Limbreth sniffed. "Not wasting my time, or my few coins, on that." Sword practice in the rain it was. She grabbed her cloak. Good footwork on a rolling boat and slick deck seemed like a good way to keep sharp. Footing was always important in a fight. She opened the door and fixed her gaze on her pack, then Hastra. "Watch that. I'll be back."
Swords drawn, Limbreth climbed the steps to the broad deck, where crewmen worked their duties amid a steady shower that soaked the wood underfoot as well as the tarps covering crates of goods and supplies. At the prow, a crewman spotted the river while several stood ready with poles should another vessel drift near. The captain, an elf with extensive experience on the river, steered the boat in the river channel.
Limbreth paused for several moments and stared into the rainy mist that hid the riverbanks in a shroud of mist. The Bane lingered out there, waiting. Eventually, it would come for her arrow just like the others’. Her grip tightened on her swords. She'd be ready.
She stepped away from doorway and slowly worked through her practice exercises, concentrating on her footwork. She slipped a few times, then continued or re-started her practice. Beneath her cloak, she worked up a sweat, even in the chill rain. As she practiced her moves faster, she gained confidence in her footing, her swords weaving cuts and parries as she turned.
Upon completion, Limbreth lifted her swords in salute at her face. On the surface of the blades, wet with raindrops, she glimpsed a reflection beyond the captain and the wheel. She gasped at the chill along her spine. She stared a moment, then whirled, her swords on-guard.
Nothing stood beyond the captain, who saw her expression and glanced over his shoulder. Beyond the elf at the wheel, nothing but river and rain was in sight.
Limbreth peeked around the tarped crates behind the captain, her eyes narrowed. Nothing there. But she'd seen the Bane. It wasn't her imagination. The Bane knew her location.
Limbreth opened the hatch, clattered below decks, and stalked to her door, swords still on-guard. She could only stab in this confined space. With a swift turn at the knob, she leapt into the room and found only Hastra with her book.
The Withling startled from her read—or had she been sleeping?—her eyes wide. "What's wrong?"
Limbreth shut the door and pulled off her soaked cloak, then hung it on a door peg. "The Bane. I saw it on the bow. I did a salute and caught sight of its reflection in the blades. But it was gone when I turned. The captain jumped like a startled cat."
Hastra closed her book and got to her feet. "You're sure? Everyone else has seen it but us. We've kept low until now. I felt nothing."
Limbreth nodded. "I'm sure. I've had too many encounters with it not to know when it's been around. We've got to do something."
The Withling opened the door and checked the passage beyond. "Nothing there. It must have come and gone fast." She snapped her fingers for emphasis.
"Yes, that fast." Limbreth puffed her cheeks as she exhaled, her heart thumping. How could she get rid of it? Tordug had thrown it down a mountainside. "Maybe we can push it overboard if necessary."
Hastra shook her head. "After what you told us of your fight in the mountains, I doubt it would help much. I should be led to deal with it somehow, if it comes to it. We've not yet met." Hastra lifted her chin. "I look forward to chasing it away, if given to me."
Limbreth peered at the old woman, her puffy cheeks flushed with expectation of a confrontation. She knew better than to laugh at the Withling, but Limbreth wondered what Hastra could do. "It's coming, and I won't be unprepared." But when it came, it could slip in without her reaction. Gweld never knew it had entered past him while on guard in the mountains. But she'd do what she could. "We'll warn the rangers aboard that there might be trouble."
"We can have a watch set, though I doubt it will do any good."
Limbreth wiped rain from her swords. "It's better than nothing. We've nowhere to go but with the river."
Hastra drummed her fingers on a cheek. "I know, let's hide it somewhere." She cast her gaze around the room in search of a likely place. "We should have done that already."
"No, it stays with me. I'll sleep with it." Limbreth sheathed her swords and checked her pack. She wanted to see the White Arrow. But not now. "Let's rig the door somehow while we sleep. Something that rattles if it's opened."
They tied tin cups and silverware so they bumped each other with dull clinks. Limbreth surveyed their work once completed. No much, but the best available warning. She shivered. The Bane had entered and grabbed her that night in the shelter, and she had hardly stirred from sleep. With a slight twist of her head and thin grimace toward Hastra, she nodded. "Better than nothing."
After that, they set a watch and brought food for each other from the crowded mess. Hastra spoke to the elven sergeant aboard and asked his assistance in standing guard with an explanation of the situation without mentioning the White Arrow.
Meanwhile, Limbreth's gut twisted in knots during the following days as she awaited the certain appearance of the Bane in her room.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Limbreth lay each night after that with the cloth-wrapped arrow clutched to her bosom with one hand and a sword in another. Her other sword lay ready should she need it. But two nights passed without any jangle of their warning at the door. Limbreth slept little at night and sat with the arrow during the day. She thumbed through Hastra's book once when alone but found nothing of interest. Why Hastra kept its contents so closely guarded, she didn't know. Most of what she glimpsed pertained to events long over.
The third night, she lay awake, her brow furrowed. She yawned repeatedly, but sleep eluded her. The rain had passed that day, and the sky cleared just after dinner when she strolled the deck to stretch her legs while Hastra guarded the arrow. The Bane either waited on them to slip up or something else. She released her breath in a long sigh. At least it no longer sought to capture her. Hostages meant nothing to Corgren. For now. If he lived.
A yawn dragged Limbreth toward sleep. She rolled over and cradled the arrow close in her arms. Her grip loosened on both sword and arrow. She jerked awake once, then another time, and adjusted her clasp of her weapon and charge each time. Hastra snored softly, and Limbreth's eyes dropped until she slept.
A distant clang sounded through Limbreth's slumber. She clawed for awareness, and her eyes fluttered. The room glowed softly a moment and then faded. She rolled over, and her sword clattered on the wooden floor.
"Limbreth, the arrow in the hall." Hastra scrambled from her bunk and stumbled.
Limbreth bolted up in her bunk atop Hastra's. A scream escaped her lips. The White Arrow was gone. She rolled from the bunk and landed in a crouch. She gathered her swords and leapt through the door.
The White Arrow glowed in a nimbus beyond the silhouette of a cloaked form that filled the passage at the steps to the deck.
"No! You can't have it!" Limbreth roared along the hallway.
The Bane slipped up the stairs to the deck.
Limbreth stormed after the creature. Hastra shouted wordlessly after her. Upon the deck, the Bane swirled toward the port rail and the river. Limbreth dropped her swords, jumped onto some crates, and snagged the feathered end of the White Arrow in her left hand. She landed awkwardly but retained her grasp.
The Bane yanked the arrow, but Limbreth held fast.
She laughed in the glow of the arrow. "You won't break my grip!" She yanked back on the arrow. "You can't have it." She kicked at the Bane.
The creature reached for Limbreth, and she dodged its freezing touch. She needed a sword. Foolish to have dropped them. They danced with the arrow between them.
Hastra shouted, "Limbreth, don't!"
"What?"
The Bane lurched and dragged Limbreth around. She fell against the deck rail with a grunt and rolled over the side. A snap quivered up her arm before she smacked into the water and coldness embraced her.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Magdronu's wings unfolded from Corgren as th
e traveling spell ended, and he stepped across dry leaves. He traveled now more than ever, splitting time between command of the trolls, overseeing the new shrine hidden within the city, and oversight of Paugren. This latter task Corgren considered but a formality while his brother and Cass worked their way closer to their prey. Where were they? He stepped through frozen leaves. Maybe he should have brought some trolls for this. But they couldn't steal the bow, unlike the arrow. The bow had to be given.
Two figures rose out of the shadows, and Corgren's hand drifted to his dagger.
"Easy, brother." Paugren leaned closer. "Come by the fire. You won't stand out."
Cass hesitated. "Pull your hood up so no one recognizes you."
Corgren arched an eyebrow and ran his tongue across his front teeth. Cass bothered him. But why? She and her sisters were sly, but something else about her troubled him this night. He followed his brother and Cass to a campfire and sat without warming his hands. He glanced about. Other campfires lay near, though none too close at hand. Still, he leaned close to his companions for the evening—at least for a while. "What's the plan, then? I'll see this done and report it to the master."
Cass touched his leg. "You'll do it." She looked at Paugren and back to Corgren. "We're the distraction. The ranger brings rations each night."
Corgren shook his head. "The dirty work for me? I don't mind, but this is all you're doing for this assignment?"
Paugren extended his hands toward the fire. "We're to keep watch over the other one."
"You'll go help with the shrine." Corgren pointed at each of them for emphasis.
Cass and Paugren exchanged glances before his brother spoke. "Plans have changed. We'll make sure he gets to the master first, then the shrine."
Cass flashed a smile, visible in the firelight beneath her hood. "There's plenty of time for the shrine."
Paugren pointed and leaned forward. "He's coming. Time for you to go. Do it clean and fast. Run back this way first. We'll feign stopping you. They aren't far, just over there between those two trees. Wait until he returns, then run this way. When she screams, cast the spell in those shadows there." Paugren pointed to the deeper darkness at a thicket.
Corgren grimaced. "You owe me, brother, for doing your job. I'll not waste more time on you. I've much more to do." He stood and walked into the night, making a wide circuit of his targeted campfire. These worthless refugees only prolonged their plight by fleeing. He drew closer, crouched in the underbrush, and watched the old man at the fire. So, that was him. Not much of a challenge. Just don't give him a chance.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The rangers led the growing party of idling refugees past Lukey's, which stood as a charred testament to the coming doom in the east. Minith let the rumor spread that the destroyed post was from a troll raid, and Athson spoke no reassuring words to the alarmed people around him. Some disbelieved the story and claimed it was an accident, but others claimed they'd traveled this way in recent months and knew it to be so.
A few continued the dispute. Athson rode among them and drew their attention. "I was here the day after. It was trolls." He glanced at the building ruins. "That's just a touch of what they'll do. My village was destroyed by them when I was a lad."
After that, the pace picked up considerably, though some still loitered. The rangers started before dawn and ended just at dusk, and more people followed than days earlier. With more leagues under their feet, Athson's worry faded, though he handled his sword far more often, working to listen for Eloch. All he felt was the urge to help that couple more.
Athson lounged by the fire one night after he ate his fill. He took rations to his new friends each evening now. They never refused but never conversed much. They seemed a little less shy than that first night, and he thought they appreciated the food and his blessing. He'd seen them on the road with a faster step for several days, so he supposed they hadn’t been eating that well after all.
He yawned, the travel catching up to him at last. "I reckon we've got three or four more days to Huffer's Post." He looked forward to seeing the dwarf and his wife, whom Hastra had healed of an arrow wound. He shook his head at the memory. It had been several long months since then. Hard traveling flooded his thoughts. He'd come far. He stretched the stiffness from his limbs.
Apeth nodded and muttered to himself first, then to Athson. "Remember what I said." He pointed a finger at Athson.
"Which topic? You say lots of things." Athson grabbed a couple packages of food and stood.
The Withling motioned him closer and held up one finger. "First, you keep listening. Second, anything happens to me, you ride and keep that bow safe."
Athson mock-saluted with a grin. He started away, but as an after-thought he carried the bow with him.
As he trudged through the trees and searched for his friends, Athson also looked for Spark. The camp was much larger now. He must be way on the other side somewhere. Athson halted and searched for familiar shapes in their dark cloaks. There were three people at one fire, or he would have gone there. But then one rose and stalked into the darkness. Athson watched a moment or two to confirm the man and woman he'd been helping were at that fire. Assured he’d chosen correctly, Athson walked toward the fire. The third figure had moved with a familiar gait. He shook his head—there were lots of people on the road. But the recognition nagged him still as he edged into the firelight, the food in his hands.
"Good evening. Thought you two would like a bit more food tonight."
The woman moved less stiffly as she took the rations from Athson. She practically whispered, "Thank you, ranger."
"Eloch's blessing for you." Athson paused a moment, but neither spoke a reply. Some of the shyest people he'd ever seen. He wondered where they were from. He scratched the back of his head and turned away, then back. "Look, if you need something else, just let me know. I'll do what I can. Blankets, maybe?"
The man and woman exchanged glances, and she spoke for them again. "Thank you, but we have our cloaks to keep us warm. Perhaps others need blankets."
Athson nodded and offered an awkward wave. "Sleep well." He turned toward his own encampment.
Someone shouted in the night.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Corgren was the dragon's hand this night. Strike the blow and remove this thorny threat. His shoulders tensed for action as he stepped into the light of the Withling's campfire.
"Can you spare some food?” Corgren asked. “My family, we don't have enough for the trip."
The old man reached for wrapped rations like those Athson gave nightly to Paugren and Cass. The foolish ranger fed his enemies. The Withling paused and peered into Corgren's hood-darkened face with a squint. "Don't I know you?"
Corgren edged closer, his left hand extended. "I don't think so." He couldn't keep the hard edge from the tone of his voice as his other hand drifted toward his waist.
The Withling pointed at him. "I recognize your voice from long ago. At Withling's Watch. You're Corgren!" The old man scrambled for his feet.
Corgren snatched his Wolfshead dagger free and grabbed the Withling by the shirt, pulling him forward. He stabbed the old man in the shoulder.
The injured Withling fell with a bellow of pain. Corgren twisted the knife. "Rotten Withling!"
He yanked the dagger from the wound and charged back toward Paugren's campsite. Remember the plan. He brushed past Athson. Corgren could have killed the ranger, but then what of the bow and giving it to Magdronu?
Paugren and Cass feigned trying to stop Corgren as they fell to his shoves. He sang out the traveling spell, and Magdronu's wings enfolded him. He escaped across the Auguron Forest to his troll army.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Athson halted at the sound of a scuffle and searched the surrounding campfires. It sounded directly ahead of him. "Apeth!" He rushed forward, his sword half-drawn.
Someone rushed past him, and he turned to follow.
"Athson." Apeth's voice sounded weak.
Aths
on forgot about the fleeing person and lunged for the encampment. He found the Withling lying in his own blood, trembling with shock.
"Went that way." Apeth motioned vaguely the way Athson had come.
Shouts erupted in the night. Athson searched the darkness but saw nothing. Voices called, and others joined the commotion.
"Here, let me help you." Athson laid an old shirt on the wound and pressed it.
"Remember what I said." Apeth's voice trailed into a whisper.
"Apeth, stay with me." The shirt did nothing to staunch the wound high on his chest. Blood gathered in Athson's hands. Not again. He blinked and saw his father slipping away. This was an artery. He pressed harder.
"Can't help me." Apeth shook his head. "Listen."
"I can say a prayer. Tell me how." Athson's mind raced. He grabbed his sword from where he'd dropped it. He shut his eyes and listened. Nothing. He held his breath. Eloch, where are you? Tell me what to do. Nothing but more blood answered Athson when he opened his eyes. Of course, these daggers dripped pain with the blood. No surviving those without a Withl— He was a Withling. Why couldn't he hear Eloch in this?
Apeth shook his head. "Murder. Dagger. Rokan." He winced but his brow furrowed in effort, and his eyes rolled to Athson. "Corgren."
Athson ground his teeth. "Corgren! Of course, he survived."
Apeth grabbed Athson's hand. He held it while he spoke, his eyes wide with effort. "Ride!" His lips trembled and his face shook. "Ride. The bow." He reached for it, and Athson put it in his hands. "Remember. Not. For. Him." He pointed at Athson with weak emphasis. "You. You, you, for you."
The Withling's voice faded, and he slumped onto the ground. Athson pressed on the wound. Apeth ceased moving at all, his eyes open to the night sky. His grip fell limp in Athson's hand.
Athson slammed a fist into the dirt and sat back on his heels. This wasn't right, wasn't fair. Eloch left him alone. His chin dropped to his chest, and a ragged sigh escaped his throat. It shook his body. How could this happen now? He had so much to learn. Apeth had done so much, lived so long. But Athson had drawn him into the open. Athson was a target, watched by Magdronu's forces. They wanted Athson isolated. He stood and gazed at Apeth. That was why the old Withling wanted him to ride on. To get away from Rokan spies. He wanted to run immediately, but there was a grave to dig.
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