Shadow of Hope XXX
Katarina watched with undisguised interest when Erellia made the arrow materialize in her palm. She got a closer look, then looked at the Elven woman. “Was that Elven magic, or perhaps arcane magic put to clever use? I need to pray to Trymeya for something like that, could come in very useful.”
Erellia smiled as Katarina posed her questions. “Just a bit of Metherin’s Weave, dear, nothing more. I’m sure Trymeya will share such mysteries with you when she deems you ready.”
Katarina straightened and tucked an errant raven strand behind her ear and turned to Zulian. “I’m sorry, I did not mean to be rude and not introduce myself.” She gave the woman a warm smile and a sheepish grin. “I am Katarina Tshurka, Luckbringer, fortune teller, entertainer…” she trailed off with another grin. “I am honored to meet you.”
“No harm done, Katarina Tshurka,” Zulian tried the name in her mouth, “We all must regain our footing after such chaos. I am simply Zulian, humble trailblazer in service to the Lady Erellia, and I share the honor of our meeting.”
Marcus arranged Vanris’ body for carrying, making sure he had nothing hidden on him that he managed to keep from the bandits. He then straightened and with a look at Kurn that said, ‘Might as well get him used to things like this now, when we’re not in battle,’ motioned to Haron to come over and help him with the body.
Kurn gave a mildly derisive snort; a harsh exhale, more precisely; and nodded at Marcus’ glance. He stood and waved Haron away. He’d tend to the task of Vanris’ body himself.
“Here,” Kurn offered; carrying Vanris’ between them would just overbalance them both with the weight between them. Kind words could be saved until they reached the pile. Kurn reached down and picked up Vanris to rest behind his neck and across his shoulders. He didn’t even appear burdened, though he did mind his footing and set his steps carefully.
At the growing pile, Kurn accepted Marcus’ assistance to lower Vanris gently, out of respect for Erellia’s memories of the man. The pair set the body down gently, Marcus giving a prayer for the soul of the thief before they head back to the tent.
Looking over to Haron, Marcus tried to see how he was taking everything that was going on.
Kurn followed Marcus’ glance as they approached the tent. “Haron is with me for the horses, nothing else. This journey is not for him. I will release him before we depart.”
“Haron,” Kurn called the boy’s attention away from the others as he came near. “You heard our destination?” Kurn’s attention drifted back to Erellia.
“Aye, sir,” the boy stated, “Anquilla. Can’t says I’ve heard of it.”
“You will assist us in making ready to depart when Erellia so states, but when we set out, you are released. You have earned your fare. This journey is not for you, not into Troll lands.”
“Are you sure, sir?” Haron questioned, “I mean, it’s not that being paid early bothers me, but who’ll look after the horses? Shoe ’em when needed? And check ’em for hoof rot? In this weather, they’ll need to be watched real close like.”
“I don’t want to shirk my duty, sir,” the boy finished with a deep swallow.
Kurn frowned and considered his response. The lad was developing a dangerous taste for travel and adventure in a short few weeks. “Ten horses for one required a hand. Eight for four do not. I contracted with your father for someone to tend the mounts, not to enter battle. Trolls, Haron,” Kurn warned, his arms folding again to cross his chest. “You have earned your own mount and are under no further obligation to me. Your duty was well and ably done.”
The spark was still in Haron’s eyes. Kurn looked away, toward where the militia leader was approaching. “Don’t believe the bards. The ride here from Honor’s Flow was as different from what lies ahead as would be a woman’s thighs wrapped around you in a warm silk bed…”
The boy’s eyes flicked to where Katarina stood, and he again swallowed, his large adam’s apple bobbing up and down at some unspoken thought.
“…versus a dull rusty knife slowly snagging through your gut flaying up to your throat while you begged to die.”
Kurn turned back to Haron. “I ask you to go home, Haron.”
His emphatic advice spoken, Kurn ticked his head towards Erellia. “Or make an argument and she might let you join, if you’ve a sword and the will. The gods make no promises.”
“If it’s all the same to you, sir,” Haron said, “I’d just as soon stay on for awhile. If we’re headed south along the river, that’s the direction I’d be headed anyways to get home. I’m a fair hand with an axe and have fought off my share of wolves. Plus, if I return home too soon, my pa won’t have nothing good to say about it.”
After Zulian’s injury was bound to Erellia’s satisfaction, the Elven woman saw Kurn and Marcus return from placing Vanris on the pyre. “Thank you,” she said to the two men, “Vanris apparently played as much a role as any of us for seeing those savages meet their recent demise. He would be pleased to be resting atop them, where he could taunt them for all eternity.”
With that, she walked out into the rain toward the stacked bodies.
Cheskith stood back as the others went about their tasks, somewhat disheartened by the feeling that he was being regarded as an obstacle or in Kurn’s case, outright unwanted. Not that anyone had said as much, but the interactions thus far were certainly sending that sort of message.
A circumstantial glance in Daroun’s direction conveyed the thought that he might not be the only one feeling a bit on the outside. The magician had been rather quiet so far, so it was difficult to guess just why he was looking so deflated. All the same, it offered a chance at turning things around.
The Lizardman ventured out from under the tarp, taking care as he walked across the muddy ground. The rain was driving hard enough, and the ground was already saturated such that the muck was starting to deepen, seeking to trap the feet of those who stepped incautiously. He ascended the small rise to stand next to Daroun, his gaze first turning out over the fields beyond and taking note of the further impending arrival, before his head swiveled to allow him to regard the mage directly.
“An inauspicious start, you think? Or is there something else which worries at your thoughts?” he asked. His voice was as gentle as he could make it whilst still being heard over the rain.
Borlak measured the stranger’s approach, and sensing no ill will from this warrior, motioned the man closer.
“Greetings, travelers!” the man cried over the weather, “Your aid during the raid was much appreciated. My name is Thorum, and with my partner, Deoden,” he motioned to the robed figure who was still administering prayer to the deceased, “We have taken on the defenses of Westerly and the bridge.”
The battle tempered veteran sported no fewer than thirty-five summers under his belt. The scarring of countless engagements and a pronounced limp of his right leg did not prevent a prideful carriage. The self proclaimed protector took a few more steps toward the shelter before asking his next question.
“Would any of you care to sign on for the duration?” he asked with no small degree of hope, “I don’t mean to impose, but I’d be the southbound end of a northbound mule if I didn’t inquire. The pay is better than average and opportunity abounds.”