| “Sarrin.” “Yes, Master Whitebird?” “If you sing that wretched tune about the unicorn one more time I shall shoot you.” “Shutting up, my Liege.” “Oh I like the unicorn song!” said Shendklin. Whitebird stopped on the steep path and exhaled, winded. His long heavy hair was disheveled, and he pushed it impatiently out of his face. “I am not opposed to it myself, but not four times in a row!” “I like it,” insisted Shendklin. “And since Aramais and I have to carry him, we call the tunes.” “This is the thanks I get for agreeing to lead this party; anarchy and insubordination.” “Don’t forget veiled insults and abuse,” said Shendklin. Whitebird gave her a jaundiced look, then continued walking. He took a few steps, then slipped. Aramais dropped the end of the litter he held to catch him. Sarrin yelped in pain. “Sorry,” said Aramais. Sarrin glared at the guardsman. “No problem, quite all right. I’m just glad you were not at the *head* of the litter!” Aramais gave him a chagrined look, then felt Whitebird move from him. He watched the Elf step away, then bent down and picked up the litter. “Have a good firm grip?” asked Sarrin. “Not firm enough,” said Shendklin, “the Elf got away.” “I have the litter, I will not drop you again,” said Aramais. “Shendklin one more word out of you and I shall give you a spanking.” Shendklin stuck out her tongue and made a rude noise, showing just how much fear this comment instilled in her heart. Rui flew up and landed on Sarrin, then proceeded to knead him with her paws, purring. Elaran walked up to the trio, leaning on a heavy walking stick. “How much further, Shendklin?” “An hour, no more,” she replied. “Then we can all rest.” She glanced up at the threatening grey sky. “I should not be surprised to see snow this eve.” Sarrin rubbed the cat’s furry ears as the little group started forward again. “Snow, eh? I should like to see if that tale about Snow Elves is true.” “What tale?” asked Aramais, glancing towards the cloaked form marching ahead of them. “That during the first snowfall of every year, the Snow Elves turn back into the snow they are made of, and reform with the sunrise.” Aramais grinned as Whitebird slowly turned around and made his way back to the litter. The Elf stared wearily at the man lying there. “What?” asked Whitebird, his tone disbelieving. Sarrin repeated his statement. Whitebird continued staring at him for a long moment, then sighed heavily. “Sarrin where do you learn this stuff?” “Oh the usual places. Pubs. Taverns. Passing village idiots.” Whitebird sighed again. “I am not made of snow. I do not live in snow. I am not from some mystic land of solid ice. I am not even a ‘Snow Elf’, if you MUST know I am a ‘Pehrinan’.” “Then why do we call your kind ‘Snow Elves’?” Whitebird fluffed up his impressive mane of white hair, then stared at Sarrin with eyes the colour of ice, set in a face with skin as pale as the froth on an ocean wave. “Guess,” he said. “Well a decent tan would not hurt you.” Whitebird stared at him, then walked away, shaking his head. The group proceeded up the forested hill. “Play the unicorn song,” said Shendklin. ***---*** They reached the hidden stronghold not long before sunset. The snow had begun falling soon after their conversation, and was coming down now fast and hard. Shendklin opened the door and slipped inside, Aramais behind her. Together they inspected the chamber before going back for their companions. “It’s safe,” she said, smiling as Rui hopped down from the litter and hastened out of the falling snow. Together she and Aramais carried Sarrin into the safety of the hidden stronghold, followed by Elaran and Whitebird. It was obvious the hidden structure was of great age, and had likely been built to house arms and stores for times of hardship. Long had it been forgotten and left to crumble before the thieves and smugglers found and rebuilt it. The outer camouflage of trees, moss and shrubs made it look like just another outcrop, and it would be easy enough to ignore it. Inside, it was clearly made by hand of bricks and mortar. Comforts such as a fireplace and beds had been added, and, as with the other hideaway, there was a place to stable horses. Sarrin was placed on a bed, and Elaran began making a fire. Whitebird flung off his long cloak and hung it up to dry, then carefully removed his glove to look at his burned hand. The injury was ugly, but showed no sign of infecting, and was healing rather quickly. Aramais shoved the heavy door close and barred it, then removed his own cloak. He went to a chair, a huge ornate thing carved long ago for nobles, and sat on it. He watched his companions go about their business, but his thoughts were on other things. The books would be moved by now; doubtless Randereth had told the King all about their plans to put a stop to his filth and death. Granted the plan to get the books from the hunting lodge had been a desperate one, but at least it had been a plan. Now, they were without direction. Aramais had not the faintest idea where to look for the books. Going to the lodge now was of no use; anyone they found there would likely be undead and of no assistance. He did not wish to give up, but had no idea where to go from here. Whitebird noticed the look on his face, and asked; “What troubles you?” “Everything,” said Aramais. “Where do we go from here? The books will not be in the lodge any longer, what direction do we take?” Rui leapt onto his lap and began delicately licking her paws. Aramais rubbed the back of her neck idly. “We go nowhere for now,” said Whitebird. “I will not risk hiking in the snow, leaving a trail any fool can follow.” “What of the plague?” He shook his head, then tied back his thick mane of hair. “The plague creatures are not bothered by the cold, that is true. But they are dead, and they rot. And they can travel no further through deep drifts than we. They will freeze solid as they walk, and by spring will be so decomposed they will not be a problem. The King can make more, that is true. But for now I feel this adventure is at a pause for both sides. And, in spring, we set out again. We have eyes in the sky as well as on the ground.” Whitebird indicated the winged cat, who chose that moment to thrust her leg into the air and wash her backside. He grinned and shook his head. “We are not defeated, Aramais. Not while we live.” “Then the next question; how is our store of provisions?” Shendklin came down from the upper level. “There are stores enough to last if we were fifty rather than five. Even if it is a harsh winter, we will not feel any real hardship if we do not squander food needlessly.” She walked over to Rui and scratched her head. “Squander it on such silly things as flying cats.” Rui looked up abruptly, and accepted the dried fish she was given. She then took it to eat by the fire. “Good,” said Aramais. “And we have Sarrin to keep us amused. In the meantime, your hand and his ankle can mend.” “Play the unicorn song,” said Shendklin. ***---*** The night was old, and the snow outside lay heavily in a pale blue cloak over the land. The snow had stopped, and the sky was clear, the moon shining cold and blue when Aramais awoke to find the door opened a small crack, and Whitebird not in his bed. Concerned, Aramais got up and dressed, then pulled on his cloak and stepped outside, searching for the Elven warrior. He did not have to go far to find him. Whitebird was seated under a tree, his legs drawn up and his arms about his knees, his head lowered. Aramais stopped, uncomfortable. It was clear Whitebird had come out seeking solitude, and he had intruded. He did not wish to spy, but he also did not wish to leave the Elf alone, possibly to the mercy of any passing monsters. He retreated a few paces, then seated himself on a rock to keep vigil. After a time, Whitebird raised his head and dried his eyes. He stood, and turned to face the cold white of the full moon. He stared at it as it hung in the black winter sky, surrounded by the diamond-white stars. “Happy birthday, Hunter,” he said quietly. “I miss you.” Aramais rose to his feet, feeling ashamed at having witnessed something he was quite clearly not meant to. He grit his teeth as a frozen twig snapped loudly beneath his boot, and Whitebird spun to face him, sword drawn. “’Tis only me,” said Aramais. Whitebird was clearly not amused at the intrusion, and regaled Aramais with angry Elven phrases before recalling the man did not speak the language. Not bothering to repeat himself, he simply switched in mid-sentence. “… a being to grieve in peace! Our situation may be grave but there are some things I do not wish to share with the entire party!” “I know, I am very sorry. I awoke to find the door open and your bed empty. I was concerned.” Whitebird fixed him with a glare Aramais had seen many times in the past. Then he lowered his head and sighed. “All right, I understand,” said Whitebird. “I am sorry for becoming angry.” Aramais stepped forward. “I am sorry as well for intruding.” He moved closer to the tall Elf, noticing how small he seemed to be at times like this. It was as though his grief so overwhelmed him that it shrank him into someone small and frail and afraid. He put an arm around him, then tensed with discomfort as the Elf collapsed against him, resting his face against the side of his neck. He felt Whitebird’s arms link around his shoulders, and Aramais’ first instinct was to pull away. He was uncomfortable with the intimacy of the embrace, but stood quietly, not wanting to push away one who clearly needed the touch of another living being. He clumsily put his arms around him, wondering when it would be acceptable to push the Elf off. Whitebird seemed to pick up on the discomfort, and raised his head. His eyes were still wet with tears, but his mood perhaps seemed a little lighter. He grinned. “You would have a fit if I kissed you, wouldn’t you.” “Yes.” Whitebird seemed to consider this for a moment, then darted his head forward in an attempt to kiss him. Aramais jerked back and fell over, Whitebird landing on top of him. He pinned him in the snow, his knees keeping Aramais’ arms firm to the ground while he planted a wet noisy kiss on his lips. “For crying out… YUCK! Off, varlet! STOPITALREADY!” Whitebird laughed; truly laughed for the first time in what felt like many ages of the earth. “Oh Aramais, stop fighting, you have had your eye on me for a good while now, admit it!” “I admit I’ve been keeping an eye on you, but not for the reasons you seem to think!” “Tell me you love me.” “I… do not entirely dislike you.” “And I am the fairest Elf you have ever seen.” “Fine, leaving out that you are the only Elf I have ever seen.” “And you want to make mad passionate love to me in the snow.” “Not in the snow, and by no means with you.” “Then I shall content myself with having embarrassed you.” Whitebird stood up, reaching his good hand down to help Aramais up. “Come along my friend. Let us have some mulled wine to chase away the cold and sad thoughts.” Aramais stood up and brushed the snow off himself. Together, he and Whitebird walked back to the cave. ***---*** Aramais was not certain 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. Aramais was not 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 humor, and it was not difficult to see why the Elves 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 Aramais already knew she was not tolerant of authority. 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, 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. More wine 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 paused in sipping his wine, laughing quietly. 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.” “Good thought. I would not mind a map.” Whitebird looked at Aramais. “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. “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.” Whitebird stood up. “A perfect place for housing an army of corpses, a large underground catacomb. Doubtless the King thought of this long before we did.” Elaran walked over, hearing the matter they were discussing. “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 now,” said Aramais. “Perhaps they would have left this area.” “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. The wall it was set into was of large blocks of grey stone, mortared solidly into place. Resting atop it were 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 Whitebird 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. 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 perched on a stone marker, staring at the ground with fear and sadness. He shook his head. “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, then walked up to the great marble door. He gave it a light push, and it slowly, silently, swung inwards. 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. Set into their wooden surfaces were jeweled mosaics of birds and flowers. Aramais could not begin to guess at their worth. Whitebird curled his lip and poked one of the flowers with the tip of his sword. “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, then hopped back as the screaming of the dead reached him. Aramais watched the tall Elf pause on the ramp, knowing he would have to go forward, yet reluctant to do so. “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 their rotting presence. But there seemed to be nothing amiss within the catacombs; the dead here 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. “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 door. She found a second tiny opening like the one in the other 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-tell 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. “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 much 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! We still have a good two hours before sundown. 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. 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. She 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 Brenin. She gasped, then fled into the dark, searching for her friend. Aramais cursed, then followed her. Whitebird watched them go, then called after them; “Be quick! I shall await you in the upper chamber.” The tall Elven warrior walked up the ramp towards the entrance, and the two thieves watched. Then Brenin pulled Rhasis aside and whispered into his ear; “We killed Bryannon over a month ago, why tell a fool tale like that?” “Think for once in your life, Brenin! That’s a Snow Elf!” “I know, and a damned mean one at that!” “I’ve heard it said their hearts are living diamonds, of the best quality. Think of it, a diamond the size of your fist! And even if the tale is a lie, we can at least be rid of that bloody bastard! Leave the treasure for now, we can find where they are hiding, then kill them all and set ourselves up safe and warm for the winter.” They looked up as Shendklin and Aramais came back. Shendklin was visibly upset, and Rhasis 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. She was crying against Rhasis, and he was comforting her. Aramais knew Bryannon; he went by the name of Bryannon the Crow, and Aramais had faced him on several occasions. He had skipped away from more than a few traps, leaving bleeding bodies behind him. Aramais had a difficult time matching that image with the woman currently weeping over his loss. “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. “There, there, Shendie,” said Rhasis softly. “We’ll take you home.” Shendklin was too distraught to think of more than her friend. “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 armory 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. She 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’ back. 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 spun around, and saw Shendklin drop to her knees, blood running down her clothing and pooling around her. “Whitebird!” he yelled, then pulled his sword. A second dagger flew towards him, barely missing him. Then suddenly Whitebird tore past, both swords drawn. He moved so fast that Aramais did not see him so much as feel the breeze of his passing, and heard the flutter of his cape. Aramais went after him, but Whitebird had already reached the thieves. 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 fell to his knees and yelled for mercy, but Whitebird did not even slow in his advance. Brenin’s head rolled as did his companion’s. Then Whitebird turned and knelt down beside Shendklin and gently picked 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 white 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. Then she smiled. “Always wanted to do that,” she said softly. Then she went limp, almost 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. “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 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. He opened the door, then walked with Elaran, Whitebird and Aramais to the passage where Shendklin lay. They found a fur cloak amongst the treasure, 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 murders. 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, then slowly, quietly, they left the graveyard. End of Part 3 - to be continued ... |
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| an original epic story by Alyx J. Shaw |
| PART 3 |
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