Six men crouched tensely behind a wide boulder in the gathering twilight, occasionally daring quick glances over the upper edge of the stone. They watched as a distant wagon rattled along the road in the company of two riders. Most of them were in a rough way, and looked it. Bleary eyes looked out from gaunt faces obscured by scars and thick stubble. Odd scraps of mismatched, dented mail and plate were laid over the rags they called clothing. Even their weapons, the tools of their trade, were rusted and notched. Young and old, all were bent of back and broken of spirit; all but one, and it was to him that the others turned expectantly.

“What do ye think, m'laird?” asked one of the old-timers, shaking head and adjusting his battered straw hat, “Ah cannae ken it, meself.”

The lord nodded thoughtfully and the high, arcing crest atop his open-faced helm bobbed slightly. Though he, too, looked the worse for wear, it was clear from a glance that he fared far better than his underlings. His armor lacked polish, but the silk lacing was tight and even, each and every one of its many plates hanging straight. He was well into middle age, but his body was strong and his eyes were vital.

“They came down from the mountains, of course.” he said, “They certainly didn't come from one of the strongholds. For one thing they're going the wrong way, and look: they have no banner that I can see. They're outlanders for sure.”

There was some muttering at these observations. A banner denoting allegiance to a warlord was a necessity for traveling with even a modicum of safety in Watshire. Only fools or foreigners would dare to do without one. As fools lacking such a token themselves, they all knew well how dangerous that was.

“I expect they'll have food and supplies,” he went on, “how long has it been since we've eaten? One day? Two? I've lost track.”

“We ett that palie hind just yestreen,” said the old-timer, “wisna much tae him, tho.”

“Hellfire! I'm so hungry,” complained one of the younger men, unslinging his bow from his back, “let's rush 'em now, before anyone else shows up.”

This suggestion was met with general approval, and most of the others drew their own weapons in anticipation of a charge. None dared to leave the safety of their concealment without leave, however excited they may have been.

“No!” the lord said, laying a menacing hand on the hilt of the fine sword at his belt, “We must be patient and wait for nightfall. There can't be many of them, but either bravery or madness brought them here, and the mad can prove as dangerous as the brave.” he paused, stroking his beard thoughtfully, “That beside, I want to make sure we take at least one of them alive. I know some strange mischief let that knight escape us on the road. If we can wring the truth out of some skulking mountain-folk, Daeron might rethink this whole [i]exile[/i] business.”

The young man, abashed, returned his bow with a quick nod. “Well you say, lord. All those thralls would set us up nice. I hear them demons is paying good for 'em, now. Naught but fresh beef and good bread for us then.”

The lord smirked. “Don't be greedy, lad. One will be enough, though we might bag two or three if they're careless enough. We'll kill the rest to be safe; just take care not to hurt the horses. I'm sick to death of walking in this armor, and riding back to Gumbleston is style will be a nice reversal of our fortunes.”

So the men watched their distant prey, biding their time. But they were not alone.

[hr]

Osric frowned at Revna's complaint. In truth he had no great love for the song, nor for the prince whose fate it lamented. The only reason he knew it at all was because Brother Hamish was constantly singing it under his breath in the infirmary; always, as if it were a prayer. Whether he was making poultices, grinding herbs, or even performing surgery, if he was there the song was, too. But it never quite made sense to Osric. If the last Pendish heir really had died with all his remaining followers, hunted and forsaken, how could anyone have so memorialized him? Surely demons and their servants were not so sentimental.

Still, the complaint rankled. All he had interrupted was an uncomfortable silence. The woman's contemptuous reference to 'those boring hymns' put him in a mind to grace her with the full text of the [i]Te Deam,[/i] of course sung in the slow, traditional plainchant. But the sight of her opening a wound with a dagger drove the thought right out of his head, and his frown gave way to a look of concern.

“I wish you had mentioned your injury, and I pray you let me examine it when we stop. I am the best healer in the Order, and should be able to set it right quickly enough.” he paused, thoughtfully, “Well, perhaps I am the second best healer. But you will find my bedside manner much more agreeable than you would Father Waleran's.”

Osric wasn't bragging, merely stating a fact generally acknowledged in the Monastery. He was very good, and well he should be; he had studied the healing arts with a single-mindedness that bordered on the obsessive, and at the expense of almost every other magical field. He could barely manage wards, was hopeless with offensive spells, and knew only enough of illusion to conjure dubious light-shows and unconvincing phantom-sounds.

He returned his attention to Katrina when she spoke. He drove the wagon as she directed, more thankful than ever for her guidance. He knew only the broad strokes of military strategy, but he certainly knew an advantageous position when he saw one. It provided shelter from the elements, easy access to fuel should they wish to risk a fire, and a much more defensible campsite than the open roadside would have provided. Glancing up, he saw dark clouds in the western sky. A good way off, yet, but they appeared to be moving in their direction. With luck, avoiding a soaking would be their most serious concern tonight.

“Wonderful!” he said, and he meant it. Strange, that such a grim, forbidding place should make him feel better. But it did. He had already nearly forgotten the fretful, anxious hours of the day's journey, and the unpleasant daydreams of a short while ago.

Osric watched as Andrew hustled off to gather firewood. The lad had been quiet on the road, no doubt on account of his nerves. It was heartening to see him so eager to be busy, now. Saint Antonia had said that honest work was a form of prayer, and, having lived most of his life by her Rule, the monk was inclined to agree. That food was in the offing had nothing to do with it.

“I expect we are all interested in dinner, lad,” he said, smiling thinly, “thank you.”

Sage had also been quiet, and Osric wondered what unspoken thoughts remained locked in her head. He was beginning to regret the loss of their former closeness. They had been almost like siblings, once, and he very much still thought of her like a younger sister. So it hurt a little that she had not sought to confide in him on the road, but he knew that was unfair. He had done just the same thing. It seemed that he would have to move first to bridge the gap between them, but he had work of his own to do yet.

Without further delay he approached Revna. “I think it best I attend to your wound before we eat. I can work quickly, and we will both be hungrier afterward.” Insistent, but polite. Rudeness to a woman that could doubtless tear his arms off was, of course, out of the question.