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Chapter Six - Segue part
2
Landros met up with Adrick in the back of a seedy tavern. The priest curled his nose at the reek of the place, but sat down without laying back his hood. "Why," Adrick muttered, "did you insist upon this rat infested dunghill?"
"You are dressed as I asked?" was all he said.
Adrick lifted aside a fold of his cloak to show Landros that he was indeed not wearing his priestly robes. "These were damned difficult to come by, I might add," he growled.
Barak came back to the table with a fist full of drinks, pushed one in Adrick's direction.
Landros took his mug and leaned over it, as if nursing the foul drink. He looked down, was startled to see things of an unknown nature floating in it. He did not want to know what it had been watered down with. He made a minute gesture with his head towards a corner of the room, deliberately not looking in that direction. "You see the man in the dark grey cap?"
Adrick glanced over, saw the man in question. "Yes," he hissed.
"Vanishti," Barak whispered into his mug. "He's one of those who disappeared while you were gone. He used to pal around with Ashanda."
"Ashanda?" he asked, wide-eyed. "Was he with her when..."
Landros shook his head shortly, warning Adrick to lower his voice. "He disappeared at about that time. He turned up again three days ago and has been acting suspicious ever since. I have reason to believe he was and is still in the grip of the enemy. I've been talking to him, and he is of the opinion," he added with distaste, "that we can be bought."
Adrick gave Landros a long calculating look, one which did not make Landros comfortable at all. "Can we?" he asked quietly.
Landros looked hard at him. "If the price is right," he said more loudly than he had been speaking. He leaned back to stare eye to eye with the grey capped man, who grinned at him with a mouth missing quite a few teeth.
"Your friends, yes?" he grinned. He was a dark man, with short, tight curly hair, a Northman, obviously not used to the colder clime from how he was bundled up.
Landros shook his head, spoke as slowly and clearly as he could without being insulting. "No. Missing one," he said, holding up a finger.
"Not one?" he asked, grabbing Adrick's shoulder.
"Yes, one. Another one," Landros added. He ground his teeth. This man annoyed the hell out of him. He knew damned well that this man played an elaborate charade at 'not understanding' the language well. The man had trouble speaking, but understood ten times more than he let on. The man was a foul smelling snake, and he knew it.
"Ah!" he exclaimed, made a great show of straightening Adrick's cloak. "So sorry, so sorry! Is waiting over soon? Must go. No patience these other men. No patience." There was a spark of genuine fear in his eyes at the mention of these ‘others’.
At that moment, Lithgorin lurched in like a drunken skunk, with his arm around another young elf. He saw the group at their table, nudged his drinking partner and pointed, slurring something in what Landros guessed was supposed to be elven. Great, he thought. Either Lith is stinking drunk and absolutely useless, or he’s putting on one hell of an act. He held his breath as he got a whiff of the pair. ‘If they’re not drunk, I don’t know who is going to be more surprised, me or the enemy,’ he added to himself.
“Are you two sober enough to do business?” he growled.
The pair stood straight as arrows, puffed out their chests stiffly. It was then that Landros noticed the striking resemblance between the two men. “Yezir, Bus’ness sir! Reporting for duty and all that!” Lith saluted. Then the two suddenly bowled over with giggles, slapping at each other and calling for another round.
Landros caught the gleam flash across Vanishti’s eye, and vanish. That these two were soft and drunk pleased him. It did not please Landros. He stood. “Two more,” he said, pointing at them. “Is all. We go now.”
“We go? Yes? Good good! You keep brothers quiet. Scare off our friends you make too much noise.”
“I got it,” Landros said, pushing the two elves ahead of him and followed the Northman out the door. It concerned him that the man had also guessed at the relationship between Lith and his companion. It meant he was sharp.
“Landros,” Lith hiccuped, grabbing his friend in a headlock and showing him to Landros. “Is my brother Lithandros… Lanithdros… hic What the hell is your name again?”
His brother laughed, belched, and pulled himself free. “Lithgorin, you dolt!” he growled, still laughing as he staggered down the street.
“No, I’M Lithgorin! …ain’t I? Landros!” he bellowed. “Which one am I again?” he asked.
Landros just walked on, trying to ignore the pair. He fell into step with Vanishti, growled just loud enough to be overheard. “I’d slit their throats myself if I thought I could get away with it. I told him to come alone.”
Vanishti tried to be consoling. “Ah, is understanding, wanting family in on good fortune?”
“Food Gortune?” the brother piped, staggering up in-between the two. “Was in it? More wine? Women?” he leered.
“Lots, friend!” Vanishti said. “You will see. Lots more.” The man staggered back to his brother and Vanishti turned back to Landros. “Do not think will be trouble. Big man in back can sit on two, yes?” he chuckled with a broad grin.
Lark entered the small shop, uncertain she had the right place. The dresses that hung on elaborate dummies all throughout the shop were of the finest materials and certainly far too rich for her. Not to mention not her style. Most of them had high collars that somehow left the necks open to the breast, and tight, rigid waists with falls of cloth to the floor. None of them seemed very practical in the least.
She was admiring the rich dark wine colored velvet of one of the dresses when the shop keeper appeared. She was a small, round woman with a ruddy face and plenty of laugh wrinkles. She seemed to be losing a lot of weight quickly, as her skin hung a little more loosely over her collar and cuffs than it seemed to be used to. She smiled on seeing Lark, gasped with delight.
“Oh, PLEASE tell me I can do something for you?” she chirped. “You like that one?”
“Am Lark,” she said, hesitantly, not sure quite what was expected. “Was told to come to you?”
"I'm Bianca Fitzwelm." The woman’s face lit up suddenly. “Oh, YES!! Oh, my!” she breathed. “You ARE a lovely creature! He wasn’t exaggerating. And such a tiny waist!! Oh, how do you ever expect to carry a child in that tummy?”
“Will fatten up,” she answered, not certain what to make of the woman. “Momma had no trouble.”
“Oh, of course not! Silly me, listen to me chattering like a magpie! Come in come IN, dear girl! Oh, have I got just the thing for you! Your friend was most adamant,” she began, taking Lark by the arm and leading her into the back of the shop.
Nightingale shyly followed, not willing yet to be seen. In the back room he perched himself quietly on the top of the elaborate mirror and watched.
Bianca had laid out several dresses and waded through piles of cloth and thread and half made pieces to stand Lark on a small pedestal in front of the huge mirror. “Is so crowded,” Lark commented.
“Yes, yes, well… not much business lately you know. My last real commission was for Lady Ellenath’s wedding dress at the Spring Festival.” She shook her head sadly. “And then the war started. Such a shame. Bad for business.”
“I know,” Lark agreed.
“Now,” she said, clapping her hands together. “I’ve spent all morning laying out some things that from his description of you would flatter you best. Your friend commissioned me for four dresses,” she held up her hand as Lark started to protest. “Ahahah! He was most adamant about it. Very specific, except for the design, of course, which is up to you. Four he said. Two nice ones for performing,” she said, ticking them off on her thick fingers. “One for everyday and one for… oh, yes, mucking about, he said!”
Lark laughed. “Mucking about?” Nightingale chirruped his merriment. “Yes, do think our handsome elf has us quite pegged. Mucking about indeed!”
“Well, shall we get started then? Here,” she held up a dress very similar to the ones on the dummies in the outer room. Lark shuddered at the thought of putting the stiff, glittering cloth next to her skin. Bianca held the dress up against her. "Hmmm, almost your color. But I think... I think you need a simpler gown. Your complexion just doesn't lend itself for anything too busy or complicated."
Lark let her breath out. Before the woman could reach for another of the stiff, uncomfortable dresses, she stepped off the pedestal and set a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Please, can talk before you fit? Find something suitable then?"
"Why certainly, my dear! Why..." her face suddenly fell, "you don't like these, do you."
"Is not I do not like them. Is beautiful. But is not me. I am gypsy, not court flower." Lark gestured down at her well patched skirt and nearly threadbare blouse and the vest which needed mending badly. "These are kind of clothes for me." She made a broad gesture encompassing the beautiful gowns about her. "While all are beautiful, would look stolen on me, out of place. I need something is me. Short skirts," she said, drawing an invisible line with her finger across her shin, "and loose blouses with vests which cinch up soft but tight, or wide belts or sashes with tassel or bells."
"I see," she mused, began looking Lark over more carefully. "Stand up on the pedestal," she ordered, walked slowly around her, scrutinizing her closely. "What kind of work do you do? He said two were for entertaining. What kind of entertaining?"
"I dance and fiddle. Sometimes sing, not often."
"What kind of dance?"
Lark took a breath and mimed out a few examples.
"Alluring, subtle, passionate, enticing," she uttered. "Yes, I think we can work on this. How much of your leg do you tend to show?"
Lark blushed. "Sometimes skirts fly up to lower thighs, if enough cloth. I like more to hint than display. More powerful." The woman seemed to be assessing her without passing judgment on her occupation as many higher born ladies did.
Bianca nodded. "You like to tease, tempt without being tawdry. I think we can manage. Do you ever show off that taut little tummy of yours?"
Lark put her hand on the body part in question. "I've never... thought about..."
"Well, you should," she said matter of factly. "Here, hop down," she said, picking up a well worn book and stylus. She scratched out a quick sketch of a two piece dress that was at once daring and modest. The waist was low across the hips, with a broad belt and the blouse was a snug little thing that hugged across the breast, ended high across the ribs and had full, billowy sleeves. "How's that?"
"Is beautiful!" she gasped. It was strikingly similar to what she had conjured for her dance in the woods for Landros.
"Good. Now, let's find some material." She set the book down and began bustling about looking for fabrics. Lark glanced over her shoulder at Nightingale, who shared her growing excitement. "Here," the woman laid a drape of sapphire blue silk across Lark's shoulder and looked at it in the mirror.
"This will do for a nice start. Yes," she murmured, seeming not to notice the bird perched on the top of the mirror. "How about this for the bodice and the skirt, I'll have to line the bodice or you'll show everything the goddess gave you right through it. And this," she added, lifting Lark's arm out to the side and draping a length of sheer, starlight cloth over it. Lark took the corner of it in hand and turned, marveling at how it flowed across her body. Lark loved it, found the color very striking against her skin. Bianca took in her expression of delight and smiled. "Yes, that's it, I think." She took the cloth and set it aside.
"Have any reds?"
"Yes," she nodded, "he said you were partial to red. I think some wines I have would go very well on you, though I would stay away from roses and pinks. You haven't the complexion for them. If you wear any shade of red it has to be deep. But I agree with your elven friend, though. You look good in blue. I almost wish you had worn that blue dress in today. I would have loved to see it worn."
"Blue dress?" Lark asked, looking up in surprise from the sketch. "You know about...."
The round dressmaker laughed. "Yes, I know about that dress. I made it. I always liked it, though it was too short for most of my usual clients. A real shame though. I did wonders with what little of that cloth I had. Often thought about adding a contrast peice to the bottom to make it long enough, but I've always been glad that I hadn't. My husband told me he sold it to the same gentleman who commissioned these... I couldn't help but assume...." she shrugged with a grin returned to digging for the right fabrics.
“Is lovely,” Lark smiled. “Looks good on me.”
On the floor, in a pile beneath a chair, Lark spied a piece of golden yellow silk. She got off the pedestal and pulled it out. It was not very big, maybe a yard long and only four inches wide at its narrowest point, and nine or so at the widest. With it she found other scraps of bright fabrics of all kinds, brocades, silks, and bright calicos. “Oh, these are nice,” she said.
Bianca turned, saw Lark on the floor with her scraps all spread out in her lap and around her. "OH my!!! Those are just my scraps dear! Nothing there big enough to do anything with, but I never really have the heart to throw any of it out.. I’ve been making quilts out of the stuff.”
"Oh, you are wrong, is big enough," Lark smiled. "How about a motley from this? A skirt?” she asked, fingering the gold silk longingly.
“A skirt?” she asked, blinking. “But none of that matches… Oh, a motley!” she exclaimed excitedly, getting the idea. She sat down on the edge of the pedestal and began laying certain pieces beside each other. "I must say, this would be a very striking skirt.”
“Yes, for everyday, or … mucking about,” Lark laughed.
“Yes. There, lets see.... See if you can find me another piece of this one," she said, holding up a piece.
Lark found one and handed it to her.
“Hmm, yes, “ she mused. “Just out of curiosity, he didn’t have much time to chat, he said, the poor dear, why are you in sudden need of so many clothes? Most just buy them one dress at a time, as they need them. Or is he just feeling sorry for my old man and me and courting you in the same measure?” she grinned.
Lark started to say something, but it got caught in her throat. ‘Courting?’ she thought. Was that what this was? “Oh, he is just bad luck for gypsy clothes,” she managed, trying to laugh. “Was robbed after hurricane. Not being home, neighbors cleaned out anything not nailed in.”
“Oh, that’s too bad,” she said, getting to her feet. “Here, I think I have just the cloth to make a vest to match this.”
Lark watched the woman disappear into yet another room, and wondered how she could possibly have more cloth stashed anywhere. Nightingale landed in her lap, admiring a piece of black silk shot with gold, copper and silver thread. Courting, she thought again. For some reason the thought evoked a mixed reaction. Part of her was absolutely thrilled, but another part felt a surge of fear, a fear of being caged, a fear of what the old woman had said to her about gegenta witches and a fear that, not only was that what she was becoming, but that it was just what she wanted to happen; no matter what the consequences. These dark, confusing thoughts were quickly crowded from her mind as the woman returned with an armload of measuring tape, pins, scissors and a deep red velvet.
Landros just walked on, brooding. He hated this part of town. It smelled evil, of rotting vegetation and choking weeds and decomposing fish guts. And alcohol, and blood and every vice a man could dream up. It all could be found down here in the Bayside. Harlots hung their heavy, almost bare breasts out their second story windows, calling down to the streets for paying company. Shadows lurked in places they shouldn’t and beggars could not be trusted to be just beggars.
Their guide suddenly led them down a narrow side street. They followed, feeling the building seem to press down on them, closing them in. Even the drunken brothers fell strangely quiet, looking around them at everything with glazed eyes.
Landros kept his eyes on Vanishti, not trusting the man’s suddenly more furtive behavior, the jumpiness he displayed. The alley ended abruptly in a high stone wall and four well armed men backing a single, tall individual wearing a hooded cloak which cast the face in shadow.
"Welcome," the hooded one intoned. The voice was silky, husky, androgynous.
"What the?!!" exclaimed Lith's brother from behind. Landros turned, saw four mounds of trash and rag rise up to become four husky men in leathers blocking their path.
Landros grabbed Vanishti by the shirt front. "What is the meaning of this?!" he snarled, drawing his sword.
"Patience, my friend," soothed the hooded one.
Landros turned, behaving like the rabid animal he had already established himself as being. "I am NOT your friend!"
"I would hope we are all friends here. Please, restrain yourself and let us talk. My friends behind you are merely there to protect our conversation's privacy."
Landros waited a long moment before he let go of the Northman.
"There, good. Now we can do business, I hope?"
"What sort of business?" Adrick asked.
"We... represent parties who are not pleased with the current government in control of the city at present."
Ah, thought Landros, here it is!
"You mean the enemy??" Lithgorin asked in innocent, drunken shock.
The hooded figure laughed softly, almost feminine. "No. Not who you think. I am referring to the enemy within the city walls. Our leaders. Do you know that the leader of the 'enemy' forces first sent a warning ahead? Informed our precious Lord Mayor of their intentions and that a peaceful surrender was the only option aside from a massive and unnecessary slaughter. Were we, the citizens of this fair city, or even our ruling interests, the guilds of seamen and merchant and craftsmen, given the opportunity to voice our opinions? No. The Lord Mayor started this war, not the enemy at the gate; out of some sick loyalty to a king who could care less."
The merchants guild? Could the enemy be there? Landros asked himself. Possible. It made some sense. "Maybe the king does not know our situation, our desperation," he offered.
"Yeah!" Lith and his brother chorused. "Depersation!"
The figure laughed again, deeper. "Tell me, how could he not know?"
Landros stifled a growl. The question bit deep.
"Oh, calm yourself. We mean the king no ill will. We just feel that we are too far away for him to properly protect us, or rule us."
"Why us?" Barak asked slowly.
"Vanishti has been asked to find fine, helpful individuals such as yourselves, people with concern for this city and the people in it..." Landros gave a snort at that. "This city will fall. There is no question of that. You have no idea what the odds are against us, what lies outside those walls or to what lengths the 'enemy' will go to capture the city. We are giving you an opportunity to have a hand in saving this city and line your pockets as well."
"What exactly do you want from us?" Adrick asked. "What will our 'cooperation’ entail and ... how much is it worth?"
"We are not asking you to turn against the city in any way, only that... well, you not hinder the activities of those trying to save it from itself. The level of activity will of course dictate the level of the reward. If you are more the active than the inactive type, we can accommodate you easily enough. So what do you say? Have we a deal?"
"I think," Landros began slowly, glancing at each of his companions, "that you can rot in hell!"
Before Landros could lunge, Vanishti grabbed his arm, pressed himself so close against him that Landros could smell his last meal. “You do not understand, my friend. Lives, lives are at stake, yes?” He leaned closer, lowered his voice. “You see the man in back with double ax? Yes. He alone, by HIMSELF, I watched kill Ashanda. No help. Just Ashanda and he. You understand yes? Take his money. Take his promise. Keep your lives…..”
Landros pushed him away in disgust. “You sold her out, you son of a bitch!” he yelled.
The man came at him again with a look of horror, “NO! Not sold out! Sold for!! Loved her!! Was too late….”
Landros swung at him with his sword as he made a grab for him, the blade catching Vanishti across face. Behind him, Lithgorin and his brother sprang to life, drawing their blades, and fell into place to cover the rear.
Landros wanted the cloaked figure badly, but had the wisdom to remain where he was to protect Adrick. The cloaked figure simply raised a hand, “Kill them. And this time, be more careful where you get rid of them.” With that the figure turned, stepped sideways and simply vanished.
The defenders were surrounded, pressed themselves into a protective circle with Adrick in the center where he might be most useful and best protected. The eight men closed in. The men at the rear pressed close quickly. Lithgorin and his brother swiftly dropped all pretense at drunkenness and fell to. The fight was a maddened tangle, two on two with the priest caught in the center of the press. Lith took a glancing blow off his head, throwing off his own attack. His brother likewise danced just out of the way of an arm shot, parried the second attack and missing with his own.
The other four mercenaries closed, two on Landros, and the big man with the ax and a smaller man going for Barak. Landros found his blows mostly parried, barely managed to parry off incoming strikes. One swing clipped his ear uncomfortably close, striking him mostly with the flat, but effectively blocking his companion’s attack. Landros struck from below both arms, managing a nasty gash in the leg.
Barak ignored the little guy beside him, concentrating on the giant with the ax. The ax swung downward towards his head, and he brought up his sword to block it, catching the handle just below the blade. He felt the impact of an ineffective strike across his mailed stomach. He threw off his opponent’s attack and caught him on the back stroke, inflicting only minimal damage through his armor. Adrick, busily gathering his mystic energies, loosed an eldritch bolt of energy at the smaller man confronting Barak, throwing him back and out of the fight, stunned.
Lithgorin and his brother were battling in tandem without much success, neither taking nor dealing damage. Landros was holding his own for the time being, and Barak and the ax-wielding fighter dodged each other’s blows. Lithgorin and his brother landed several ineffective blows, glancing off of armor. Landros was caught in the shoulder on the down-swing by his second opponent as he was parrying the first. The blade bit through the leather, into the shoulder at the neck and tore downward across his left arm. He turned, stabbing the second man through the gut, used his speared weight as a balance point to kick the first man back, buying himself the time to free his blade. There was a sudden crack-clatter as the ax broke Barak’s blade and left his sword arm hanging numb at his side. Barak dodged the second incoming blow and, lowering his head, plowed him in the gut with a roar. Behind him, Lithgorin’s brother took a slash to the head, opening him up for his other opponent, who dealt him a blow that ripped him from left hip to right shoulder. He fell back against Adrick, who turned, caught him with his left arm.
Adrick leveled his crossed fingers at the pair now confronting him and released a bolt of forked lightning that threw one of them off his feet and into the trash he had been hiding in previously, and made the other stagger. Lithgorin saw his brother go down, but was unable to do anything, having his hands full with a now wounded leg and two men on him.
Barak howled with pain as the ax struck him again in his right arm, just as the feeling was beginning to return in dirks and daggers. He struck out with his fist, the only weapon he had left, and made a solid connection with a cloth covered breastplate. Landros fought blindly on, lashing out in an almost berserker fury. He parried a blow that narrowly missed his unprotected thigh, and threw his entire weight and strength into the upswing. He caught the man just under the edge of his leather breastplate and tore clean through the ribcage. The man did not even scream as he fell, showering Landros in hot blood. He then turned to help Barak.
The man still standing from Adrick’s lighting was not happy. Seeing Adrick’s hand come up a second time, he charged, pressing in over Lith’s body and striking the priest in his arm, forcing him to let go of the body. A second swing cut into his leg, carrying through to hit Lithgorin full in the back. Adrick went down on his knees, eyes closed, praying for a miracle, for some intervention of Maiden or Matron to save their lives, and thus the lives of others who would follow their path and no doubt be killed by these unjust men. His medallion began to glow in response, and, clutching it in his bloodied hand he prayed for a spell, any spell, and opened himself to whatever was coming.
Landros felt something strange prickling at him, felt an unexplained wave of vertigo wash over him. His sword passed through the body of the man with the ax, not touching him. Landros saw the look of surprise on the man’s face as his ax, which would have cleaved Barak’s head like a melon, bit deeply into the ground instead. Before Landros could say or do anything else, solidity returned and they were… elsewhere.
“What the hell?” he growled, looking around. They were in another alley, just as dirty and rat infested as the other, but they were alone. Not far away they could hear the surprised curses of their attackers. Landros looked down at Adrick, still sitting with Lithgorin’s unconscious brother in his lap. The man had a look of absolute shock on his face. “Adrick,” Landros said, nudging him with his knee, reluctant to lower his sword for an instant. “Snap out of it! What happened?”
“I think…” he stammered. “I think I just entered a higher circle,” he gasped.
Barak bent down and, grabbing the brother’s hand with his good hand, pulled him onto his right shoulder, ignoring the discomfort. “Let’s get while the gettin’s good,” he said in a low voice. “Shouldn’t take ‘em long to start lookin’ an’ it don’t sound like we went far.”
Adrick snapped out of his shock, and stood up. He dangled his medallion in front of his face, closing his eyes a moment as he mumbled a minor prayer. The medallion spun, pointing further down the alley behind them. Adrick opened his eyes, pointed in that direction. “That way,” he said. He then turned to face the opposite direction and erected the illusion of a dead end to stall their pursuers and followed his companions as quickly as he could with his wounded leg.
Lark stood still on the pedestal listening to the dressmaker's constant chatter while she cut the bottom off of the skirt she was wearing. The skirt was an ugly brown fabric, but it had been pinned and marked to fit, and the woman was cutting it to the length Lark wanted. "There," she said, struggling to her feet. "That should make a good pattern. Be careful taking it off, there are pins all over the place in there." She tossed the cut off material into the pile under the chair, now much smaller for the absence of quite a few select pieces.
Lark carefully slipped out of the skirt and back into her own clothes, leaving her vest off and in the hands of the dressmaker. She could not remember the last time she had clothes that fit her just right.
The woman gathered the chosen fabrics, the marked skirt and her sketches and took them carefully into the back room. She came back with a fist full of silk roses of varied colors and sizes. "What do you think of some of these to spruce things up, eh?" she asked, tucking one under Lark's scarf band, behind her ear. "Yes, yes, these will do nicely. Now you run along, dear," she said, shooing her out of the shop. "I have a ton of work to do now, thank you. Come back in a couple of days, I should have at least one of them done by then! Go on! See you later!! Bye!!"
Lark found herself very quickly out on the street, Nightingale on her shoulder and twittering confusedly. She laughed. "Never you mind," she cooed, stroking the bird's back to calm him. "Things are looking skyward."
No sooner she spoke than someone across the street pointed to the sky and screamed. Lark looked up, saw the sun high above, but nothing out of the ordinary. Everyone stopped to stare, shielding their eyes against the glare of a sun that seemed to be coming closer. Lark took a breath, noticed something musty and acrid in the air: Magic. Slowly, as the 'sun' changed its course and began to fall, she realized that this was not the sun, but a ball of fire, and it was not alone.
Several of them rained down upon the city. People ran every which way in terror. Lark ran for the nearest impact site, a couple of blocks beyond the shops. It was a house that was on fire; a two story building with a bakery on the lower floor and the roof of the living quarters in flames. There were already people lining up with buckets towards the nearest well, hauling water to douse the fire before it could spread. A watchman who happened to be at the site was trying to calm the panicked crowd and had his hands full with the baker's wife who was screeching about her 'boodle' that was still inside.
Lark came over to her, and took her off the grateful man's hands, leaving him to handle the rest of the crowd and coordinate the fire line. "What is inside? Nothing you cannot replace," she said, trying to calm her. "You are alive, yes. What are things to life?"
The woman grabbed Lark in her meaty hands. "My boodle can't be replaced!" she screamed.
From the upstairs window came a sudden, plaintive cry. Lark looked up as the woman screamed, "MY BOODLE!! Somebody SAVE her!!!"
Lark immediately began whipping up a poltergeist. Nightingale flew up to the level of the window, not too close, but near enough to try and see the child inside. He gave her a quick, rough description of where the child was, helped her to guide the poltergeist into the room to pick up the child screaming at the top of her lungs on the bed.
Feeling herself being lifted off the bed by invisible hands, the child began to scream even louder, which convinced her mother that she was burning to death. It was all the watchman could do to keep her from running into the burning house. Lark ignored all of this, concentrated on getting the child safely out of the window. The child was only half out when the roof collapsed. The girl was hit by part of the window as that entire wall fell inward. Lark set the child down, checked her out quickly. The girl had only been scraped and bruised. The baker's wife almost ripped the child out of Lark's grasp cooing and crying and hugging the girl.
Lark then turned to helping the firefighters. She began to weave a cantrip, evaporating the water from the buckets and the well, ignoring the startled and despairing shouts from the men and women carrying the pails. Within moments, it began to rain.
The temple was bustling, filled with the wounded and dying. Landros had known there had been an attempt on the North wall the night before, but he had not heard that it had been this bad. Lithgorin's brother was taken from them immediately, carried into the belly of the temple with Adrick limping after him. The others were shuffled out to the rear courtyard for triage. Acolytes bustled about carrying bandages and ointments, assessing the wounded for severity, healing those within their power and passing off those with greater needs.
He, Lithgorin, and Barak were set down on the stone edge of a raised garden, asked to wait out of the way. Landros looked around, wrinkled his nose at the smell. The air was sick with the smell of burnt flesh.
"Looks like another fireball attack," Barak muttered, flexing his arm as the feeling started to return.
"Where've you been?" a woman snapped. She was sitting in the shade across from them with her back against another of the raised gardens. Her injuries had already been tended. The left side of her face glistened with ointment and her hands were thickly bandaged. She wore the worn, black robes of a lower priestess of the Crone, but as the cloth was not singed or burned, Landros assumed they had been loaned to her in lieu of her own. She did not look like a Crone, though that priesthood was rarely seen unless necessity demanded it.
"What happened?" he asked, mostly to keep his mind off the searing pain in his shoulder and the ringing in his head.
"Fireballs. We lost count how many. They hit several different sections of town. Damned ingenious of them to attack close to noon, so that the arch of fire would not be readily noticed. They seemed to come out of the sun. A lot of people were hit before they were really aware of what was happening." She shifted her position, shook her head. "You boys look like you've been in a fight. I'd offer to help but...." she held up her white bandage mittens.
"It's all right," Barak said. "We'll live. I've had worse myself."
She closed her eyes a moment, as if dozing in the sun. She gasped suddenly, opened her eyes and stared at Lithgorin. "I'm sorry," she said.
At that moment, Adrick drifted out into the yard, limping slightly, his arm still untended, looking for them. "Lith...." he began, seeing them.
Lithgorin stood, looked from his friend's face to that of the woman across from him. Neither of them would meet his gaze. "No," he moaned, tore past Adrick and ran into the temple, dodging startled acolytes as he ran.
Adrick, hung his head as he came over. He saw the woman, nodded to her in deference as she rose and shuffled off. "There was nothing we could do," he managed.
"Ah, man!" Barak muttered. "Lith's gotta feel like hell."
"Who was that woman and how did she know...." Landros demanded.
Adrick put his hand on Landros's good shoulder, sat him down. "She belongs to the Old One. That is one of her gifts, the comforting of the living."
"Comforting?" Barak asked. "I would not call that comforting."
The fire was out and the remains under control when Lark finally sat down on the curb of the street and took a breather. The fire had spread to the next house over before the rooftops were wet enough to prevent it. No one was seriously hurt. The watchman crossed to her. "You the one started the rain?" he asked.
She just nodded.
"Don't know how, and I'm not gonna ask. But thank you. Lives might have been lost if you hadn't," he said quickly and left, back to whatever duty called to him.
"Nice work," came a voice from behind her. Lark looked up, saw Ebastion Shadowfalk standing over her.
"Thank you," she smiled. "Have seat," she offered.
"Nah," he said, leaning back against a lamppost. "But thanks. Lark, this is my friend Lula. Lula, this is Lark."
The woman was a bit taller than Lark, and very robust. She wore leather pants and a tight fitting leather jerkin, high boots and soft leather gloves. She was not particularly attractive, with tanned skin and autumn hair drawn back from a narrow face, but she was very striking.
"Ah, yes, you told me about her." she said, extending her hand to Lark. "And for the record, my name is Lulelani, not Lula."
Lark took her hand, allowed Lulelani to pull her to her feet. Lula gestured with a gloved hand at the still smoking building. "Your handiwork?" she asked.
"Rain, not fire."
"Oh, I wouldn't have suggested such a thing," she said rather charmingly. "Would you care to walk with us? I am sure you would like some fresher air than the smell of wet ash."
"Thank you." Lark walked with them, not caring where, just glad to be away from the burnt houses.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
"Yes," she sighed. "Just bit tired. Was long shower, hard to keep in place. Wind kept trying to blow elsewhere. Will be fine. So tell me, what have you been up to?"
"Oh, this and that," Ebastion shrugged. "Though I hear you've been busy. Saving Keltree's miserable hide again?"
Lula slapped his chest. The look that passed between the two told Lark that Lula more than likely had a sweet spot for Keltree Danhaven and that Ebastion just loved teasing her about it. Lark laughed softly. "Yes. Word gets around, sesket?"
Nightingale landed on her shoulder, peeped a brief hello to Ebastion and began chittering at Lark.
"Oh, how lovely!" Lula exclaimed. "What's the matter?" she asked as Lark frowned as she listened to the bird.
"Is something ahead, wrong."
"Is he ever direct?" Ebastion sighed. "Wrong like what?"
"Wrong like man in trouble. Blood, bad winded... just...."
A man staggered around the corner ahead of them, grabbed at everyone who passed close enough, muttering almost unintelligibly. He was a dark skinned Northman, like the pirates Lark had fought off not two weeks before, and his clothes were in bloody tatters. He had been in a fight, and recently: one where magic had been used. As he turned his face towards them, they saw a fresh, ugly slash congealing across his face beginning from his right cheek and slicing across his nose and left eye.
"Never ends, does it Lula?" Ebastion sighed with a grin, drawing his blade.
The man staggered up to them. "Yes, yes," he hissed from the side of his torn, swollen mouth. "You have blades, you know trouble. You help poor Vanishti? Please, come quick, come fast! They kill them all they will!"
Ebastion grabbed one arm as Lula grabbed the other, "Who’ll kill who and where? What happened to you?"
"Ambush," he hissed. "Yes, they not drunk. Were mad, snarling demons from the frozen pits! Killed so many! Dying! Save them! You must have mercy! Help us! My brothers.... they have my brothers...."
"Where?!" Lark growled, beginning to lose her patience with the man.
"I'll pay you!"
"To hells with money!" she snarled. "Where is trouble?!"
"Lark, you are worn out," Ebastion said. "You shouldn't come."
"You seen me heal," she said. "Maybe can do again if need to. Have tricks still up sleeves. Now where?!"
"This way! This way!" he mumbled, turned and started to shuffle off. He found his progress stopped by a large, burly man with a bare sword tucked in his belt.
"Trouble, ladies?" he asked. "Sir?"
"Yes, would you care to add your weapons to ours?" Lula asked.
He looked the shriveled black man over, then the three of them and nodded. “Looks like you could use it, judging from the looks of him."
"You come to? Reward enough for all! Pay well if you help, Please come! This way!"
They followed him for three blocks without a word passing between them. The man led them down a short alley into a warehouse-like structure that seemed to have had much better days. He opened a side door and gestured them to follow him in. "In here, quick quick."
Lark made certain that her sand pouch was within easy reach and drew her dagger, instructed her familiar to remain outside, out of danger. Lula drew a fancy hilted rapier and a small baton which she gripped tightly in her left hand. The two men went in first.
The warehouse was dark, mostly empty, only a few broken crates on the far wall, into the shadows of which their guide promptly disappeared. Lark activated her pendant and light filled the immediate area, but left the majority of the room in deep shadows. They started to follow the man towards the crates, keeping their eyes on the shadows around them.
Something ahead of them moved. The shadows began to shuffle and move and the small group found themselves shortly surrounded by a loose circle of battered and bloody fighters.
"We are here to help," Lula said cautiously. "Vanishti?" she called.
Lark backed up against the large man, secretly grabbing a handful of sand from her pouch. She waited, waving her dagger ineffectively at the other men, like a helpless and frightened girl who had no idea how to use the thing.
A hooded figure appeared near the wall of crates. "Welcome, friends." The voice was neither clearly female nor clearly male. The hands were gloved, to hide even that tell-tale sign.
"Where is Vanishti?!" Ebastion demanded. "He said there was help needed, people dying!"
"And there are," the figure said in a saddened voice. Lark could not tell if the sadness was sincere or not, being unable to see the face. "Everywhere. In the city about you. The enemy has no desire to burn this town to the ground, but the Lord Mayor would rather the town be destroyed utterly and the earth salted than surrender it. Greed, my friends, greed. If you would but side with us, aid us in our need, or simply not interfere, this siege would be quickly ended and food would be brought in to feed the starving. No one else needs to die. If patriotism does not stir your hearts, harder currencies can be arranged...."
Treachery, Lark thought. Perhaps this is what became of Ashanda and the others that had disappeared. Landros should know, she thought. She sent Nightingale to find him, or Colwyn; someone, anyone.
Ebastion hefted his sword, "I may be for hire by anyone with enough money, but I am not a traitor," he snarled.
"Even when the currency is your life?" the figure asked.
"I have nothing if I have not my honor," he spat.
"Does this go for your friends as well?"
Ebastion looked at Lula. She gave only a minute nod of her head, tightened her grip on her sword. He looked at Lark, was met by her stony glare and fierce expression. He looked up at the new man, whose name they did not know. "Friend?" he asked.
The man did not look back at him, but kept his back against his, and his sword between them and the ring of enemies. "I stand with you," was all he said.
"How sad," the figure mused. "Kill them. And do it right this time."
Lark threw her handful of sand in an arch in front of her, catching the three men in front of her in the spray of dazzling light. Two of them went down, but the third lurched forward drunkenly, swinging his sword blindly, not caring what he hit. Lark easily ducked out of his way, and the other man with her turned and engaged him, finishing him off in time to fend off another attacker from a different direction. Lark darted in, burying her dagger deep in the thigh of one of their attackers. In rage, he struck her aside with his fist. She hung on to the dagger, ripping it out of his leg as she fell. She got up and darted for the shadows, forgetting for a moment that she was the source of light until the shadows retreated from her. Thinking quickly, she broke the chain and threw the necklace into the fray, diving into the safety of the shadows.
She tried to think, to come up with some minor magic that could help them that she still had the strength to wield. She wished she still had her scimitar. At least then she would be able to stand in there and fight with the others. She pulled together a poltergeist, used it to gather up the bits of debris from the broken crates and add to the fray, tried to create ghostly images wielding the boards as a scare tactic. To her surprise, the ghosts faded out before they had truly winked in and the poltergeists were ripped out of her control. Suddenly there was a gloved hand on her shoulder pulling her back and a sharp pain between her shoulderblades. She turned, saw the hooded figure standing behind her. The pain stayed with her, making it hard for her to breathe. There was something in her back. She panicked, remembering the homunculus and the glassed floor. She swung wildly with her dagger, but her arm would not obey her properly and the blow missed completely. She staggered back as the 'ghosts' she had tried to conjure returned, became more than illusion, battering her one way and then another, pushing her towards the wall. She stumbled against things in the dark, crates, unidentified statues of plaster, a broken barrel. She fought the glowing shadows, slicing into them with her magic blade. She began to make headway, to change her panic into usable rage. Behind her, she heard the sounds of her comrades fighting still. Beyond the 'ghosts' she could see the shadowed figure, feel the eyes upon her. The gloved hand raised, reached towards her and pulled back. It was a gesture she knew, a maneuver for controlling a poltergeist. She felt a sudden, swift stinging all over her body, heard sounds not unlike knives being punched into the rind of a ripe melon. The pain blossomed, spread until it consumed her totally. The ghosts began to dim, though she could still feel them around her, pushing, clawing. And then nothing.
Nightingale had left the instant she had told him to go and get help. He knew who to look for but had no idea where to look. He flew towards the temple, remembering the priestess there, thinking maybe she might know or be able to aid him. He could feel Lark's panic and fear and flew as fast as he could; then a distant pain made him stall momentarily, and he lost a few feet of altitude. He flew faster, spurred on by a near complete panic that was not his own. As he sailed down over the courtyard where lots of people were milling, he gave his distress call as loudly as he could. The whistle was cut off sharply as he felt something impact with his mistress, something which caused her to fall, and broke his conscious link with her. Stunned, he stopped flapping and fell.
Landros was finally submitting to healing, allowing his wounds to be bound and the bleeding stopped, but only after Barak had been tended. He heard something nearby, turned, saw nothing and looked back over at the human. "It kills me that we have no way of identifying that mage," he growled.
"I'm sure he'll be around," Adrick sighed. "We have not seen the last of him, or her, or …whatever."
"Oh look!" Landros heard just a little ways away. "The poor thing!" He turned, saw a young priestess reach into the flowerbed and carefully pull out a small, injured bird. A second priestess came over, clucking her tongue at the creature.
"That's a mockingbird, isn't it?" she said. “Haven’t seen one of those in a long while.”
Landros felt a sudden surge of fear. Lark's familiar was a mockingbird! "Nightingale?" he said, pushing Adrick aside and muscled his way over.
Adrick growled at him to hold still, tried to keep up with him and tie off the bandage.
The bird, hearing a familiar voice calling his name, began to wake up and struggle in the grip of the priestess. "OH!" she exclaimed as he wriggled out of her grasp and flew to the shirtless elf charging her.
Landros caught the bird on his open hands. He was in near hysterics, giving a wolf whistle over and over, maniacally. "Can you fly?" he asked. The bird jumped from his hand into the air, waited as Landros went back to his friends, unsheathed his sword, tossed the scabbard down and started to follow the bird, the bandage on his arm still flapping loosely behind him.
"Landros, where are you going?" Barak yelled.
"Lark's in trouble!" he shouted without stopping. "Grab your sword and come on!"
"That man is going to get himself killed one of these days," Adrick snarled. "Come on, he's going to need help," he added to Barak, taking off after his friend, swearing in elven under his breath.
Landros practically ran the entire distance, slowing down only to dodge pedestrians in the streets. He tried not to think about what he was charging into. When he did, he found himself thinking all sorts of horrible things that he might find. Lark had to be alive, or her familiar would have reacted, possibly even died himself. He had heard of such things happening. He kept his eyes on the bird ahead of him and tried to focus on nothing else.
When the bird darted down a side alley, he felt his heart jump with dread. They could not possibly have had time to proposition her and lure her into the same trap. It had taken him the better part of three days to solicit that invitation. When the bird stopped outside a door, Landros did not think, he just kicked it in. He found himself in a dilapidated warehouse. There was a single circle of light, partially dimmed by the bodies surrounding it. There were only five people still standing: two burly mercenaries, one of which was holding up another, unarmed man; and a pair of shadowed figures in the back. As he stepped into the room, the unarmed man spat at the man holding him up and was promptly run through. As his body was tossed onto the pile of bodies in the center of the room, the light fell on the killer's face and Landros knew him. The man from the alley with the ax. The one who had killed Ashanda.
Landros gave a roar of rage and charged blindly into the room, unaware of Adrick and Barak backing him up. There was not much of a fight. The two mercenaries had been battered and wounded in two battles in less than three hours and did not have much fight left in them, though the ax man did manage to further wound Landros.
The two shadowed figures disappeared.
Adrick's voice cut through his battle rage with three words he had not wanted to hear. "She's not here."
He looked down at the bodies, shifted them until he produced the light pendant laying on the floor. The chain was broken. Desperate, he began to toss aside the bodies of the mercenaries, checking each one for signs of life, looking for someone alive enough to find out where Lark was or had been taken. There were only the mercenaries they had encountered before and two men and a woman he did not know. None of them were alive. He looked down at the wrist he had been checking for a pulse and saw a flash of gold on the third finger of his right hand. He turned the ring, saw the worn etching of a hawk on its surface and his blood began to boil.
There was a squawk of feathered rage from the shadows. Barak drew his sword again, began to look around warily. Landros picked his up from the floor and looked around, saw a shadow moving in the darkness. He got up, stalked over with the light dangling from his hand. Vanishti was there, hunched over a prone figure in ragged calico. Rusty nails crunched underfoot as Landros approached. The man looked up, his one good eye glaring whitely in his black face. He had a gold earring in his hand, tendrils of long black hair still clinging to it. Nightingale had hold of the earring and was fighting to get it back. Landros glared at him, said nothing, tried not to look at the still figure at his feet.
"Did not... did not wish this," Vanishti stammered, letting go of the bauble and backing away. "No, did not wish this!"
Landros tightened his grip on his sword. "Take it up with the Crone," he said, and opened the man's throat with one swift stroke.
Landros dropped the blade, even as the body fell gurgling to the floor, unable to feel much of anything anymore except a cold emptiness inside as he fell to his knees beside Lark. The bird dropped the earring by her cheek, watched her sadly. Landros laid a hesitant hand on the back of her red shirt, realized as he did so that the cloth had been dyed in blood. He felt something hard and prickly under his hand, looked closer. Her entire back, from throat to thigh was studded with rusty iron nails! Numbness was replaced by rage and he began to rip the nails out.
Barak caught his hand, stopped him.
"Let go of me," Landros growled in a low, choked voice.
"Didn't Adrick teach you anything?" the large man asked him. "Never pull the blade out! It's what keeps you from bleeding to death!"
"She's already dead, you simpleton!" he snarled, yanking his hand free and returned to ripping the nails out.
"Adrick!" Barak yelled. "Stop him!"
Adrick came over, having done all that could be done for the others. He bent by Lark, moved her hair and touched two fingers to her neck. He looked up at Landros. "Her heart is still beating, though erratically. Landros, stop what you are doing and think."
Landros looked blankly up at him. "She's alive?" Hope sprang like a light inside him.
"She's fluctuating in between. She's holding on but only just, like a candle sputtering in a window." He closed his eyes, prayed, pouring what strength of his own that he could into her to sustain her for a little longer. After a moment, he stood, exhausted. "Get her to the temple and quickly," he said.
Landros immediately tried to turn her to lift her in his arms. Once again Barak stopped him.
"Over your shoulder, simpleton," he said with a faint smile to show that he was not angry with him.
"Otherwise you'll just drive the nails in farther," Adrick added.
Between the three of them they got Lark draped over Landros's good shoulder in short order. "You sure you won't let me carry her?" Barak asked.
Landros did not answer him, just picked up his sword and walked out of the warehouse with the mocking bird in tow, daring anyone or anything to get in his way.
Adrick sighed, followed. "Barak, you stay here and guard the bodies. In case our 'friends' decide to come back and get rid of them, or someone takes a fancy to stripping them before we can find out who they are. I'll send the Servants of the Old One as soon as I get back to the temple."
Barak nodded, and turned to try and sort out the bodies, laying each one out as neatly as he could.
Landros was not gentle as he stormed in the nearest door of the temple. Anyone who did not move out of his way quickly enough was roughed aside. Acolytes scattered as he tried to approach them, demanding a healer at once. A group of the older Acolytes tried to prevent him from proceeding further into the temple in search of one, as they all seemed to have disappeared. He turned in a circle, demanding of one then another to heal her, but none of them had the skill. He began to threaten. He noticed blood on the floor, turned, following the trail in a circle until he realized it was dripping from Lark. He got to his knees, set her down so that she was leaning up against him. The acolytes stared in horror at him to his frustration and confusion.
"WILL SOMEBODY GET ME A HEALER!!!" he bellowed.
Adrick finally pressed his way through. He had been unable to keep up with his companion, having lost him in the crowd milling outside the temple. He began giving orders immediately. In a moment Rue arrived, the mockingbird leading her. She covered her mouth and crossed her fingers as she gasped at the sight of them. Both of them were soaked in blood. She recovered quickly, took a closer look at the severity and nature of Lark's wounds and grabbed the nearest person. "Go get Mother," she said in a low voice. She pointed at two of the stronger looking acolytes, “You two, help me get her to surgery! You, take this man to one of the upper cells and get him some medical attention!”
Lark was taken from him and carried, face down, between the two men out of the room. The other lower priest gestured for him to follow him the other way. Landros went reluctantly, all the while trying to maintain a glimpse of where they were taking her. Landros could not think of his own wounds, just Lark lying still in a pool of her own blood, long, wicked nails spiking her body. He sat down in the chair without thinking or realizing where he was. He was too busy trying desperately to figure out what could have happened in that warehouse and who the man with the ring had been.
He felt a pulling and a sharp pain in his shoulder. He looked up, saw the priest undoing the bandages covering his wound. He pushed the man away. “Leave me alone,” he snarled. He got up, began pacing the room. The man tried again to tend to him, speaking to him in soothing tones. Landros grabbed his sword and held the man at bay. “I said leave me alone,” he said slowly and deliberately.
“You are bleeding,” the man said. “Rue said I was to give you medical attention. I am not your enemy. I am your friend.”
Landros, still blinded with rage, grief and worry and not entirely sure why, did not budge. “I will not be touched until I know that Lark is alive and well,” he growled. “You should be in there helping her, not tending me!”
“Now you are just being stupid,” the priest snapped, losing his patience.
Landros was not willing to hear him, and so he did not. He might as well have been speaking a foreign tongue. All Landros wanted right now was Lark alive and healed, and answers to his questions: like what happened to her, how Vanishti was connected in all this, and why the thought of Lark’s death made his heart stop and his breath fall short. What DID she mean to him? More importantly, what did he mean to her? She had given him her virginity, spent two long nights with him and then disappeared. He knew she was still in town only because she could not get out. What would happen when the siege ended? Would she leave without another thought of him? Or would he haunt her as she haunted him?
There were voices in the room with him. Voices he did not recognize. “He won’t let me near him and….”
Landros turned, saw the little priest in the company of a young elven woman. She was beautiful and frail seeming, flowing golden hair and eyes like pale diamonds. She could not have been more than eighty. Before Landros could say anything, she spoke in a commanding tone he found no reason to disobey. “Look at me.”
He looked into her eyes and found himself trapped by them, lost in a dream of unicorn meadows and fey groves. Distantly, he heard her voice again. “Now heal him,” she said. But she was not talking to him. There was someone else in the meadow with him, a gorgeous, dark woman dancing naked in the sunlight. He was entranced by her, by her laughter and ease with herself. She did not seem to notice him, but continued to dance like a smoke genie conjured for the entertainment of small crowds. He knew her from somewhere, but could not think clearly enough to place her. He felt himself growing sleepy, remembered a half buried warning his mother had once given him about going to sleep in fey places.
The woman before him sighed, broke the contact and left him sitting, docile, in the chair as the priest stepped away from him. For the first time he noticed there was blood marring her creamy cheek and her pale blue gown was heavily stained. Her hair was heavy with sweat, hanging lank, and she looked tired. “Feel better?” she asked, not without some sarcasm.
Landros found he could only nod. Yes, he did feel better. And clean, he felt cleaner than he had.
The woman nodded to the other priest. “You can leave him now. There are others who could use your attentions, if you have strength remaining. I, myself, do not. Take care, elf,” she said to Landros. “The next time someone offers you healing, take it. You will do your dark dancer no good if you are half dead when she needs you most.”
She left the room without a sound, not even the swish of her fine robes against her legs. Landros looked around him in confusion. There was a basin on the table beside him filled with bloody water and darker cloths. He had been washed, partly. He felt tired, calm. Whatever that elven priestess had done to him had drained all the rage and fury out of him. His mind still in a cloud, he tried to put his sword away and found he had no scabbard. He remembered suddenly that he had left his things out in the courtyard. He got up, left the small cell and found his way there.
The courtyard was not so thick with people now, and many, freshly bandaged and able to walk, were being let out of the back gate there. Some pressed coins into the palms of the priests and priestesses seeing them off, some with heartfelt thanks and promises of restitutions when times were better. His things were where he had left them, along with Barak and Lith’s packs. The woman with the bandaged hands was still about, talking quietly with people. He bent, pulled a clean shirt out of his pack and tried to put it on with the heavy bandage on his arm. It was not easy. He did not remember his shoulder hurting so much when he had carried Lark all the way back to the temple.
He felt strangely calm, thick, as if he were walking through a fog of sleep. He sat down, not quite sure what else to do, whether or not he was waiting for something. He looked up, saw the woman with the bandaged hands sit down beside him.
"You saved a life," she said.
"I think I may have been the one to endanger it."
"Oh?" she asked, smoothing the wrinkles of her robe with her useless paws. "How so, do you figure?"
"I did not kill them when I had the chance. Didn't kill the black man with the grey hat. If I had, she would not have been ambushed, led into the same trap."
"Your head is still not clear from Maid Jelliana."
He looked at her blankly. "How..."
"I've been told," she said, shrugging off the question. "Besides, I've seen that look in the eyes before. The Temple's Maiden has the snake's gaze. She does not use it often. Why would you not permit yourself to be healed?"
"I don't know. I lose my head sometimes. In the heat of battle I can't think, I lose control."
"Why?"
"I don't know," he said.
She sighed. "Lie to me if you want, but don't lie to yourself."
Landros felt a stirring inside, but was still too fuzzy for feel real anger. "What is wrong with me?" he moaned, holding his head.
She put her arm around his shoulders. "You will come out of it soon. Maid Jelliana felt it the only way to get you healed. You are not the first to try to punish yourself for your perceived failures by refusing healing. It never does any good. Now, just keep your head about you, I think there is news for you."
He looked up, saw Rue crossing the small courtyard to him with Nightingale perched on her shoulder. He stood. "What news?"
"She is well. Come, I will take you to her." She took him gently by the arm and began to lead him back inside. She nodded her head towards the woman. "Thank you, Grandmother," she said.
"Don't worry it, Granddaughter," she said, getting up and wandering to another part of the garden.
"Grandmother?" Landros asked as they stepped into the cooler interior of the temple. "That was your...?"
Rue smiled, too tired to laugh. "No, she is a Servant of the Old one. All such servants are called Grandmother, Grandfather, as I am referred to as Daughter, or the Matron's women are called Mother. It is all relative, and we are all related in the scheme of things."
She led him to a quiet room lined wall to wall with beds and every one of them filled. Lark was in a bed on the far side of the room. She was lying on her stomach, her dark skin and darker hair in stark contrast to the white of sheet and pillow. Her hair had been washed and braided, and she was dressed in the simple, sleeveless white shift of an acolyte. Her dark eyes remained closed as he knelt beside her bed. He lightly touched her cheek, relaxed as she sighed softly, though she did not wake up. "Is it... is it all right if I stay here for a while?" he asked Rue. "I won't get in the way."
"No," she answered. "Neither of you can stay." He looked up at her. "We need the bed. There are others who are still waiting for healing and will have to wait until we have rested and restored ourselves. I've even sent Keltree to his brother's house. I need you to take her home and make sure she gets at least three days of rest before she tries to do anything strenuous. I want you to rest, too."
Landros nodded, understanding. Lark was healed, no longer needed a healer's specific attention, and he had no doubt that there would be others soon, in greater need than she was now. He got up off the floor, pulled the sheet back and started to pick her up. Pain lanced through his arm and shoulder, made him cry out in surprise. Rue just glared at him with her arms crossed.
"Are you quite through being the gallant hero?" she snapped.
"No," he growled back. Tried to figure out how he could carry her without hurting her or himself.
"Do you remember why Keltree ended up back here, two inches from dead?"
He just growled, feeling helpless and weak.
Rue turned, called one of the lower priests over. "Brother, are you busy?"
"No, sister," he replied. "What do you need?"
"I need you to help this man get this young lady home. He is too injured to carry her and I fear that if I do not get someone to tend to the matter personally, he will find away to try and do himself more harm."
"Gladly, sister," he said, lifting Lark easily from the bed. "I will welcome the chance for a little air."
"Thank you," she sighed. "Oh, and don't pay any mind to his rudeness, he's bound to be sulky." She reached under the bed and pulled out a small locked box, which she opened with a small key from her belt and removed a pouch and a dagger. She closed the box and put it back. She gave Landros the pouch and the blade. "Here, this is everything she had on her but the opal ring, which I left on her for obvious reasons. Her clothes had to be cut off, I'm afraid."
Landros tucked the dagger in his belt, mumbled something in the way of thanks as he started past her. She caught him by the arm, held him back a moment. "Landros," she said, hesitated, lowered her voice. "You saved her life, you know, bringing her in when you did. About the ring, I mean. If you hadn't, she might have died, or he might have taken her over. Either way we would have lost her."
Landros nodded numbly, put the pouch in his bag and tossed his pack over his good shoulder. Nightingale flew after them.
"So where are we going?" the priest asked kindly.
"The Golden Cygnet," he answered, sullen.
"Nice place. Didn't the owner used to be an adventurer of some sort?" he asked.
Landros was not in the mood for small talk. "I don't know, never stopped to ask."
The priest began to get the picture and fell silent, much to Landros's relief. He was in no mood for kindnesses.
Outside, the priest waved down a wagoneer just coming around from the Old One's side of the temple. The man stopped. "Whacha need, Ferin?" he asked.
"Just a ride, if you got the time?"
"Hop in," he shrugged. "I just made my delivery. I'm free for the time being."
Landros climbed into the wagon first, insisted on taking Lark into his own lap for the ride. The priest nodded after a moment, made certain that he held her in such a way as she did not put a further strain on his shoulder.
Landros held her close to him, stroked her cheek softly, tracing the invisible lines the homunculus had made weeks before. There were no signs of those marks now. But he could not help but wonder if all the trouble she seemed to keep getting into was somehow his fault. Everyone kept telling him that he had saved her life, that he should not feel guilt over her near death, but he could not stop blaming himself.
It took the better part of an hour to get to the inn with the wagon. The priest Ferin, jumped off first and tried to take Lark from him. He resisted.
The man sighed. "Don't make me have to carry you both in," he said quietly. "Sister Rue would not like that at all."
Landros reluctantly allowed him to take her, grabbed their things and led him inside. Opening the door to his room, he instructed the man to put her on the bed in the back room. One of the servants came running up, called to him before he could close the door. "What?" he demanded.
The young man was out of breath, panted, "The master wants to know if you need anything, for you or the woman."
"No, but thank you," he said, turning.
"A bath drawn? Food, wine? Anything?"
He sighed. "No. I'll send..." He glanced in the room, saw the bird flitting in through the window. "If a small bird shows up in the kitchen, send someone up to me at once."
"A bird, sir?" he asked.
"A mockingbird. He'll be quite friendly. Now I have to go," he said, tossing him a small coin.
"Very good, sir," the man said and trotted back downstairs.
Landros closed the door and went into the bedroom immediately. Sometimes the staff here was far too eager to please. Lark was already tucked into the huge bed, lying on her stomach with the covers drawn up to her shoulders. The priest was busy building a fire. Landros sighed, moved him aside and began rearranging the logs
"If you stack them this way," he said testily, "they burn longer and put off more steady heat. The other way it puts off too much heat, and burns too fast."
The man sat back on his heels. "I did not know that. Thank you," he said with genuine politeness. "Keep her warm and comfortable. When she wakes up, she may want something to drink." He set a small bottle on the little reading table next to the chair. "If there is pain, for you or her, administer a small dose of this in some water or wine to keep it manageable. And keep her in bed for at least a couple of days."
"You can be certain of that," he said, lighting the fire. Once it was fully ignited and he could feel the heat seeping into the room, he stood, shook the man's hand. "I am sorry I was short, I... I am deeply concerned for her."
"And for that reason alone you are forgiven," he smiled, giving him a clap on his good arm. "I entered the priesthood to escape my temper, and so far I have found a peace I never could have had. Well, you get some rest yourself, friend. I have to get back."
The priest let himself out and Landros went to the bed, made sure for himself that Lark was sleeping comfortably. He pulled her braid out from under her, laid it over her shoulder.
He could feel exhaustion creeping through him as the fire began to heat the room. He reached back, grabbing his collar and pulled his shirt off over his head. His left arm felt stiff. The was not the first time he had taken a serious wound to that shoulder, nor the second even. Perhaps there was some flaw in his fighting skill that left that shoulder vulnerable. He would have to ask Colwyn later. He had a report to give after all, but later, after he had rested. He had put in a very long morning. He peeled his pants off, realized that they were covered in drying blood and decided it was time to wash the rest of him.
The priest who had healed him had washed his chest out of necessity, but he was still bloody and dirty. He went into the washroom, poured water from the pitcher into the basin and looked at himself in the mirror. He was shocked by what he saw. It was no wonder the servant had offered to draw a bath. His hair was matted with dried blood, and his face was still dirty, except for a small area where he had received a minor cut. His legs were a rusty color, a blend of dirt and blood. He could only imagine what he had looked like before the priest had washed him. It was no wonder the acolytes had stared in horror at him and Lark. He made a mental note, also, not to use that particular door again. It seemed in retrospect to have been some kind of dormitory.
He took a cloth from the edge of the tub, began to wash himself. Leaving the soap, still lathered on his legs, he plunged his head into the basin, flinching at the chill of the water, and scrubbed the blood from his hair and face. Satisfied he was clean enough, he stepped into the tub and poured the rest of the water over himself to wash away the soap, trying to keep his bandages from getting wet. He grabbed a towel, dried himself off.
With just the towel wrapped around his body, he went back into the bedroom, closing the door behind him. He pulled a nightshirt from his dresser and put it on. He heard a chittering from the other room, a scratching on the bedroom door which startled Nightingale. The bird hopped onto the bedpost, taking up a guarding position with his wings half-opened. Landros imagined that, to anything of similar or smaller size, it was quite a threatening gesture, but to him it was almost laughable. He opened the door, looked down and saw Scraps sitting up, nibbling on a piece of withered apple, himself covered in soot. He looked up as the door opened, chittered and offered him a piece of the apple.
"No, thank you," he said, opening the door wider. "Have you been hiding in the chimney again?" he asked as the raccoon trotted over to the hearth and shook himself, sat eating his prize. "One of these days I'm going to light a fire under you," he warned. The raccoon just looked at him, licked his paws as the apple disappeared. "You're right, you’d just shimmy up the flue and out onto the roof, find another way in and give me what for," he sighed, tossed the towel over the back of the rocking chair to dry by the fire
Scraps climbed up onto the little table, stuck his paws into the water pitcher and washed them and his face. Putting too much weight on the edge of the pitcher, it tipped over, spilling all over him, washing off the rest of the soot in the process. Landros laughed quietly, tossed his towel over the surprised little beast and began to rub him dry. Scraps put up with the rough buffing for only a few minutes, then wiggled free. Landros let him go, and bent to mopping up the spilled water. Shaking himself dry, Scraps trotted towards the bed, intent on making himself at home. Landros saw him out of the corner of his eye and managed to snatch him out of the air just as he leaped for the bed. He struggled, not exactly happy with the situation. Landros shushed him softly, took him to the bedside and showed him why he had his leap arrested. "See?" he whispered. "I don't want you to wake her up. All right?"
He set him down gently on the bed next to her, watched as the raccoon sniffed carefully at her before curling up next to her. Landros laid the wet towel on the back of the rocker to dry by the fire and, moving the raccoon over, carefully crawled into the bed next to Lark, trying not to disturb her. She sighed, shifted as she felt his approaching warmth. Still asleep, she reached over to him, traded her pillow for him and slipped deeper into sleep. Landros was afraid to move. She had nestled her head in the crook of his good shoulder and draped her arm over his chest. He just lay there for a few minutes, needing to shift himself, but not wanting to disturb her again. Little by little, he eased himself closer, pulled the pillow under his head and made himself comfortable. He let his arm gently drape across her back, holding her close.
He drifted to sleep watching the firelight sparkling off the surface of her opal ring.
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Cyala Rhynestone
Unless I messed up and my computer screen is wrong, I got the first comment. First comment! You are underviewed, m'Lady, very underviewed. Well, it's nearly 1:00 in the morning. No more reading. Nighty. X.x
