The filthy rain beat down against the ripped and dirty blinds that slapped listlessly on the crumbling house. The stone was chipped and blasted from the recent battle, and the walls of the lower half had been heavily damaged by the fighting. The earth surrounding the sad building was churned to greasy mud, littered with dead and dying warriors. Evening, like the rain, was falling.

Aramais carefully lowered the bleeding and unconscious elf to the tattered bed on the building's second floor. He cast a glance to his black-clad companion, who was peering cautiously into the grey evening.

"Shendklin, do you see any more movement?"

"I see one moving, close enough to grab, but we'd better hurry before the carrion beasts are unleashed." She moved away from the window, then paused as she recognized the elf on the bed. "Isn't that Whitebird? I thought he hated you."

"He does. He's going to hate me even more when he finds out I had to put an arrow through his lover."

She stared at him blankly. "Tell me you didn't. Aramais, he is going to kill you!"

"I had no choice, Hunter had fallen victim to the king's plague. He was in pain."

Shendklin looked nervously towards the unconscious elf. Whitebird's wrath was legendary among her thieving kin. He was not a being to trifle with.

"You'd better hope he awakes in an understanding mood. Come."

She moved lightly and quickly down the creaking wooden steps, Aramais close behind her. They moved quickly and furtively to the man on the ground, picking him up and carrying him quickly to the upstairs chamber. As Aramais made certain the man was comfortable, Shendklin moved once more to the window.

"It's dark," she said. "We have no more time."

"No, we must! We must be able…."

"It is dark," she said quietly, firmly. "Listen."

Aramais did, and heard the screeches of the nightmarish carrion beasts, coming out of the rotting night to feed upon the dead and dying. Aramais lowered his head and sighed.

"Then we are beaten. There will be no one left for us to rescue come dawn."

"There will be no one left at all if you are not silent."

Aramais removed his helm, his long dark hair falling over his face. He ran a dirty, bloody hand through his hair, then looked towards the black-clad woman. He smiled wearily.

"I am glad you are here."

She grinned at him. "That's not what you said when I escaped your dungeons."

"No, I believe I wanted to kill the one who cut most of the way through your hanging rope."

She pulled her black cape closer around herself, then smiled sadly. "You will never have the pleasure. I saw him lying dead on the field two days ago."

"I am sorry for your loss."

She shook her head. "I have not lost any more than you have, than we all have." She peered carefully into the night, watching the horse-like forms of the carrion beasts. "Behold the madness of a king," she said bitterly.

Aramais almost told her to mind her tongue, but sighed instead. She was right. This hell had been created by the ruler he had served so faithfully as guard captain.

"The king was not always so, Shendklin," he said softly. "Once he was good and wise."

"I know. And I respect the memory of that man." She looked toward Aramais. "What changed him, Aramais? What turned him to evil?"

"I wish I knew, Shendklin. Then perhaps we could right the wrong. As it is, we are trapped here. There is no fair place to go. His madness has covered all the land in darkness. I had hoped Whitebird's army would defeat the monsters the King has surrounded himself with."

He looked down at the form of the unconscious elf, his white hair snarled with dried blood. Aramais began tugging at the buckles that held his armor. Piece by piece he removed it, setting it carefully and quietly on the floor. Shendklin went to the second man they had rescued and began examining his wounds.

"This one is badly hurt, he will not survive, I think. How is Whitebird?"

"I cannot tell. He has taken a blow to the head." He gently stroked back the white hair, then pulled the ratted blanket over the elven warrior.

"This one is weak from blood loss. Ugh, it is soaking his clothes. Here, you'll have to dispose of them before the smell attracts those monsters. I will try to close his injuries."

She passed Aramais the bloodied robes. He took them, and walked over to the wooden stairway that led to the ruined lower half of the building. He listened long and carefully; to be discovered by one of the carrion beasts would doom them all. When he was satisfied none were near the house, he crept downstairs and carried the robes over to an opening blasted into one wall by a ballista. He set the clothes down near three bleeding bodies, and was about to creep back to his hiding spot, when he heard a voice.

"My lord, help me, I beg of thee…"

Aramais turned, and was surprised to see a hand reaching for him. He crouched down and looked around.

"Quiet, and I will help. Give me your hand." Aramais grasped the young man's hand and pulled him slowly and quietly into the building.

"Can you stand?"

"I'll try."

Aramais helped the man to his feet. He was weak and bleeding, but managed with assistance to get upstairs.

"One more!" said Aramais victoriously as he helped the man into the room.

"One less," said Shendklin.

Aramais stopped short. "Not Whitebird."

"No, this man. We'll have to get his body out of here. If he has the king's plague he may rise again." Shendklin looked at the man leaning on Aramais. "Hello. Welcome to our party."

"Very glad to be invited. I am Sarrin."

"Pleased to meet you. I am Shendklin, this is Aramais, and yon fair lump on the bed is Whitebird. Excuse us while we dispose of a dead body."

"Most certainly. Ah, if there is any fire handy, you may wish to put him in the flames. A body destroyed by fire can not return."

Aramais gently set Sarrin in a chair. "Good advice," he said, "We'll look."

Aramais and Shendklin did not find a fire, and they could not risk making one. They left the body outside, then returned to their room. Shendklin locked the door before going once more to her post by the window. Sarrin was not badly hurt, and quietly tended to his own injuries. Aramais sat on the unoccupied bed and closed his eyes.

Shendklin was about to say something to him, when she noticed he was asleep. She smiled slightly, then returned her gaze to the battlefield below. In the rain, in the dark, she could still see the carrion beasts roaming, rending the flesh of the dead warriors below.

Not long ago the battlefield had been a wide green lawn, where nobles amused themselves hunting with dogs and falcons, or sat at little tables and read while eating tea cakes. Not long ago this had been a beautiful little kingdom, ruled by a wise and kindly king who was much loved by his subjects. Now the little castle that had once been covered with vines and growing things was dark and dead, the king within a skeletal demon with eyes of sickly yellow fire. His very presence was enough to drive living things mad, and his touch caused the hideous transformation into undead creatures. The carrion beasts below had once been his stable of fine horses, now nothing more than fell and sickly monsters. Their bite also caused the plague, as did the touch of any affected.  

"We need a great fire," she said.

"We need to leave," said Sarrin.

"And go where? The plague will spread, we cannot hide."

"I did not say hide. But the Healer's little house stands yet. It is but a short way from here. There would be a better place to wait for our injuries to heal. I prefer stone walls and a locked door to half a crumbling house."

"Does the Healer still live?"

"I do not know."

Shendklin thought on what he said, then nodded. "First light, we shall go."

******

Aramais was gently awakened by Shendklin. Outside the undead beasts staggered back to their hiding places as dawn threatened.

"Sarrin has suggested we go to the Healer's cottage," she said quietly. "I agree with him."

Aramais rubbed his brown eyes sleepily, then yawned. "And I with the both of you. We may find more living folk. Certainly there will be more to aid Whitebird there than here. Are the monsters gone?"

"They are going. Two of the carrion mares are downstairs, but once dawn breaks, they will not trouble us."

He nodded, then rose and stretched. His body ached, and he was tired. He reflected irritably that he was not as young as he once was. Even his hair was beginning to show a few threads of grey. He pulled it back and braided it loosely, clamping his helm over it. Then he began gathering up Whitebird's ornate armor.

"Shendklin, can you carry this?"

She took the ungainly bundle. Had it been of human make, it would have most certainly been too heavy for her to carry. As it was, the elven mail was not light, but not beyond her ability to lift. As soon as he saw that Shendklin could carry the armor, Aramais bent and picked up Whitebird.

The elf was not terribly weighty, but he was long, and made an ungainly load for Aramais to carry. He dared not sling the elf over one shoulder; if the elven warrior awoke in so undignified a position, Aramais would have a fight on his hands, if not a knife in his back.

"Sarrin, are you able to keep up?"

The younger man rose carefully. He glanced about the room, and noticing a walking stick, picked it up and leaned on it. "I am with you."

Aramais nodded, then opened the door and peered out. He was sickened to see that the man who had died in their care had indeed returned, and had been attempting to climb up the stairs to their haven when dawn caught him. Furthermore something, quite likely a carrion beast, had bitten his legs off. Aramais wanted to vomit as he stepped over the stilled corpse.

"Do not touch him. He has the plague."

"No need to tell me," said Shendklin. She stepped carefully over the body, then set down the armor to help Sarrin. They made their way carefully past the silent, yet still watchful carrion beasts.

The two grey forms stood side by side, looking much like the horses they used to be. The only obvious difference was the bulging white eyes and the long, grotesque jaws with which they devoured the fallen. They stunk of death, and did not flinch as the flies settled on them and bit. They were dead, and past feeling, but as of yet not past prowling the night and feasting on the unwary.

They left the crumbling house and began walking towards the cottage. It was not far away, but the weight they carried and Sarrin's injuries made it seem much further. For over an hour they walked before finally reaching it.

Aramais was glad they had decided to move, if for no other reason than the cottage was much more pleasant than the battlefield house. Herbs even still grew within the little stone-fenced yard; the last living green for miles. Sarrin limped up to the heavy oak door and knocked. A moment later a frightened voice called; "Who's there?"

Aramais sighed with relief. "Aramais of the guard! I have injured with me."

He heard the heavy bar that held close the door lift, then a male voice shout; "Don't let them in, woman! They may have the plague!"

"Then I'll give them you, you're naught but a pain where I sit." Elaran the Healer opened the door. She was older than she looked, with greying hair, but she was tall and slim, and still strong. She stepped aside the let the four into the cottage.

Aramais entered first, carrying Whitebird over to the nearest bed and laying him down.  Elaran came to look him over, then began cleaning his injuries. Shendklin set the armor down and dropped into a chair. Sarrin likewise found a place to sit. Aramais turned to speak to the man in Elaran's cottage, and paused.

"Well as I live and breathe. Randereth. I see you've managed to save your hide. Why am I not surprised?"

The knight glared at him. "You'll mind your tone, guardsman."

"For years I have, but no longer. You're a coward. I saw you flee the field, as did my men and Whitebird's. Are you even injured, or are you just taking up space?"

"You'll hang for that!"

"I doubt it."

"He'll not while I live," said Shendklin.

Randereth sneered at the thief. "Shendklin the Dark. And who sits beside you? Sarrin the Bard? Quite the following you have, Aramais. A woman and a…."

"Take your name-calling outside!" said Elaran. "I'll have none of it! Aramais, pass me that jar, will you? And put some water on to boil. Fill the large cauldron."

Aramais bowed to her and went to do as he was bid. Shendklin yawned. "Do you need any assistance?"

"No, I can manage, thank you. Perhaps I can prevail upon you to make breakfast? You being the only person uninjured besides Aramais, and I've already seen him cook. He's a good man but honestly, he could burn water."

Shendklin hopped to her feet. "Your wish is my command, oh lady of the herbs and roots."

Elaran laughed. She poured hot water from a kettle on the stove into a bowl, then began mixing in other ingredients. Finally she went over to the bed where Whitebird lay and removed his torn and dirty tunic and began cleaning him.

Aramais returned with the large cauldron, setting it on the grate above the fire. He sat down on the floor and sighed wearily, leaning against the wall. He watched Elaran's winged cat crawl into his lap and settle, purring. He rubbed its furry grey head, enjoying the sound of its contented rumble.

"We have to decide what we will do once Whitebird can travel," he said.

"We will go south," said Elaran, cleaning the blood out of the elven warrior's hair.

Sarrin turned to look at her. "South? Why south?"

"Not long before the battle, I saw two riders leave the castle. They were in the garb of the king's personal guard, and each was carrying something. Something the king did not want us to have if he lost the fight."

"How do you know they carried anything important?" asked Shendklin.

"As a healer I was frequently in the castle, attending to the queen before death took her. I have heard things, and so has Rui," she said, indicating the cat. "Rui has heard that this evil stems from dire spells within five books the king kept locked in a tower room."

"Tend to your healing, woman," said Randereth, "no one wants to hear your cat fantasies."

"I do," said a soft voice. Slowly, carefully, Whitebird turned his head and looked towards Randereth. "You'll hold your tongue, coward. I saw you flee the field. Before even the first demon showed its yellow eyes, you fled. Now you try to make up for it by bullying your betters. Shut up."

Aramais watched with trepidation as Whitebird slowly sat up, his eerie blue-white eyes searching the room, dreading the inevitable question.

"Where is Hunter?"

Aramais swallowed. "He is dead, my Lord. The plague took him."

Whitebird looked towards Aramais, his eyes cold. "What did you say?"

"My Lord, you should rest…."

"What happened to him?" The tall elven warrior tried to stand, but his legs would not hold him.

"The plague, he was in agony. He…." Aramais swallowed. "He could not be saved."

He watched Whitebird try to take in the information. As far as Aramais knew, there had never been a time in Whitebird's life when he did not know Hunter. They had been born in the same village, had been children together, then lovers and warriors. They had risen together to high ranks in the elvish society, even though Hunter had only been half elvish. In battle they had been formidable; Whitebird with his pair of deadly fast swords, and Hunter with his bow. Never in their lives had they been parted. Now Hunter was gone forever.

Aramais watched Whitebird. The elf seemed dazed, confused. He looked around the room, still expecting to see his ever-present lover. Aramais closed his eyes, trying not to recall how Hunter had looked before his death. His green eyes had become pale and filmy, his skin grey with the pallor of death. He had sat, shaking and injured amongst the monsters he had slain. Their blood had splashed onto him, and the transformation into an undead creature was advanced when Aramais had found him. There was nothing anyone could do to save him.

Aramais shook his head to clear away the memory of the sound of the arrow cutting through gristle and flesh, finding its way into Hunter's heart.

"Dead?" said Whitebird, looking confused. "My Hunter?"

"Rest," said Elaran gently, "you are weak."

Aramais felt his heart sink. With a few words, he had reduced once of the greatest elven warriors to despair. He stroked Rui's soft fur, drawing solace from the contented cat.

"Aramais! Is he dead? Tell me he is not roaming the field, devouring rotted flesh! Is he dead?"

Aramais felt ill inside. He told Whitebird the tale of how he had found Hunter, covered with the blood of ghouls, and turning to one himself. Finally, hesitantly, he admitted the truth. That Hunter had died by his hand.

"You killed my Hunter."

Aramais was afraid to open his eyes, afraid for his very life. "I had to, he…. he was too far gone. His eyes… he was already dead, only his senses had not yet left him…"

The silence was thick, strangling Aramais. At last he opened his eyes, and saw Whitebird looking back at him.

"You were kind, I hope."

"I was," said Aramais softly. "He died quickly. He told me…. he told me to tell you to remember him by the…. Morning's Fall?"

Whitebird smiled slightly. "Morning Falls. A waterfall near where we grew up." The elf fell silent for a time, his blue-white eyes sad and distant. Then he looked towards Elaran. "You were telling us of a theory you had, dear lady."

"I…. I believe the riders I saw were carrying something that the king did not want to fall into enemy hands. Something perhaps we could use to reverse the damage done. Rui made her way into a tower room one day. She said she saw five bone pedestals, each with a great book resting upon it, bound in a leather she said looked like the hide of a great lizard."

"Dragon skin, perhaps?" said Sarrin.

"I do not know," said Elaran. "But Rui flew to the tower after the riders had gone. She said the books were no longer there."

"So we go south because of an old woman who fancies she can talk to a cat," said Randereth.

"What lies south?" Aramais asked Sarrin.

The bard thought briefly. "The king's hunting lodge, deep in the woods. It is not easy to reach even in fair weather. In late winter, with the undead roaming freely about…. it would be a dangerous trek, perhaps for nothing."

"Have we a better idea?" said Shendklin. "I for one do not wish to sit here and wait for a carrion beast to make a meal of me."

"We need make no decisions this moment," said Whitebird. "I for one am in no shape to travel."

Aramais looked down at the winged cat in his lap. "Does Rui know of anything else in the castle? Anything that perhaps we could use?"

Elaran shook her head. "The castle is all but empty. The king trusts no one and nothing. Anything of importance is either hidden or destroyed. I… I told no one, but I know the king killed the queen. Murdered her and his daughters, and several others of the court."

"I thought the plague took them," said Sarrin.

"That's what we were to think. But they were poisoned. I was not allowed to tend them, of course. If it was plague as I was told, then there was nothing I could do. But if it was plague, why were the permitted to lie in state for three days?"

Aramais raised his head. "If it was the plague that took them, they would have risen as ghouls!"

Elaran nodded. "I went into the chamber where the little princesses lay." She shook her head. "I have been a healer many years, and I know poison when I see it. No, the king has been mad longer that we knew. He took great pains to keep his evil plans secret. There is nothing in that castle save himself, or rather what is left of him."

"Then our path is clear," said Whitebird, easing himself down to the bed. "We rest here, with the consent of our lady Elaran. We keep ourselves safe, we get well and strong. Then we go south."

********

They did not stay long in Elaran’s stone house.

The first night passed well, as did the second. Come the third, however, there were ominous scratching sounds at the door, and the scrape of dead fingers over the shutters. Elaran and Shendklin huddled together on a matt near the fire, frightened but silent, with Rui crouched between them, his golden cat’s eyes wide. Sarrin changed his bandage, while Whitebird and Randereth cleaned their weapons. Aramais sat, bow in hand, on the narrow bed. For the whole foul night the small group made no sound to draw any more of the ghouls. When the sun at last rose, all were exhausted. Their haven was safe no longer; they would have to go.

There was scant little to pack. Elaran had no great store of supplies other than her healing herbs. Still, they gathered what food and blankets there were. Elaran packed a few clothes, then picked up a lead. Randereth immediately noticed the gesture.

“What do you need that for?”

“My pony,” said Elaran.

“You have a pony, woman? Why did you not mention this before?”

“Where do you think I go every morning, for a cheerful walk amongst the flies and rot? Yes I have a pony.”

“Good,” said Randereth, “then I at least shall be spared the indignity of walking.”

Whitebird opened his mouth to say something to the arrogant nobleman, but Elaran interrupted him.

“Oh no, Lord Whitebird, it is fine by me. If Sir Randereth wishes to claim my pony as a mount, then far be it from me to argue! I shall fetch him for you, Sir Randereth!”

Elaran left the cabin. Whitebird shook his head, then began tying on his greaves. Shendklin came over to help him, knowing the Elven warrior was still somewhat addled from his head injury. Aramais went over to Sarrin.

“Are you going to be able to travel?”

“I have no choice,” he said. “Certainly I cannot stay here.”

Aramais glanced over at Randereth, who was pointedly ignoring Sarrin. It was true he had a broken ankle, but he was, after all, only a bard, and certainly not entitled to any favors.

The door opened, and in walked Elaran, followed closely by a tiny, hairy little beast. It was a sturdy little animal, and healthy, but its back scarcely rose to the height of the table top.

“Your mount, Sir!” said Elaran, and handed Randereth the lead.

Whitebird burst out laughing, as did everyone except Randereth. “What is this thing? A hairy dog?”

“Oh no, sir knight!” said Elaran, her voice sharp with sarcasm. “’Tis your mighty steed! Of course I’m not sure how far he can carry you. You might want to try keeping your feet on the ground to ease the weight off his back when you ride him.”

Randereth snatched up his sword and stormed outside to await the others, followed by renewed howls of mirth. At last, Shendklin dried her eyes and went over to stroke the pony’s mane.

“How strong is he?” she asked, pushing the little beast’s mane away from his large brown eyes.

“Strong enough to carry Sarrin, if that’s what you would like to know,” said Elaran. She looked towards the bard. “If you don’t mind looking a bit ridiculous.”

Sarrin was smaller and more slight that the large knight, and as he did not wear armor, he weighed quite little. “Just be sure to put me back on if I fall from laughing at the memory of the look on Randereth’s face.”

***---***

They set out into the morning light, Sarrin perched on the small pony, holding Rui on his lap. They crossed the battlefield carefully, avoiding as much of the gore as possible. Their path was meandering, and it took them a long time, but they dared not risk coming any closer to the infected dead than they had to.

They were very nearly out of the field, when they saw a lonely tree, bent and partly smashed by stones and ballista. Whitebird halted, and looked towards it, his blue-white eyes picking out the lone form that lay under its branches.

“Aramais,” said the Elf, “is that the place?”

Aramais felt a clench in his stomach. He could not look to the place where Hunter lay, but he nodded. “Aye.”

Whitebird paused for a long moment, weighing the need to leave with his desire to say goodbye to his lover. Finally desire won over, and he moved quickly and lightly over to the dead body. Shendklin came to stand beside Aramais, linking her arm through his, offering her silent support. Randereth scowled.

“You did not bury him?”

Aramais felt a near-overwhelming urge to tell the large man to piss off. He was pleased when Elaran did it for him. The group waited quietly for Whitebird to say his final goodbyes.

The Elf did not linger beneath the tree long. He returned, his face grim, still wiping at his eyes. They once more moved forward, saying nothing as Whitebird composed himself. Then he turned to Aramais.

“I thank you,” he said quietly.

Aramais paused in surprise, then shook his head. “No, I only did…”

“You did more than you had to. You spared him his pain, but you also laid him out according to the way of our people, above ground, and with the weapons of his vanquished about him. I thank you, Aramais.” Then the tall Elf strode off, marching ahead of the group, trying to save his dignity as he cried.

Shendklin smiled at Aramais. “That was kind of you.”

Aramais leaned close to the little thief, so he could whisper into her ear. “It was an accident.”

She gave him a blank look. “I don’t understand.”

“The laying of the body, it was an accident. I had not time to bury him, so I just… put him under the tree and piled the weapons there. It was all I could think to do. I had no idea it was Elven custom with their warriors.”

Shendklin glanced over at Whitebird, then returned her gaze to Aramais. “I would keep that between thee and me, if I were you.”

“Thank you, I believe I shall. No need to tempt fate.”

She smiled a little, then asked; “So why does he hate you?”

Aramais shook his head. “I don’t wish to discuss that now, ‘tis a black tale.”

She nodded. “All right, another time then. I shall scout ahead, and see if I can find a place where we may rest an hour or so.”

He watched her jog ahead of the party, passing Whitebird like a small black spirit, her cloak blowing out behind her.

***---***

They found a small clearing by a pond. They checked it as well as they were able for anything dead in it, but it seemed clear. They drank and filled their water skins, then cleaned the pony’s hairy hooves. Rui caught himself a mouse for lunch, and ate it from his lofty perch upon the pony’s back, while the pony chewed what grass there was. It was by now late afternoon, but they were at last clear of the battlefield.

“We shall have a long walk yet,” said Whitebird. “We cannot tell how close we are to any wandering corpses or carrion mares.”

“There is a cave not far from here,” said Shendklin. “Smugglers use it, or rather, they did. We may find dried foodstuffs there, and other supplies.”

Aramais gave her a jaundiced look. “As well as stolen articles, no doubt.”

Shendklin tried to look innocent. “Why Aramais, whatever can you mean!”

“I had hoped to find where you hid, though under different circumstances.”

“Under different circumstances, you would still be seeking it, and we would still be singing merrily about your attempts.”

“I am pleased to know you held me in such regard.”

“You’re quite welcome. ‘Tis but another hour or so from here. We will reach it before dark.”

“Then let us hope it has not been found by other things,” said Whitebird.

***---***

Shendklin led them off the narrow road and into the deep woods, weaving her way unerringly through dense brush and aged, moss-ridden trees. At last she stopped by a stony outcropping, rising above the forest floor. Aramais had seen the outcrop many times, and had long suspected the thieves were nearby, but had never been able to find them. He watched as Shendklin hoisted herself into a birch tree, climbing high amidst its branches. Reaching out, she pulled at something hidden amongst the moss on the stone, and slowly, quietly, a great door swung open.

Grinning, she climbed down the tree, hopping from a low branch the last few feet. Aramais sighed heavily, then bowed.

“My lady, I bow before your creativity. Many, many times I have followed trails to this very stone, and never once dreamed the hideout was in the stone itself.”

“Thank you my Lord. Shall we go in? Bring the pony, there are stores and a small stable inside.” Shendklin stepped into the doorway, and was greeted by the loud neigh of a horse. Whitebird quickly followed after her, while Aramais helped Sarrin from the weary pony’s back.

Once inside, Aramais was struck by the foul stink of a stall neglected for days, and the excited sounds of an animal desperately glad to see people. Shendklin was leading the half-starved horse over to a bale of hay, speaking soothingly to it. Aramais went to her.

“Do you know this animal?” he asked.

She nodded, “Aye, and her owner.” She looked at him, eyes shining with tears. “Bryannon would never leave his horse in such a state. Something must have happened to him.”

Aramais stood, feeling helpless, not knowing what to say. At last he walked over to the fouled stall and picked up a shovel to clean it. A natural stone basin in the stall caught the cold clear water that seeped in from a nearby spring, so the horse at least had water to drink. But it had been a long wait, and the creature was thin and weak.

He cleaned the stall, laying down fresh straw and filling the manger. Shendklin and Elaran brushed the horse and pony, while Aramais tried to find the source of a new and unpleasant odor. Finally a thought occurred to him, and he looked down at himself.

“I would give much for a bath,” he said.

“As would I,” said Whitebird. “I have not had one since before I marched forth with my archers and warriors.”

“A bath can be arranged,” said Shendklin. “And a decent meal. There are stores here, for man and beast.”

Randereth went over to a large chest by a wall and opened it. He reached in and pulled out a large, jeweled sash. “There must be a king’s ransom in here!”

“Probably two kings worth,” said Shendklin. “The King was sending forth treasure to another, to hire mercenaries to add to his collection of monsters. We intercepted well nigh all of it.”

“Then we owe you thanks,” said Whitebird, “the battle was hard enough.”

“Why do such a thing?” said Randereth. “Why would scoundrels care if a King wishes to hire mercenaries for war?”

“Because scoundrel or not, this is my home too. Or was, rather. I did not wish to see it destroyed. Not that my efforts did any good.”

“You may have saved our lives,” said Aramais.

“Then that at least, is something.” Shendklin smiled at him wearily. “Come, there is a small bathing chamber back here. The water will be cold, but it is better than nothing.”

End of Part 1 - to be continued ...
an original epic story by Alyx J. Shaw
PART 1
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