ended them, the myriad black-fletched arrows yet protruding like a patchwork fence from their waterlogged carcasses. The half-orc seems ponderous for a moment, before reaching out and giving one of the arrows an unceremonious tug. The arrow is stubborn however, and Bonegrit thinks better of mutilating the boy's body further in front of the fast growing assembly of onlookers. He ultimately settles for breaking the shaft near the base, though his gaze still lingers amid the wounds rather than the nock end of the orcish arrow.
Seeing Pyotr rejoin the gathering circle, Bonegrit meets his gaze briefly before grunting out quietly, "These two ain't long dead. I reckon the deed was done just over a day ago. Hard to be certain, though. Could bark a better guess if the river hadn't washed most of the carnage away." The ranger, absentmindedly twirling the broken arrow end in his gangly, grey fingers, suddenly remembers he has the thing. He studies the missile intently for any telling anomalies.
A tusked frown joins Bonegrit's otherwise disagreeable appearance as he fails to find anything else worth mentioning. "Hoped to figger out which lot we're dealing with, but there's not much to go on. Safe to say they're violent, though." Bonegrit returns to his feet and casts the broken arrow back into the river.
"These two ain't long dead. I reckon the deed was done just over a day ago. Hard to be certain, though. Could bark a better guess if the river hadn't washed most of the carnage away."
"The river runs swiftly, with the last of the melt. Unless I miss my guess, one day would be enough to have brought them from the border. Is there anything to identify them or their company? That would tell us much."
Bonegrit scrutinises the broken shaft and the jagged head protruding from the flesh, but barbed, black-feathered arrows are ten a copper amongst the savage tribes of Belkzen, and he sees nothing to indicate any particular affiliation.
Pyotr quickly searches the corpses. The younger of the dead has a slender knife in a sheath on the inside of his left boot. Also in his boot is a moleskin money purse containing eleven copper pieces and a single silver coin (all of Lastwall minting). From the iron torc around the older man’s neck depends a chain, on which a heavy iron symbol bearing the mark of Gorum, the Lord in Iron, is hung. He also has a pouch containing a well-used whetstone but no coins.
Both men wear badges bearing the arms of Castle Firrine and a company insignia; on the younger this emblem is a pair of arrows, both pointed to the base of dexter and overlapping one another at an angle, whilst the older is no more than a repetition of Gorum’s symbol.
Pellius recognises the first mark as belonging to Firrine’s First Skirmishers, a small company of scouts and bowmen based in the fortress, and the second as pertaining to the Gorumite Battlemaster Chaplains also stationed there.
Dierik rides up whilst Pyotr is examining the dead. “Orc work,” he observes unnecessarily. He sighs. “Did you find anything?” he asks.
Turning to Santrian, he continues “When Pyotr’s finished, bundle them up as best you can and put them on Old Stubborness. We’ll bury them when we stop this evening.”
Dierik rides up whilst Pyotr is examining the dead. “Orc work,” he observes unnecessarily. He sighs. “Did you find anything?” he asks.
Turning to Santrian, he continues “When Pyotr’s finished, bundle them up as best you can and put them on Old Stubborness. We’ll bury them when we stop this evening.”
Pellius sighs and mumbles, "Tough work being a scout, almost always have odds against you, behind enemy lines..."
He turns to the group, "Both these men were from Castle Firrine. Tough men there; I'm sure their kin would appreciate a proper burial."
Pyotr displays the trinkets where Dierik and the others can clearly see them.
"This Castle Firrine is to the west? Will we approach it before we make the turn east to Freedom Town?"
“Castle Firrine lies on the other side of the River Esk. We should pass it sometime tomorrow morning if we make good time.”
"Then let us return these men to their fellows. I know something of the burial rights of the Iomedaeans, but nothing at all of the Gorumites. They may already know of the events surrounding these men's deaths. If so, then their council would be invaluable. If not, then they would value such intelligence."
Pellius sighs again, "The right thing to do, of course, is to take these men back to Castle Firrine. The 'town' is only a couple of miles from our path*."
He looks at the four companions, "Perhaps, the five of us could ride ahead and then catch up to the caravan? Or perhaps the caravan could break for the day close to our departing point?"
He turns to Santrain, "Where is our next stop, master?"
Pellius sighs again, "The right thing to do, of course, is to take these men back to Castle Firrine. Hopefully we'll meet a patrol on its way there or from Castle Firrine itself to do that."
He looks at the four companions, "If that isn't the case then perhaps the five of us could take the bodies ourselves and then catch up to the caravan. In any event, we won't have to make that decision until we get to Fallenford."
He turns to Santrian, "Where is our next stop, master?"
Kelya joins the small group gathered about the bodies. She bends her long body down to look at the corpses, then voices a suggestion.
“With the proper prayers I believe I can entreat Desna’s aid in slowing the forces of rot and decay, if only for a few days. I’ll need half an hour or so to complete the litany of repose.”
“Very well,” agrees Dierik “Call a halt Santrian. And see if Crinkles has anything worth making a late lunch out of.”
“At this rate, we’ll have eaten our way through any delicacies Crinkles’ bought in Vigil before the week is out,” observes Santrian.
“By the time we’re in the Hold, we’ll have bigger things to worry about than the quality of our afternoon snacks.”
Kelya begins murmuring her prayers, ephemeral wisps of silk-like magic drifting down from her fingers to settle on the cold flesh of the dead men, then disappear. After a while she places a copper coin over each sightless eye and continues her prayers.
Kelya casts gentle repose on each corpse.
Meanwhile, the wagons are coaxed into a loose defensive semi-circle, with the river guarding one flank, and Crinkles hands out some loaves of honey-baked bread and a tiny ration of dried venison for each man.
Pinches of powdery salt scattered on the breasts of the slain complete Kelya’s work as she traces a rough approximation of Desna’s symbol in the white grains.
“I’m done,” she announces. Santrian directs a pair of men to carefully wrap the bodies in an old tarpaulin, then the caravan gets moving once more.
"Where is our next stop, master?"
“We'll go as far as we can today. We’ll make camp by the roadside when the light begins to fail. We should make Fallenford tomorrow.”
Placing a foot in one stirrup, Bonegrit heaves himself back up onto his grey destrier. Seeing Kelya approaching, the half-orc offers her a curt nod before leaning forward on his saddle's pommel, listening intently to the conversation between she, Dierik, and Santrian. Hearing the intent to remain immobile for thirty minutes while the Desnan concludes her entreaties and Santrian's assessment of the food stores, Bonegrit quickly formulates his own method for passing the interim until the caravan's travel resumes.
Amiro's bulk forces itself up to where Dierik and Santrian remain, Bonegrit stating simply as he rides up, "If I'm not back before you get them moving again, don't wait up; I'll find you." He bends down and whispers something into his stallion's ears, and the brute begins thundering down the road ahead.
With a jangling of bells, Pyotr climbs back into the saddle. He moves deliberately to the front of the caravan, as it uncoils itself back onto the track, a look of concern following the retreating form of Bonegrit. After a few moments, the caravan sorts itself back into order and begins the slow march towards Fallenford.
Castle Firrine has become Lastwall's forward garrison against Belkzen... Fallen defenders... The Horde is on the move...
Springtime is the breeding season of steppe cailies; large, succulent game birds, and open ground such as this are ideal ‘stages’ for males hoping to attract a mate. The cocks are notoriously loath to abandon good lekking sites, as is the case now, for Bonegrit has spotted a large bird squatting beneath a tangle of gorse, its throat pressed to the ground to conceal the vivid red breeding plumage. The rest of its tawny feathers provide excellent camouflage, but not enough to fool Bonegrit’s accomplished eye. A well placed arrow bags the bird, and as Bonegrit approaches his prize a second cailie, this one a female, explodes from cover just a few yards to his left. With a predator’s speed and reflexes, Bonegrit draws back another arrow and fires, letting instinct guide the missile, and knocks the second bird from the sky in a puff of feathers.
Both cailies are satisfyingly heavy, and even with a bird in each hand Bonegrit’s arms are aching after only the short walk back to Amiro’s side.
Then he hears the bell.
Low and mournful, it rolls softly over the moors like a pall of smoke. It sounds again, and as Bonegrit looks west along the trail he sees several white-shrouded wagons, two dozen horsemen and numerous armoured footmen with pikes and guisarmes in their hands plodding towards him. Lastwall soldiers no doubt, but in a surprisingly ramshackle formation, with no outriders at the vanguard or protecting the flanks.
The caravan gets underway again, although Bonegrit has yet to return from his hunting expedition.
As Dunagan does his best to encourage Cornalium and Sard to move, the female guard Karannah trots past. Dunagan does a double take; for a chestnut beard long enough to be the pride of a dwarf in his third century now dangles from the woman’s chin!
A second glance confirms that the beard is tied in place by a length of cord hooked over Karannah’s ears.
Through all the incidental noise of the caravan, the creaking of wheels, rattle of tack, snorts of the beasts and chattering of the men, you hear a distant sound coming from the road ahead; the long, mournful note of a Vigilant funeral bell.
Upon seeing the girl with the fake beard, Pellius smugly smiles and saunters his horse next to Dunagan. "Looks like you got an admirer there. What did you do to encourage her?"