Shadows of Night pt 4

The barman at the drinking establishment known as the Three Spoons inn was not having a good day. It had begun when the barmaid, who was new to the establishment, had forgotten to empty the spigot resulting in the already thin and unpleasant ale becoming as sharp as vinegar. After that, business had been slow with no one except the barman’s regulars and close friends drinking, but now this...
The barman didn’t object to being patronised in his own establishment. It happened all the time, especially in a trading town such as Bristugo where all sorts passed through. He had seen many different species in his time, everything from the desert dwelling Saris to the Half-Giants of the Northern Wastes, but he had never before encountered Dragons. Oh, he had heard of them to be sure, but he had never dreamed that a pair of them would descend on Bristugo like the wrath of Gods and make a b-line for the nearest tavern. Since they had arrived, they had drunk their way through not only the spoilt ale but also three casks of brandy and a large and expensive decanter of rare whisky. They had even drunk all the little bottles behind the bar, that had likely been used by the more enterprising prehistoric tribes to during vision quests, and were the taverns equivalent of pictures in an art gallery; there for effect and never, never to be touched. He felt as though an unwritten law had been broken somewhere.
He was therefore not in a good mood, and had half a mind to throw the enormous creatures out onto the street, had that same mind, despite its somewhat limited capacity, not been urgently telling him that arguing with massive and somewhat imbibed creatures would not be conducive to his continued existence beyond a small pile of ash. There was also the fact that the dragons seemed to have missed some important lessons in the discreet art of paying for things, and had handed him about tem times the worth of the ale, followed by a hundred times the worth of the whisky in gold and silver. Over three hours, the barman in his greasy apron and sweating brow, had accumulated nearly half the worth of his entire establishment. He hadn’t even regretted it when his regulars had been driven out by flailing tails and the dragon’s scent; a mixture of tanned leather, spice and old blood that cloyed to their nostrils and ruined the already unimpressive taste of the ale.
Melanth too was not happy. Iridan had told him that these human drinks would help him to forget the horrors of the recent battle, but so far all they had achieved was to make his head spin and give him a rather unpleasant feeling in the pits of his stomachs. He also didn’t like the smell of the place, which his nose told him had apparently seen some use as a cesspit of the more severely drunken customers. He tried to focus a bleary eye on his keg that the barman had rolled out after it became apparent that a pewter mug simply wouldn’t cut it with a dragon. He could have sworn that there had been something in it only a moment ago, although he wasn’t entirely sure anymore what precisely it had been, or for that matter what a moment was. It had smelled a little like morning dew, a little like apples and quite a lot like the bottom of a pile of logs.
“Wha- here?� he grunted, shaping the unfamiliar vowels of human language around the effects of mild alcohol poisoning he was currently experiencing.
“Cider.� Replied the barman tersely. “Hard cider.�
“Side-err?�
“Cider!�
Melanth sat back unsteadily on his haunches, absentmindedly putting a hole in the ceiling with a horn. Whilst he waited for the next thought to arrive, he watched Iridan struggle with something from one of the mysterious bottles on the back shelf that had managed to dissolve its way through the bottom of the mug and was burning little wispy scorches in the oak planks of the bar.
“I would like some more cider.� He managed, whilst the barman glared at him and continued perpetually rubbing a mug with a cloth the look and smell of which had also been used to clean the privies.
“There is no more! You drank the lot!� Snapped the barman, but was cut off mid sentence by the door opening and letting in a blast of icy wind that rattled the shutters and set the flames of the lamps guttering. Even Melanth, who was transfixed watching his own claw apparently trying to detach itself and make a bid for freedom, turned in time to see a pair of tall Saris and a young human female enter and swiftly close the door behind them. The Saris wore the garb of monks and moved quietly and purposefully whilst the apparently younger human talked animatedly to the older of the two.
“...and that bit where you threw the spear at me and a ducked and caught it! I didn’t even know I could do that! Err... How did I do that?�
“The Gifted ones are natural warriors, young one. We can only speculate, but it seems that their purpose is to fight the Withered Aegis. Combat is something that comes instinctively to you.� The older of the two Saris said proudly, patting the human on the shoulder in a subtle gesture to secrecy. Melanth shrugged seeing no entertainment in the trio and watched Iridan drunkenly carve draconic runes into a nearby stool.
“What will it be?� The barman asked, grateful for something to do other than work himself up over the dragons. The younger Saris drew himself up haughtily.
“Good sir, we are religious men! We have sworn abstinence from vice and carnal pleasures!�
“He will have a small Gnomian rum. Myself and the lady will have gin and tonic.� The older monk said merrily, bidding the three sit in a shadowed corner, just as the barstool the Iridan had been inscribing with runes of power burst into flame.

Katrina, despite the general consensus in the bar, was in a good mood. She had always been told that you learn something every day, but it wasn’t every day you learned something new about yourself. Being one of the Gifted was going to change her life, she felt, and it took a conscious mental effort to force herself to sit down and stop shaking. She had been weighing up the benefits and drawbacks, and had been left with a sickly feeling as she realised that her quiet life in Parsinia was effectively over. Would she be expected to fight the Withered Aegis, just because she was Gifted? She had no love for war or fighting, and the more she thought about it the more her feelings became confused. Some part of her at least had always longed for adventure, to break the confines of the sleepy little life it had always occupied. Why else would she have travelled hundreds of miles on a whim and a fancy? Oh, there had been the Dream, but that seemed like hundreds of years ago now, and even as she got on the cart and the ferry she had known she was going against all reason and common sense. But she had done so anyways, and despite the wind and the rain, she had enjoyed it. Yet... there was something... some nagging doubt in the back of her mind, like she had betrayed everything her life had stood for by enjoying the adventure of the living, changing moment. Some small anchor to that sleepy, boring and entirely uneventful life refused to be tugged free by the currents of revelation, though she couldn’t put a finger on it. Regret? But she had nothing to be regretful over. It wasn’t even as though she was leaving any friends or lovers behind. Fear? But what was there to be afraid of? The Gifted were practically immortal...
“We will have to go quickly to the Tower of Clerics.� The old Saris’ words jerked her back to the here and now, his jovial manner evaporating like so much water on the desert sands. “We have associates there that might know more of this. If this dream of yours is affecting all of the Gifted then it is most assuredly more than a figment of your imagination.� His voice fell silent as the barman approached with their drinks and deposited them on the table, before bustling off to sweep up the ashes of the immolated barstool. “The journey will be long and hard.� He resumed. “A great many perils still patrol in the east especially, though there are other foes than the undead to contend with. We will need to cross the peninsula, which is a three day journey as the dragon flies,� He indicated to the drunken lizards with a leonine grin, “but we will be on the road for weeks. We will need provisions.�
She followed the direction of his gaze and saw the dragons for the first time, despite having to step over their tails to reach the table. They were huge, probably thirty to forty feet of scaly coil squeezed into the common room of the inn. The nearest of the two was either silver or red; it was impossible to tell in the dim, flickering candlelight. The other was at least a head bigger than his compatriot and seemed to be bronze hued with stripes running the length of its wings and body. She had never seen dragons before, at least not close like this. They occasionally flew over Parsinia across the Aradoth Straits on some mission to Kion or Sslanis, though they always seemed so ethereal and distant, like the sun or the moon. It was something to see a pair getting drunk in a dive.
“Are they..?� She started, but the old monk interrupted her.
“No,� He murmured. “You have nothing to fear of them. It has been a long time since Dragons were our enemies, and I think the terms of the coalition bans them from eating anyone.� He examined them with a critical eye. “They look like Lunus warriors, but the only way to be sure would be to ask, and that would definitely not be a good idea. Lunus aren’t the friendly type.� He grinned.
“My... sources tell me that the Lunus fought a major engagement against the undead hordes near the Western Deadlands a few days ago.� The younger Saris volunteered. “The details were sketchy, but apparently the Lunus held the line after sustaining heavy casualties. There was something odd about the battle though. Apparently the Undead retreated.� He said, taking a sip of his rum and finding it to his liking.
“That’s bad news, you mark my words.� The old Monk murmured. “The undead don’t retreat. They win or, heh, die. Again.�
“Or they move to spread the blight.� Katrina said, recalling old school lessons concerning the greatest foe ever to face the world. “The life hurts them, light blinds them and purity drains them.� She repeated the old adage that was drilled into every child’s brain from birth. “That is why they need the blight. Our world hurts them, just the same as we could never live in a blighted land.�
“Very good!� The monk smiled. “Your being Gifted will not help you topple every foe you meet, you would do well to remember that when you face them.�
“Am I going to face them?� She said, somewhat taken aback.
“Would you like to?� He said quizzically.
“I...� She thought, and then stopped. She had been about to say ‘no’, but something had halted the words on the tip of her tongue. She had never thought of herself as a warrior, at least not until today when the abbreviated and rigorous tests the two monks had put her through to determine her mortal status had found that she had reflexes like a snake on hot tin and a vicious instinct to fight when faced with any edged weapon. It had struck her that she had never really thought about doing anything except mending the nets of fishermen for the rest of her days. Hitherto, changing the world had never been much of an option for an orphaned eighteen year old girl.
“...Don’t know...� She finished lamely.
“I expect that is the Gifted in you making its presence felt.� He said sagely. “And you say you have never considered that you were more than you were?�
“No! Never! Look, just a week ago I was a peasant girl, I had never thought about the war or the undead until that **** Dream, and now apparently I’m one of the Gods’ chosen and expected to suddenly go into the Eastern Deadlands and drag the Withered Aegis kicking and screaming from their fortress? You might say that I’m slightly mixed up right now.�
“Actually, no one knows if it is the Gods who choose the Gifted.� The younger monk, now feeling slightly tipsy, said. “Some scholar theorise that the raising of the Undead Hordes creates an excess in unbound life energy that finds its way into compatible living individuals of potential. Personally I, err...� He fell silent under her withering glare.
“I understand that this might be a bit much for you to take in right now,� the Abbot said, patting her on the shoulder, “but try to understand. I am convinced without a doubt that something sinister is afoot here, and the Gifted are known to be especially sensitive to the activities of the Withered Aegis, sometimes to the point of precognition. If the Gifted are having this Dream, then something terrible has happened or is about to happen. For the sake of the entire world, not just the little part of it labelled ‘Parsinia’ on maps, we have to find out what it is and put a stop to it.�
He’s got me, she thought. There’s not much you can say against an argument like that, at least not without looking like a heel. As soon as people start talking about duty and the greater good, you’re in deep cack. There’s nothing for it now; I really am going to have to go through with this.

Melanth had been listening to the exchange whilst simultaneously figuring out what to do with the peanuts on the bench, and having successfully figured that out, trying to unstuck them from his teeth. In the fizzing, spinning beleaguered airspace that occupied his head and might at other times might have been called his mind, these words clicked a few tumblers that hadn’t been yet consumed by a sticky tidal wave that smelled something like apples. The words didn’t mean much to him, but some small part of his being, the memories of the battle so recently past threw up a card. Whilst he himself was Gifted and hadn’t experienced the dream that so troubled Katrina, he knew how strange it was that the undead had fled the fight rather than fighting to the last as they usually did. He had also had the misfortune to...
There are times when a few words along the lines of ‘it’s over’ or a sudden revelation can have the same sobering effect as an unexpected brown envelope from the taxman. Cold, seeping dread crept up his spine, annihilating all traces of the happy lack of sobriety he had been lost in as the thought dawned that whilst he hadn’t experienced the dream, he had also been dead at the time.
He nudged Iridan with the tip of a wing, neatly toppling the comatose silver into his keg of unfinished and probably illegal spirits. Snorting, he tried to recall how long it had been between he was killed in the battle and his rebirth. It couldn’t have been more than a day, though he had been unconscious for some time afterwards and Iridan hadn’t bothered to fill him in on the details. All he could remember was that it had taken him an unusually long time to recover from the death; whilst the experience was never pleasant, it had been particularly severe.
He heaved himself to his feet, knocking over a table, two barstools and the barman who hadn’t quite finished with the ashes. The Saris were speaking in low, clandestine tones with the female and were so engrossed in their conversation that they never noticed the forty foot dragon until he was literally breathing down their necks. The younger of the two, seeing the expressions of his fellows turn suddenly blank in rapt horror, turned and found himself staring directly into the Dragon’s dagger-like teeth, an experience that was bound to hurt the development of any young man.
“This dream you speak of,� Melanth growled long and low in a tone keyed to push the little button marked ‘primal terror’ in the hindbrain of anything small and furry, “When was this? How many days hence?�
The older of the Saris, and apparently the brighter of the two whilst his younger acolyte was still transfixed with Melanth’s dentistry, made a conciliatory gesture urging the human female to silence before she could speak. Only then, Melanth noticed, studying his feline expression, did he begin to fabricate a yarn meant to throw the Dragon off the scent. He growled again, watching with some satisfaction as the three shivered unconsciously. The old monk seemed to get the message that Melanth would brook no falsehood. He changed tack, earning a grudging mark of respect from the Dragon in being smart enough to avoid an outright denial; to him Melanth had obviously been listening in on their conversation for some time.
“Good Dragon,� The Saris said, in tones that pissed brandy with every word, “Mere mortals such as us are oft victims of such things. Unpleasant dreams are a part of our existence. Our mind cannot deal with the tiring events of the day, it is said, and such things manifest themselves in our sleep. That is if you believe the scholars of course.� He said with a wink, doing a not altogether unfeasible impression of one well into their cups. “The old cat-wives would say that nightmares are born of cold air on the skin at night.�
Melanth snorted again, although even he had to admit there was some humour in it. The old Saris was a shining bastard of a liar, it was just such a **** shame that this was important.
“We Dragons dream too.� He said. “We also have ears, so do not play with me. I know what I heard. Tell me, when did your friend have this Dream old man? I need to know.�
The monk’s mouth opened and closed a few times, like a landed fish as he sought for a way out between the rock and the hard place, or at least the enormous thing with scales on it and fire hot enough to vaporise lead. He opted for the rock. “Seven nights ago,� He murmured, looking deflated. “All the good it will do you Dragon. We ourselves do not understand what this is all about.�
“Nor do I.� Melanth conceded. “But I tell you that this is no coincidence. The battle your friend mentioned, if he would be so kind as to stop staring at my mouth, thank you, was joined this eve one week past. This is also the night of the Dream.�
The Abbot scratched his greying whiskers thoughtfully whilst staring at Katrina, trying to fit the link between the two events in his mind, but finding none. He shrugged, sighing.
“It is too bald to be a coincidence,� he said slowly, painfully aware of the Dragon’s rapt stare focused on his throat, “but I can only hope there are others who know more of this than I at the Tower. Perhaps there we will find our answers.�
He subsided into silence, which was broken only by an occasional snore from Iridan or the flutter of a flickering candle flame. The human seemed to study Melanth with interest, whilst the younger monk contrived to avoid looking in his direction. It was one of those little hanging by a thread moments, like when a parent has caught a child smoking and is waiting to see who is going to make the first move.
“Why must you journey to the Tower of Clerics when surely this information would serve the war council of Tazoon much better?� Melanth asked eventually. “If the Withered Aegis are plotting something, then we should strike now before their plans reach fruition.�
“The war council take months to organise anything, Dragon.� The Abbot said sadly, shaking his head. “Whatever it is that is about to happen, we could not hope to muster an army in time, and we would likely get bogged down in the proceedings. No, it is better that the council is not informed of this yet, lest they ruin all with their bickering and debating. No doubt they will become aware of the situation shortly if all the Gifted are experiencing these visions in any case. What is better in the immediate future is to determine the cause, rather than the remedy, which is no doubt what the council would search for. The Clerics are knowledgeable in these affairs, or at least as knowledgeable as any can hope to be in these evil times. It is my hope that they can guide us to the source of this disturbance, then, Dragon, you will get your war.�
“Point taken.� Melanth conceded with a nod. “We should leave quickly. The Tower lies beyond the Granitefall range, and the passes in the Granitefall Mountains will not yet be slick with ice, but there are rogue packs of golems and other, more subtle creatures that prefer the lowlands in the chill of winter. It would be wise to avoid the rush.�
“What do you mean ‘we’?� The Abbot said with a laugh, but a sudden stern expression from the Dragon silenced him.
“You think now that I know the magnitude of what you have discovered, that I will remain in this stinking tavern and swill ale?� He murmured dangerously.�Yes I mean ‘we’� He sneered. “And to imply that I would do anything other than accompany you on this trek is to affront my honour. I may care little for your kind, but I would sooner die than see this world turned to the blight.� And, he added as a mental aside to himself, it lets me keep an eye on you. I don’t trust you Saris and you sure as hell don’t trust me. I can see it in your eyes, but I will be a toothless lizard before I let you mess this up. What he actually said was “You have provisions to gather I presume? Rest now and take them in the morning. You will need your strength for the journey ahead.�

The night passed with agonising slowness, made all the more tedious by the confusing events of the day and the foreboding of the future. None of the three slept, and no one knew what the two Dragons were doing downstairs, but the muffled sounds of complicated noises and the occasional snatch of low, draconic conversation filtered through into the upstairs rooms. The Abbot had been furious that he was being bossed around by an oversized flying crocodile, but acknowledged that picking a row with a creature that could with little effort laminate him to the floor was not a good idea. Rather than dwell on it, they had decided to go to bed and try to relax a little and prepare for what lay ahead of them.
Katrina looked around her room in disgust. The room was filthy, and mildew crept from the cracked plaster and shoddy glass. There had been no question of using the bed, which was unmade, looked and smelled as though it had recently been used by a rambunctious couple with more on their minds than a night of sleep and in the depths of whose straw mattress things occasionally moved. The floor was an altogether better prospect.
When morning came, and Katrina felt it was late enough to stray down to the common room she found the monks already waiting for her. The barman cowered under the gaze of the Dragon that had spoken last night, though the other was nowhere to be seen. Daylight revealed him (she assumed it was a male) to be bronze and golden in colour, with stripes of deep copper and eyes that seemed green in one light and lilac in another. The effect was quite disconcerting.
He was ministering over a pile of what at first appeared to be long abused cleaning rags, but to her horror turned out to be clothes and odd scraps of armour and mail. He snorted in disgust and rounded on the short, grubby man like a thunderstorm.
“This is all you have? You could not equip a ******** Gnome with this filth!� He roared, scrabbling on the wooden counter and withdrawing a long knife in its sheath. He seemed to ponder over it for a moment then nodded to himself as Katrina sat down.
“What’s got into him?� She whispered, barely taking notice of the bowl of thin soup that was proffered to her by the young monk.
“It seems that our host is not above stealing from his customers.� The Abbot said with a chuckle. “He is trying to find clothes for us from the thief’s stash, or he has threatened to summon the Watch and have the barman arrested. “
“That doesn’t seem much like gratitude for the ale he drank.� She said reproachfully.
“Believe me, if you had our noses, you wouldn’t feel much like gratitude either. I know what’s in this muck he’s feeding us.� He said, wrinkling his nose at the mixture, but taking an enthusiastic bite out of the glop nevertheless. One look at the boiled grey sludge told Katrina that she would sooner starve than put the stuff anywhere near her mouth, Saris nose or no.
Half an hour later, it turned out that the dragon’s summation had been right, and between them they had been able to salvage only three pairs of worn pants, a linen shirt and a few scraps of rusted chainmail vest, that the Abbot managed to repair by binding the torn links together with leather string. Still, this meagre attire would not be enough to see them through their journey, and food would still be required, though that was easier said than done. Katrina had scant few copper on her person, and to be as poor as a monk was a household expression throughout much of Istaria, but she was nevertheless grateful when the mysterious and bumptious dragon didn’t order the barman to provide their food as well.
“We will have to scour the marketplace for what we need.� The Abbot murmured, leading her out into the daylight that caused her to squint and smart. The sun was unusually bright and warm for mid autumn, and the puddles from the incessant rain that seemed to plague these lands were rapidly vanishing under its fierce glare. The muted roar and buzz of the market constituted the background noise of Bristugo, occasionally punctuated by the crow of a cockerel or braying of one of the multitude of farm animals. It was early morning, and the sun had barely risen yet already there were throngs of traders and travellers pouring through the streets. Katrina tried to keep up with the Abbot as he lurched off at a deceptively fast hobble, negotiating the tides of humanity with ease.
“But how will we pay for this?� She managed to make herself heard over the general din. The Abbot stooped. It was difficult to tell, but she was sure that he was sniggering.
“I haven’t always been a monk, my girl.� He said with a smile, disappearing suddenly behind a group of armoured mercenaries before reappearing equally as suddenly with a self satisfied expression. In his feline paw, he cupped a small purse that seemed to jingle with the weight of a many coins. In his other hand, disappearing rapidly up the sleeve of his robe was the knife that the dragon had earlier been examining in detail.
The words ‘you were a thief?!’ formed on her tongue, but he silenced her with a meaningful expression and a tilt of the head towards the armoured men. They didn’t seem like the understanding type. Instead, she was surprised by the old Saris pressing a few heavy disks of silver into her hand with a wink.
“I’ll take care of the food if you can get the clothes. Remember that we will need to travel light and fast, but the material should be hardwearing, because I doubt we will have time to stop and clean it.� He said. “Feel free to treat yourself to a few things from the stalls.� He winked again then vanished into the crowds.
The marketplace was an entirely new experience to her. Back in Parsinia all the trading was done in the booths, but the stalls here were open to the air and packed with all manner of amazing and fascinating things. She passed a stall at which a Sslik stood over a boiling pot of highly spiced and tantalising stew and examined a Dwarven artificer selling all manner of axes and swords and suits of intricately crafted armour. Another stall plastered with bones and baskets of stinking, unspeakable things was under siege from a group of mages whilst across the street tall men in proud uniforms read aloud proclamations of life in the Tazoon guard, around whom little boys clustered in open mouthed awe. In five minutes wandering the packed streets she had seen more species of the free races than the rest of her life. A fur trader who stood eight foot tall could have been none other than a Half-Giant of the northern Ice Wastes, whilst a group of Elven musicians were having a hard time making themselves heard. The sheer scale and diversity of the place took her breath away. Truly anything could be found here, and she was constantly beset by offers of jewellery and services as she danced and fought her way to the next trader. She became so engrossed in the gewgaws and wafting scents of foreign food that she very nearly forgot what she was searching for, and only noticed the discreet little second-hand clothes stall tucked behind a discount thatch dealer and a large tent marked with the sign ‘exotic delights’ into which men were sheepishly but patiently filing when she bumped into it. The middle aged owner was plump and pleasant woman who bustled around her in a mildly annoying way as she tried to guess which coverings would fit the tall and gangling Saris. Eventually she settled for plain but tough looking pants and leather vests, and even managed to scrounge up a pair of battered boots for herself, considering that even a week’s travel had ruined her light desert sandals.
Finally, arms piled high with clothes, she made her ponderous way back to the Three Spoons where the Abbot was already waiting. Neither the young monk nor the dragon seemed to be around, although the ancient mule had been harnessed to the cart that was now loaded with foodstuffs and, she was pleased to see, little odds and ends that she had overlooked when thinking what would be suitable for prolonged travelling. The Abbot tossed her a backpack and several surprisingly heavy bundles of wool, which she hefted with a lost expression.
“Socks.� He explained, seeing her obvious puzzlement. “You wear them on your feet.�
“Why?� She said, unrolling one of the bundles and holding it up to the light like it was a strange and fascinating new creature.
“’Cause where we’re going the cold is enough to burn. You’ll wear them if you don’t want to lose all your toes to frostbite. Besides, you’ve never worn boots before, and they’ll help stop the chafing.�
She carefully and with great attention to detail, loaded her pack full of the clothes and a few serviceable eating utensils that the Abbot had been able to scrounge from the Three Spoons. With help, she managed to inexpertly don the repaired chainmail, which the monks had refused. Then she checked her pack again and waited. Eventually the young monk returned from organising his fellows at the shrine and silently took his place on the back of the cart, whilst the Abbot drove the mule. They waited a few more minutes, and the dragon appeared over a rooftop and landed gracefully in the town square. In his paw was clenched the long knife he had taken from the tavern, which he offered to the Abbot, who shook his head and indicated to a pair of whittled staffs in the side of the cart. Monks were forbidden to carry edged weapons. Melanth handed the knife to Katrina, who tested the unfamiliar weight in her hand. Half an hour’s work with a grindstone had taken the coating of rust off the blade, and put an edge on it that could cut teak and glinted in the bright sunlight dangerously. With a hesitant nod of appreciation she threaded the belt through the sheath and fastened it around her waist.
With a lurch and the tap of a crop, the cart rolled into life, scattering people from its path as it rolled with agonising slowness out of the city gates and onto the bumpy and rutted road eastwards. The trundle of the wooden wheels was punctuated by the click of the dragon’s claws as he padded along beside them, head held proudly high as he ignored the amazed stared of other wayfarers. Something, perhaps a glint in the eye, or a jaunty spring in his reptilian gait said that it was moments like this that he lived for.
Shrugging to herself, Katrina watched the bulk and bustle of Bristugo slowly fall away in the distance. Eventually, the farmsteads and lodges that lined the road gave way to grassland. The ruts in the road became shallower, then eventually faded altogether. No one spoke. Each could sense the anxiety and uncertainty of the others, each could read the others doubts and suspicions. But they were in this together now, and there was no turning back.
Katrina stared long and hard at the sun as it passed its zenith and wondered helplessly what she had gotten herself into.