Chapter Eleven: Hero's End

CChapter Eleven: Hero’s End

            Everwinter Waste

            Carsten was sitting beside Arcaena’s prone form; all over, he just felt numb. He remembered the last time that he had felt this way was when his father had told him that his mother had lost a child. He had been only sixteen at the time, but he remembered well the chill that had coursed through him with the knowledge that the life of a potential sibling had been lost. The dark elf was rolled over and facing him, her eyes closed and her breathing slow and even. By now, Edessa was awake, and she was sitting next to Carsten, although she was a respectful distance away. Thomas and Rolf were already asleep; having managed to fend off the wolves, Carsten told them to find a suitable spot to make camp, as he felt certain that they could go no farther as they were. Thus, they had moved farther down the mountain and found a small cave, where they were now resting.

            “She looks so peaceful,” Carsten whispered. “It almost makes you forget that she is dying.” Edessa, overhearing him, felt a twinge of guilt. She felt somewhat responsible for Arcaena’s current condition; after all, the dark elf had given her last spark of magic to save Edessa’s life.

            “I know,” she murmured. “I am truly sorry.”

            “Sorry?” Carsten echoed. “Why are you sorry?”

            “Because I…you know, if she had let that wolf attack me, she might not be…like this.” Carsten shrugged. If he affected nonchalance, it might be easier to hide how close he truly was to tears. The last thing he wanted was to break down in front of everyone. The very thought of his friend dying hurt a lot more than he would admit or than he even understood.

            “You cannot know that for certain,” he replied. “Besides, even if it were your fault, you could rectify it. But I do not blame you, and I do not think Arcaena does either. She wanted to help you; I just wish I had known how much.”

            Edessa shrugged. “What do we do now?” She asked. Carsten shrugged miserably.

            “How would I know?” He asked, unable to keep the bitterness and despair out of his voice. “I cannot restore her magic. I do not even fully understand how it works. What is there to do?”

            “Could we find a healer?” she asked. “Someone who could fix her injuries?” Carsten nodded hesitantly.

            “We might,” he said. “Even so, we would have no guarantee of anyone capable of helping her. I do not even know how long she has.” Edessa shifted uncomfortably.

            “Let me see the arrow,” she said.

            “What?” Carsten asked.

            “Let me see the arrow,” Edessa repeated. “My mother taught me about poisons and remedies. Perhaps I can help you…” Carsten nodded, reaching into a pouch on his hip.

            “Here it is,” he said. “I surely do not know what you will find.” Edessa took the arrow splinter and examined the broadhead tip closely.

            “Hmmm…” she murmured. “I have not seen this type of poison before. Unless…”

            Carsten felt an involuntary surge of hope as he watched her. “Unless what?” he asked.

            Edessa held up the arrow and looked at it. “Adder-root,” she announced finally. “That is a good thing.” Carsten could not believe his ears.

            “Arcaena being poisoned is a good thing?” He echoed.

            “No,” Edessa said hurriedly. “Not that. I meant that it was a good thing as poisons go. That would give us two weeks, perhaps more.”

            “Are there any cures? Anything to do for her?” The hope in his voice was palpable. Everything in him cried out to help her, and identifying the poison was the first step.

            Edessa’s next words almost snuffed out that spark. “Nothing that I have access to will cure her,” she said simply. “The cure is difficult to obtain and harder to prepare. Most healing spells can counter it, but I am unsure where we would find healers versed in magic in this wasteland.”

            “We will not be in the Waste much longer,” Carsten pointed out. “We have about four miles to the border. Once we cross it, we will begin to move much faster. And you did not address forestalling the effects of the poison. What are those, by the way?”

            “Adder root has several detrimental effects,” Edessa said, handing him back the arrow. “The most important of those is heart failure. Her pulse will gradually get weaker, to the point where she will seem dead, even though she will not be. Also, she may suffer minor hallucinations, and fatigue is common as well. Dizziness can result, but not always. As for treatment…” Edessa reached into her pack. “The people in Frostspire did not take my healing kit, maybe because they thought it would help me survive in that nasty hole. They did not do the same for her.” The Huntress noted, gesturing to Arcaena. She took out a few leaves wrapped in a cloth. “I don’t have much left. Since they also help fight infection, I used a good many of them to survive in the prison.” She handed them to Carsten.

            “Have her eat them when she comes to. They taste absolutely horrendous, but they should have her at least on her feet for the next week.” Carsten nodded.

            “Thank you,” he whispered. Edessa put her hand on his shoulder.

            “I know how much she means to you,” she murmured. “And, if it is any comfort, she did, too.”

            Carsten lowered his eyes. “I know,” he said. “I just wish I could have told her.”

            “You will,” Edessa assured him. “Just keep your chin up and carry yourself right. If it is at all within my power, I will see that you get the chance.” And with that, she went over to her bedroll, curled up, and fell asleep. Carsten watched her as she fell into a slumber, and then he decided to join her. Even as he lay his head on the rock several feet from the dark elf’s prone form, he felt a chill. With his last conscious thought, he uttered a prayer. Lord and Maker, he whispered, let her wake tomorrow, please.

           

Rolf lay awake, his mind in turmoil. He had been feigning sleep, but now he could conduct the business that he had meant to since two days before, when the wolf riders had attacked the travelers. Although he had heard Carsten and Edessa talking, he had not really been listening. His mind was on the wolves he had encountered, and an item he had taken during the melee. Reaching into his vest, he pulled out the collar that he had pulled off one of them. He turned it over in his hands; it appeared simple enough, a leather band wound from many cords and lashed around the beast’s neck. As he touched it, he felt tingling in his fingers, a strange arcane power emanating from the collar. As he ran his hands along the leather, he felt one of his hands strike something metal. Turning the collar around, he let out a small gasp that he disguised as a cough. Hurriedly, he thrust it back into his jacket and shut his eyes tightly, trying not to think about what he had just seen. Now it made sense. The enemy within had a name, a face. And it repulsed him to think that he had seen it all along and never known what he was looking at. Now I know why they sent me away, he thought. They were right to do it. Now he understood. What his parents had done was not an atrocity, an act of unfathomable cruelty. It had been an act of mercy; they knew the best thing they could do for their son was send him away.

Arcaena woke with the first rays of dawn. With Carsten’s help, she managed to get to her feet and eat. The leaves that Edessa had given her tasted awful, and she nearly vomited them up. But, steeling herself, she managed to keep them down. Once everyone had eaten, they made the decision to set out. As Carsten had said, they were now approaching the Outlands, and they could tell. The snow had begun to melt, and trees now had leaves in the place of wizened branches. The mountains did not end, however; instead, they only seemed to rise further and further into the sky. What maddened Carsten about this was the fact that they seemed to have no end. By the end of the fourth day of travel from where they had been attacked, he found himself wishing he were simply standing on level ground. However, what Edessa had said was true; Arcaena was walking and talking, though the arrow wounds seemed to have left her somewhat subdued. In addition, she had delegated the position of leadership in the group to Carsten, who now had the map that Issavea had given them and was using it to plot their current course. That, in part disturbed him. The night of the second day, he broached the subject to the others.

“I have been poring over this map,” he said, “and we have a problem.”

“We seem to have a lot of those,” Rolf said bitterly. Since his encounter with the wolves, the gray-haired man had been strangely silent as well, although it had not seemed quite so pensive as Arcaena’s. Instead, Carsten could almost see the emotions boiling under the surface, but he would not address that issue now.

“We do,” Carsten replied. “Escape was not easy, but I now begin to think that the sorceress might have faulty information here.”

“How do you figure?” Edessa asked.

“Well,” Arcaena put in, “given the stars and the landscape, we should be out of the mountains.”

“And we are not,” Carsten said, “in the unlikely event that some of you did not take notice.”

“So what do we do?” Thomas asked. “We can ill afford to stop now.”

Edessa nodded. “I agree. If anything, we should push on with greater vigor.”

Carsten shook his head. “Again, we have a problem in doing that.”

“What?” Rolf asked. Carsten was about to answer, but Arcaena did it for him.

“Me,” she answered. “I might be up, but walking is far from easy. I get dizzy, as you have no doubt noticed. And I find it harder to rise each day. When will we reach the village, Carsten?”

“Tomorrow, I hope,” he answered. The others smiled at this news. It looked as though this nightmare might finally end, and they would be well and truly headed home. With this thought on their minds, the travelers fell asleep, their dreams light and happy for the first time in many dark nights. All except Arcaena, who turned fitfully and moaned for the entire night. Carsten woke up once, and he tried to rouse her. But she was too absorbed in whatever was happening. So, he had stayed awake to make sure nothing worse than fidgeting happened.

 

The sword missed Arcaena barely, actually slicing off one of her violet braids. She returned the attack by driving the head of her staff into her attacker’s chest. Then, she shouted the words she had so carefully rehearsed, and the figure was hurled backward, striking a pillar with lethal force. The dark elf whipped around almost immediately and, drawing a long knife, thrust into the side of the attacker charging her from behind. His eyes widened with shock and he fell backward, bleeding out from the incision. More of these creatures were charging her from all sides, however, and she knew she would soon be cornered. Then, she lifted her staff above her head, whispered a few words, and slammed it into the ground. Tendrils of ethereal energy extended from the point of impact, striking and lashing out at those around her. The magical limbs sliced through her assailants like a sword through grass, and the area around her was suddenly clear. Clear except for one lone armored being, his eyes and face hidden by a black, slanted helmet. His armor, too, was grey and black, and a tattered cape billowed behind him in the chill air.

“Ah, daughter of Darkfire,” he murmured. “Admirable, really. You have come far indeed. To think that you were once a helpless prisoner of those useless fools.” He spat contemptuously.

“They are far from useless,” Arcaena heard herself declare. “Having compassion for others, even those you know little of, is not weakness. And throwing lives away in cavalier fashion, as you do, is not strength.”

The man laughed. “So bold, dark elf. But would you be so, I wonder, if you knew the threat I pose to you?”

“Threat?” She echoed.

“Your magic cannot harm someone already under a curse,” the man snapped.

Arcaena whirled the staff and knife in her hands. “Perhaps not, Exile. But my blade still bites cursed flesh.” The black-clad warrior reached up and removed his helmet, revealing his ace. His skin was deathly white, but other than that, he might have been handsome. His features were strong, stony, and pronounced. However, when he smiled, he revealed a mouth full of abnormally long and sharp-looking teeth.

“They may be able to,” he said, “but they will not.” He gestured with his left hand, and suddenly Arcaena was ripped off her feet and pitched several feet away. Her staff flew from her hand, but she firmly gripped her dagger. Getting to her feet, she picked up one her fallen foes’ swords, holding it and the dagger in a classic dark elven dueling stance. Suddenly, she heard a voice pierce the din of battle around her.

“EXILE!”

The sheer shock of the sound jolted her awake. The others were already up and moving, she saw. They seemed to be in the process of eating breakfast or already finished. Looking around, she noticed something; Rolf was missing. Pulling herself into a sitting position with the help of a convenient stone, she saw that she was quite correct. Rolf was, indeed, nowhere to be found.

“Where is Rolf?” She asked sleepily. Carsten, who was standing near the edge of the clearing where they had made camp, looked at her.

“He volunteered to scout the way to the village,” the dwarf answered. “I thought it convenient to let him do so.”

“Did you not send anyone with him?” She asked. He shook his head.

“He was adamant that he wanted to go alone,” Carsten replied. “I saw nothing wrong with that, so I allowed him to. Though in truth, I had expected him back before now, given how fast he moves. I swear, sometimes I wonder if the boy is human.”

“You saw nothing wrong with it?” Arcaena echoed. “How could you not see anything wrong with it? What if he got attacked on the road? What would you do?”

The dwarf looked out, his eyes scanning the brown, muddy expanse in front of them. Just because the Outlands were not buried under an eternal three-quarter foot of snow did not mean that it was precipitation-free. Rain had recently fallen, and the ground all around them was soaked with it. Still, most of them had not noticed this, as they were preoccupied with thoughts of home. Suddenly, Carsten’s face broke into a satisfied grin. “Given that I see him now, my eyesight is not as bad as you may think. He was fine, just like I thought he would be.” It was true; in the distance, she could see a dark figure running toward them. From the easy, long stride, she could tell it was Rolf. She had seen him run only a few times, but she had recognized his gait well enough to know.

            Arcaena got up and stepped close to him. “That he is fine has little bearing on this conversation, Carsten. What concerns me is what might have happened.” Carsten looked at her, his eyes steady.

            “I know what concerns you,” he said. “The number of wolves that escaped. You are worried that they will attack again.”

            “And is such fear misplaced?” She asked. The dwarf slowly shook his head.

            “It is not,” he replied. “Even so, they have not yet made their presence known, and we have had warning before. And he is fine. Now, come on. We should hear what he has to say.”

            Rolf ran into the camp and skidded to a stop in the center. He did not speak for several seconds, as he had to catch his breath. Once he had, he straightened up and opened his mouth to speak. Before he could, however, the others began pelting him with questions.

            “What took you so long?” Edessa asked.

“How far is it?” Thomas asked.

            “What is the road like?” The Huntress pressed.

            “Is it big?” Thomas was just firing questions off. He looked to be on the verge of asking a third, but Carsten stepped in.

            “Slow down,” he told them. “Let Rolf have a few moments to collect himself. He will speak hen he is ready.”

            “I…” Rolf lowered his eyes. “I do not wish to be the bearer of bad news, but we have a problem.”

            Carsten, looking at the expression on Rolf’s face, knew instantly this was not a mere matter of distance. “What, Rolf? What did you see?”
            “It is not what I saw,” the gray-haired man answered. “It was that which I did not.”

            “The village was not there?” Edessa exclaimed, disbelief permeating her voice.

            “No,” Rolf said, “the village is there no longer. Someone burned it to ash. There is nothing left except for a couple half-scorched piles and charred bodies.”

            “Then we move on,” Carsten said simply. In truth, the news crushed him, but he knew that they had to keep moving. By his calculations, Arcaena had less than three days left on the leaves that Edessa had given her. After that point, she had warned that the dark elf was more than likely to collapse from poison-induced exhaustion. “We have to find another village. There are surely more in the valley.”

            “No,” Rolf said. “You do not understand. That was not the only destroyed village I saw. Someone cut a burning swathe through the valley. All the villages have been burned, not just that one. Hundreds of people are either dead or homeless, their crops burned, and their animals slaughtered. Worse, there were no signs of pillaging, only fire.”

            Carsten felt as though someone had just dropped the world on top of him. As Rolf said the words, the fire of hope that had been burning in his heart for several days flickered and died. “Then someone destroyed half the Outlands’ grain-producing capacity,” he said. “Even if we could find a village, it is more than likely they would be overrun with refugees. They would be unable to help us, even if they wanted to.” He sighed. “Load up your things.”

            Thomas looked at their new leader, confusion writ large on his face. “Where are we going to go now?” He asked. Carsten shook his head.

            “I do not know,” the other replied. “For the first time in my life, I feel as though I am out of my depth. I have no idea where we will go or how we will survive. We lack the provisions to last much more than ten days, and Arcaena does not have nearly as much time. For now, I say we stay the course and look for a dry place to spend the night.” With heavy hearts, the travelers packed up their things and restored their campsite. The sunny hope that had permeated the campsite in the morning was replaced by foreboding clouds of despair as they moved off into the afternoon. To make matters worse, it began to ran around three in the afternoon. Still, Carsten stubbornly pushed on until they came to a large gulch in the middle of the mountains.

            “Where are we?” Edessa asked.

            “Hangman’s Pass,” Carsten answered. “Come on. There are caves in the canyon where we can take shelter.” Reluctantly, they followed him down into the grey stone pass. Looking around, Thomas could not help but feel a sense of disquiet at the sheer, impassive stone spires rising on either side of him.

            “You Outlanders really have a gift for optimistic names,” Thomas joked.

            “No,” Rolf corrected, “we name things realistically. This was where the last of the Therians were executed after the war.”

            “Therians?” Edessa echoed.

            “Beast-men,” Rolf explained. “Humans given the power, or curse, however you look at it, to change their shape into that of an animal. There were three tribes: the wolves, the dragons, and the bears. Each had its leader and successive line. That of the wolves was matrilineal, but the other two passed from father to son. They were always regarded with suspicion by their neighbors, suspicions confirmed when the dragons went to war with the Outlanders and the other two tribes remained nominally neutral. When it became apparent that the war was not going in the rebels’ favor, the other two groups entered it on the Free side and all but destroyed their brothers. Enraged at this betrayal, the remaining dragon tribe members brought their case before the newly assembled Outlands Council. At the order of the Council, the leaders of both of the other clans were imprisoned.”

            “What ultimately happened?” Edessa asked.

            “I know not,” Rolf answered. “Only that the other clans reached out to a group that set the Outlanders after them. The Free abandoned them, and the Therians stubbornly decided to fight to the death. They were slaughtered here; only a handful escaped.”

            “Where did they go?” Thomas asked, narrowly avoiding tripping over a stone.

            “No one knows,” Rolf said, hesitating. “I believe that they gradually married other humans, and their powers were forever lost.”

            Carsten shook his head, examining one of the caves. “People like the Therians do not merely vanish,” he said simply. “If they were not all destroyed, I would have thought they would retreat into hiding. They never really trusted outsiders enough to do much more than say hello.” He moved on from the cavern mouth. “Too dark.”

            “What about this one?” Rolf asked from across the way. “It looks hospitable enough.” Carsten picked his way around the rocks and mud on the canyon floor and peered inside.

            “It goes very far back,” he murmured. “Can you see the rear wall?” Rolf nodded.

            “I can,” he replied. “While we should probably take more time to explore it, I think it is a good candidate for our campsite.” Edessa, stepping inside and looking around, nodded approvingly.

            “Good choice,” she observed. “Yes, I think this will do nicely. Although…” she ran her hand through the dirt on the floor. “…I think someone might have been here before us.”

            “How can you tell with all the mud?” Thomas asked. “These Foot prints could be from days or even weeks ago.”

            “Not so,” Carsten said, dropping beside Edessa. “The rainfall would have washed these signs away. The prints are new.” He looked up at the others. “Should we stay here, or do you wish to move on?”

            Rolf shrugged. “I have no preference. Given that they left recently, it is quite unlikely the former occupants would return. After all, these are boot prints, not animal tracks. Men do not generally return to the same cave.”

            Edessa nodded. “If it were up to me, I would say stay out of the rain as long as possible.” Carsten sighed. In his heart, he knew that they were right, but part of him wanted to keep moving anyway. He could not quite explain it, but he knew something had changed since Arcaena had been shot. He felt the need to push harder to reach somewhere, anywhere that he might find someone who help her. The thought of spending another night in a cave or camping instead of pushing on irritated him, but he could see that they all needed the rest.

            “All right,” he said. “Thomas, do you still have the extra wood you picked up several nights ago?”

            Thomas nodded. “If you would be so kind as to lend me your firestarter, I will get a fire going.”

            “I will see that offer and raise you,” Carsten said, taking the kit out and kneeling down. Thomas dumped the kindling on the ground, and Carsten struck the tinder and flint together. The first several time he did so, nothing happened, but on the fifth try, the wood sparked and caught fire. Thomas grinned.

            “Good work,” he said. “Now, who wants to eat?”

            They all enjoyed the warm meal; the heated meat seemed to nourish their spirits as much as their body. The only patch of cloud was Arcaena; after they had entered the cave, she had been struck by a dizzy spell and been forced to lay down. She ate dinner in this position, propping herself up off the cave floor with her arms. With Carsten’s help, she had managed to find one of the few spots in the cave that was still dry. The others sat around the fire on stones that they had rolled into a rough circle, talking about what they planned to do once they got home. Thomas, for his part, told them that he was going to train to enter the tournament held every year during the Dawn Festival in Andrion. Edessa said the same, although she added that her mother would be adverse to her competing, given that she thought her daughter too young and inexperienced to do so.

            “It is not as though I am thirteen,” Edessa pointed out. “I am almost twenty, and I think it is time I learned what it means to be a Huntress.”

            “Is that really wise?” Carsten asked. “To go and do this before your mother thinks you are ready?”

            “What difference does a parent’s opinion make?” She challenged. “They can be wrong, just like the rest of us.”

            “Yes,” Carsten said, “and I know that well. Even so, they also see much of our character, even parts we hide from ourselves. And that is what I would caution you about. I did not question whether or not you are ready. That is something only you determine, and something only time will show. So, if you want to go, show her that you are fit to do so.”

            “You have never met my mother,” Edessa said. “Convincing her of something I already determined is far from easy.”

            “Nothing good is easy,” Carsten said. “The best things in life require sacrifice. Take your pick: sword-master, wizard, priest, king. All require that the seeker surrender something. Really, you can have whatever you want if you are willing to give up whatever is required.”

            Edessa nodded. “Being a Huntress means no home, no permanent residence…”

            “And, from what you show in the field, you did a good job,” he noted.

            “I did. So, yes, I intend to go to the tournament, if I can. What about you?” She asked, changing the subject. “Do you have any plans after this?” Carsten shook his head.

            “None,” he replied. “This feels like when I left home. I have no idea in the world what I should do or where I should go.”

            “Any leanings?” Thomas asked. Again, Carsten shook his head.

            “It is a wide world,” he answered. “I should have no trouble finding something.”

Strangely, no one asked Rolf what he planned to do once he got home. Carsten briefly considered it, but the cautious look in his eyes made the dwarf decide against it. They ate their meal, doused the fire, and curled up to go to sleep. All except Carsten, who again stayed awake, watching the cave mouth. Water ran off the stone in little rivers and streams, and the sound of raindrops striking it penetrated his mind. He was vaguely aware that, one by one, they others were falling asleep. After about a half hour, he was the only one awake. Arcaena had dropped off last of all, and once again she was tossing and turning, although she was strangely quiet tonight.

            Arcaena stood once more in the midst of the ruined forest, her eyes once more locked on the red-armored warrior. Now, however, the fighter in rusted armor was kneeling in front of him, trying to stem the flow of blood from a stab wound in his side. The axe staff had fallen from his hands, and his helmet had been knocked from his head.

            “Finish it,” he growled, staring up at the red knight, his eyes full of hatred. “You’ve won.”

            “Why?” The red warrior asked. “What is to be gained from your death?”
            The warrior laughed, though the action set him violently coughing. When he had finished, Arcaena could clearly see a trickle of blood on his face. “You don’t understand, do you? I’m not asking because of what it would do for you. You think I wanted this? Wanted any of it?”

            “If you did not want war, why bring it?” The other asked.

            “I did what I thought was best for those I try to protect,” the first fighter replied, coughing up more blood. “But I can see now that I acted in self-interest. I’m asking you to end me because I failed them. I can’t go back like this.”

            “And your death would make the world better how?”

            “It’s an act of mercy, boy. Killing me isn’t cruel. Sometimes the worst thing you can do is let someone live.” The red warrior shook his head.

            “Is it mercy?” He asked. “I think not. Mercy is a second chance when you do not deserve it.” And he extended his hand to the other warrior. As he did, the other suddenly lunged forward. Arcaena heard a muted impact, and she gasped when she saw a knife protruding from below his ribs.

            “I’m sorry,” the first warrior whispered. “He made me do it.” And with that, the dream ended in blackness. Now Arcaena could see nothing, feel nothing, only that she was falling, eternally falling.

            Carsten sat against the mouth of the cave, his eyes closed. He was dozing, having just fallen asleep, when he felt someone shaking him. He opened his eyes and, before he knew what was happening, someone jerked him to his feet. Carsten found himself looking up into the face of a young woman with blond hair and strange, light green eyes. From head to toe, she was dressed in fur travelling gear, and her outfit was spattered with mud.

            “Who are you?” She asked, her voice low and intense. “What are you doing in this cave?” Suddenly, Carsten was aware of other people in the cave, waking the others in similarly rough fashion. All except Arcaena, whom they could not rouse.

            “Mycal,” a man said, “this one will not wake.”

            “She is sick,” Carsten said. “She was shot with poisoned arrows and is dying.”

            The woman shrugged. “That’s no problem of mine,” she snapped. “Now answer me. Why are you here?”
            “Because it was out of the rain,” Carsten answered. “We have been travelling for probably two weeks now, and we needed somewhere to spend the night. This seemed as good a spot as any, so we chose it.” The woman’s eyes narrowed as she studied his face.

            “Well, you’re telling the truth, then.” Her expression softened to one almost resembling apology. “Sorry about that. We’ve just been on edge since a band raiders came through last week. We didn’t know if you might be with them. But, from the look of you, you’re not,” she added as an afterthought.

            “What do we do with them?” The woman who was holding Rolf asked. “Turn them loose?” Mycal shook her head.

            “Not quite, Kira,” she answered. Pointing to Arcaena, she asked, “Do you know what she was shot with?”

            “Adder root,” Edessa interjected. “And it’s been about five days. She’s getting worse.”

            Mycal nodded. “I see.” She gestured to her men. “Let them go.” They obeyed, and she knelt beside the dark elf, feeling her neck. Abruptly, she stood and looked around. “Where are you going?” She asked. Carsten shrugged miserably.

            “Nowhere,” he answered. “We had planned to go to a village not far from here, but it was destroyed by the raiders you spoke of.”

            “Who did this, I assume?” Mycal asked. Carsten nodded mutely. “Then it seems we can help one another, dwarf.” She turned to the other woman. “Pick her up.” Looking back at Carsten, she asked, “Do you want to help her?”

            Before he even thought about it, Carsten blurted, “With all my heart.”

            “Good. I know someone who might be able to do that,” she said. “However, he will demand fair value in return. He does nothing for nothing, I fear. If you will follow us, I will lead you to him.”

            “Why should we trust you?” Thomas asked. Mycal looked like she was about to answer but Rolf stepped in before she could.

            “Because we have no choice,” he answered. “Now shut up and fall in.” Grumbling, Thomas did so. As Edessa stepped close to Carsten, she whispered to him.

            “Is this wise?” The dwarf shook his head.

            “If there is any chance of helping Arcaena,” he answered, “I will take it, no matter the risk. And yes, I think we can trust her. Whoever she is.”

            Mycal led the travelers and her own men out of the canyon and into the woods beyond, which she entered without so much as a second thought. Carsten was surprised at her ability to navigate the woody maze without torchlight. In fact, the only people who did not have trouble were Mycal’s men and Rolf. Strange though it seemed, the gray-haired man navigated the woods without any apparent difficulty. They walked on in silence for several hours, through the woods and onto a wide plain. Ahead of them, in the distance, Carsten saw a flickering light.

            “What is that?” He asked in a hushed voice.

            “Haven,” Mycal replied. “Not much, but it’s home. Come on. He’ll be waiting for us.” And she kept walking. The mud was much thinner now, and the ground seemed drier. In some places, the stony ground was now covered by sparse, brown grass. They made their way across the plain and now found themselves outside a small wooden stockade with impromptu guard towers at the wall’s compass points. Mycal stepped up to the gate and rapped hard on it several times. After a long pause, a man’s voice called over the wall.

            “Who goes there?” He asked.

            “It’s Mycal,” she answered. “I found a few vagabonds in our cave, and I’ve brought them for Deyann to interrogate.” The man laughed.

            “If they didn’t tell the truth up front, he’ll get them talking for sure. Hold on while I get the gate open.” The sound of footsteps on wooden planks rang through the night air, and Carsten heard a bar being drawn back and a lock being disengaged. Then, the wooden doors swung open, and Mycal stepped through the opening.

            Haven was not at all an impressive settlement to the eye. Most of the building were wooden, although most appeared to have stone foundations. Their roofs were thatched, and Carsten could see spots where the tar that the inhabitants used for waterproofing was more heavily applied. As they walked through the main village thoroughfare, a glorified dirt path, several people peered out of open windows to watch them. Like Mycal and her men, they appeared to be dressed in fur garments, which were quite economical for keeping out the chill winds of the Outlands’ winter.  They passed row upon row of the small houses, and Mycal suddenly veered off to the left. Her men followed her without breaking step, and Carsten’s group was close behind them. The side avenue that they had now entered was a little more confined than the village’s main one, but looked to be in better condition. After about five minutes of walking, Mycal stopped in front of a house that looked as though it was entirely carved of blackwood and knocked on the door. A gruff male voice answered.

            “What do you want?” It growled.

            “I think you know better than to answer me that way, Deyann,” she said. “I have some people here who need to talk to you.” The door opened, and a grey-cloaked figure stepped out. His eyes swept those present, and he gestured to them.

            “Come in quickly,” he said. The inside of his house was sparse, a three-room abode with a latrine in the back, separate from the living space. Once the door was shut, he threw back his hood. The face that appeared was not that of a man, but a dark elf, and a handsome one at that. His hair was silver, as were his eyebrows. The only disfigurement he bore was a thin, white scar on his left cheek, and his purple eyes glinted in the dim light.

            “So,” he said, surveying the group, “what is this about, Mycal? Why have you brought yet more vagabonds to my door? In the middle of the night, no less.” The blond woman gestured to Carsten.

            “This dwarf has a request to make of you,” she said. Then she turned to her men and ordered, “Leave us.” They bowed and exited the hut, closing the door behind them. The girl carrying Arcaena laid her gently on the floor before she left. Deyann watched them go and nodded in satisfaction.

            “Now,” he said. “What do you need?” Slowly, hesitantly, Carsten told him the story. Perhaps he had not meant to say so much, but the words tumbled out even so. Their original reason for journeying north, their captivity, their escape and subsequent pursuit, and last of all, Arcaena’s plight. Deyann listened through all this, his face inscrutable. Once Carsten had finished, he spoke.

            “A tale well-told,” he said. “Aside from the dark elf lying on my floor, do you have any proof of it?” Carsten felt his heart sink.

            “What would convince you, then, if her body is not enough?” The male dark elf sat there, pondering for several moments.

            “You know,” he said, “maybe I do believe you. Maybe you are telling the truth.”

            The dwarf ran a hand through his hair. “All right, then. So let us say, for the sake of argument, that you believe me. Let us say that you can help me in good conscience. Will you?” Deyann went over to Arcaena’s prone form and put his hand on her neck, silent for several seconds. Finally, he spoke.

            “Even if I agree to help you, I myself cannot heal her, dwarf. I am no sage.”

            Rolf shot Mycal a sidelong look. “Why did you bring us here if you cannot help us?”

            “We can,” she answered.

            “But he just said…” Rolf protested.

            “I cannot heal her,” Deyann answered. “But I can help you restore her to health, if that is your desire.”

            “How?” Edessa asked.

            “There is a place where she might be able to be healed. Might. I will make no promises. However, getting there will not be easy,” he said.

            “But you are not concerned with the journey,” Thomas said, seeing a glint in the dark elf’s eye that he did not like. “You expect something in return.”

            Deyann nodded. “The journey is five days long and leads through a dangerous system of caves. At the center is a shrine that contains a pool. The pool has the power to heal mortal wounds, as long as the recipient is not dead.”

            “Five days,” Carsten said. “And what do you expect in return?”

            “The Staff of Aderach,” Deyann replied.

            “Come again?” Thomas said. “The what?”

            “The Staff of Aderach,” the dark elf repeated. “It is a powerful artifact, rumored to have once belonged to the pool’s creator. To activate the pool’s healing power, I may require a substantial magical force. Given that I do not possess much aptitude in and of myself, I believe the staff necessary.”

            “I see,” Carsten said. “And if you do not require it?”

            “Then I will keep the staff,” Deyann replied. “A fair exchange for her life, do you not think?” Though Carsten spent several seconds thinking about this, he already knew the answer. He suddenly realized that he would die for this, if he had to.

            “All right,” Carsten said. “I agree to your terms. What do I have to do to get the staff?”

            “It should be up in the mountains, hard by where the entrance to the cave system containing the pool. It is about three days’ journey from here to the east. Here,” he said, rising and going to a wooden box in one corner. Reaching inside, he took out a rolled-up parchment and handed it to Carsten. “This map should lead you there. Also, I marked the route from there to the cave network to the pool in another color. From that location, it is about two and a half days to the pool.” The dwarf nodded and turned to leave.

            “Hold on,” Mycal said. “Where are you going?”

            “To find Aderach’s staff,” he answered.

            “Without resting?” Thomas interjected. “What are you thinking? You will drop from exhaustion long before you make it there.”

            Carsten shook his head. “How can I stop now in good conscience? I have to…”

            “You have to at least take a night to rest,” Edessa cut him off. “If you go out there, like this, you would not make it more than a few miles before you collapsed. Like it or not, you are not in any condition to travel now.”

            “I agree,” Deyann said. “It may not be much, but I can let you spend the night in my home. We will set out in the morning, though it might be ion only five hours.” Mycal nodded.

            “Very good,” she said. Turning to face Rolf, she said, “May I speak with you for a moment?” The gray-haired man nodded and stepped outside behind her. He eased the door shut, and the blond woman turned to him.

            “Who are you?” She asked.

            “My name is Rolf,” he answered.

            “And where did you come from?” she pressed.

            “A coastal city called Lemaress,” he answered.  She nodded at that answer.

            “You parents?”
            “Dead,” he replied succinctly. “Or gone. I don’t know. They left me almost as soon as I was born.”

            “I see,” Mycal responded. “Did they leave you anything for you to remember them by?”

            Rolf hesitated. “Only a necklace. Why?”
            “May I see it?” She asked. Reluctantly, he undid the steel medallion and handed it to her.

            “It is far from impressive,” he said, “but it is all I have.”

            She looked intently at the pendant for several minutes, and then handed it back. “I was right,” she said. “Do you know what this means?”

            Rolf shook his head. “Should I?”

            Mycal smiled strangely. “You’re a very poor liar, in case you’re wondering. You have some idea, even if you aren’t certain.”

            He sighed. In truth, he had been trying to confront this notion for several days, a theory that he knew was true but could not bring himself to face. “It is a Therian medallion, is it not/” She nodded.

            “It’s a little more than that,” she said. “This particular medallion is very old. Almost as old as our people themselves.” Rolf started at that.

            “‘Our’ people?” He echoed. “You…you are a…”

            “A Therian,” she finished. “Yes, I am. As are many here in Haven. We have taken shelter from the world here, where no one expects us. This is a place for anyone with no other place in the world who want to find a place they can belong.”

            Rolf felt a strange, warm sensation welling in his chest. “You mean…Abandoned are welcome here?”

            She nodded. “Many of the most recent residents were Abandoned,” she told him. “And Therians as well. I sensed that you might be one of us when we first met, but I needed to observe you to be sure. Now, I am certain that you are and who you are. In fact, I knew your parents.”

            Rolf felt a million questions burst into his mind, but he knew that he ought not to ask them. “If…if this goes right…would you let me stay with you here?” Mycal smiled at that.

            “Think on it for a bit. If you make your decision, let me know when you return,” she replied. “But such a thing would be a good thing for you. There’s always room for a new brother.” And, with that, she turned around and ran into the night.

           

When all the others awoke in the morning, Carsten was already gone, and Thomas with him. Edessa and Rolf were momentarily worried, by Deyann told him that Carsten had cleared the idea with him first and packed a fresh set of provisions for himself and Thomas. They ate in silence, and Deyann left momentarily, returning dressed for travel. He wore a suit of grey armor lined with fur, a weather beaten brown cloak, and two straight-bladed elf swords strapped at his sides. He picked up a sack of food and drinks that he had packed early in the morning. Edessa and Rolf both took the other two packs that he had prepared, and Deyann picked up Arcaena’s limp form from the floor.

            “Are you ready?” He asked. Rolf and Edessa nodded. “Then let’s go.”

           

            Carsten was already ten miles from Have to the east, and he had not even considered of slowing down. His legs and lower body burned as though on fire, but he stubbornly persisted. Here, the ground was less stony, and a thin cushion of grass now covered the earth beneath his feet. However, the earth was steadily rising, and he knew that he would soon be in the irregular foothills that dominated the north of the Outlands behind its major mountain range. At least Deyann’s map is right, he thought.

            “Was leaving so early a good idea?” Thomas asked. Carsten shook his head.

            “Putting it off would have been worse,” he replied.

            Thomas nodded. Then, he asked, “Do you know why you are doing this?” Carsten lowered his eyes but continued to walk.

            “I do not know,” he answered finally. “I cannot say, and that was why I did not want you to come with me. I feared that you were throwing your lives away needlessly.”

            “None of us regrets the choice,” Thomas pointed out. “I want to help her, and all the others do, too. Just because your reasons for doing so are not exactly the same as ours does not mean that you are less justified in trying to save her. Nor do unknown motives mean that the action is not right. Now,” he added, grinning. “We should pick up the pace.”

            For Rolf and Edessa, the first day moved quickly with Deyann. They moved to the west and kept up a good pace, even though the dark elf was carrying Arcaena’s limp body. Her pulse seemed to be weakening, but she was breathing. They stopped several times to eat, but they made good progress. Fourteen miles, by day’s end. Not a record-setting distance, but an accomplishment.

            Hillside

            Two days later

            Carsten was standing outside the yawning mouth of the cave, looking at the map. They had arrived early in the morning, and the sun had barely crested the eastern sky. Still, the dwarf felt no hurry to go in. Thomas ran his hand along the uneven rock of the cavern mouth.

            “You know,” he said, “you take me to the strangest places.”

            Carsten shook his head. “Something feels wrong,” he muttered. “The staff is here?”

            “Why is that so unbelievable?” Thomas asked.

            “Because an artifact that powerful is most likely guarded,” Carsten answered.

            “Meaning you think that there are traps?” Carsten shook his head.

            “I think Deyann hid something from us,” the other said. “But it matters not. Come on; that staff will not fetch itself.” As they stepped into the cave, Carsten’s eyes adjust to the dim light, and it became apparent that something was very wrong. The tunnel stretched back for what looked like infinity, and it seemed to decline slightly. As they walked, Carsten’s eyes darted from side to side.

            “There are other caves here,” Thomas said. “I wonder where they lead to.”

            “It is probably for the best that we not find out,” Carsten said. “Stay the course.” As they advanced, Thomas felt a growing sense of unease.

            “I smell something,” he said. “It smells like burning flesh.” Carsten nodded.

            “I do too,” he said. “But what can we do, and what does it mean?”

            “Did you ever think that it might be associated with a cult of some kind?” Thomas suggested. Carsten’s eyes scanned the cave walls.

            “We would have seen signs of human habitation,” he replied. “Whatever the source, it is not human.” Suddenly, they found themselves on a steep incline, slipping and sliding down the slope. A small tidal wave of pebbles gathered around their feet as they slid for what seemed like an agonizing eternity. As they flew past the stone walls, Carsten could see what looked like scorch marks on the sides. Suddenly, it clicked. Burn marks, a powerful artifact, the smell of scorched tissue. Oh no, he thought. He would not do that. Please, by all that is good, do not let me be right. Then, the journey abruptly ended with a jarring impact. Carsten found himself lying face-down in a pile of something cold and hard, and he smelled metal. Struggling to his feet, he saw that he had smashed into a pile of coins. Thomas, rising as well, saw the same thing. In front of them stretched a wide, dome-like cavern, full of piles upon piles of treasure.

            “Coins?” He asked, incredulous. “What are coins doing here? A staff is one thing, but how can a treasure hoard such as this go undiscovered?” Carsten shrugged.

            “I do not know,” he answered. “But we should look around for the staff. Deyann said that it is made of blackwood, and it had a purple gemstone in the top.”

            Thomas nodded. “Searching all this will take time,” he said. “When will we finish?”

            “When we have it,” Carsten replied.

            The search was painstakingly slow. Both dwarves rummaged through pile upon pile of coins, but they found nothing. Thomas was beginning to grow frustrated. By the seventh pile he searched, he had reached his tipping point.

            “ARGH!” He said. “WHERE IS THIS STAFF?”

            Carsten turned around, his eyes wide with surprise and fear. “Thomas, don’t…” But it was too late.

            “This is stupid!” He said. “That dark elf tricked us! He…” His words were cut off by a low, ominous rumble in the cavern. Thomas turned his head in the direction from which the sound had come and saw, to his surprise and horror, that the largest pile of coins was shifting at a steady rhythm. From it, he could vaguely hear a raspy inhaling sound. “What…” he began. Carsten stood stock-still, his eyes still wide.

            “A dragon,” he whispered. “The staff is guarded. We are in the dragon’s lair.”

            “All right,” Thomas murmured. “Stay calm and move slowly. We should be fine…” But Thomas spoke to soon. Suddenly, the pile of gold reared up as though alive, and a jet of flame streaked toward the two of them. Carsten rolled to one side and Thomas to the other as the infernal concoction struck the pile of gold where they had been, reducing it to a molten puddle. Carsten ducked behind a protruding spike of stone, and Thomas into a side passage. Slowly turning his face around the outcropping, Carsten stole a look at the dragon. Its hide was a deep, royal blue, and it had four limbs as a dragon was expected to. From head to tail, it looked about seventy feet long, and it was twenty feet high at the shoulder. As it stretched to its full, glorious length, the beast shook the remaining coins from its pitted azure hide and opened its eyes. They glowed with an intelligent, cruel amber brilliance. Then, it opened its mouth and spoke.

            “Thieves?” It mused, its voice similar to the sound of trolls crunching bodies underfoot. “Invac does not like thieves, little ones. Tell him it is not so. Have you come to steal from Invac?”

            Thomas looked at Carsten, surprise and fear in his eyes. Do we answer? He mouthed.

Carsten shook his head. Let me, he replied. Stepping out from his hiding spot, Carsten raised his voice. “No, mighty one,” he answered. “Not to steal from you. To beg your indulgence. We seek an item in your great hoard to save the life of a friend, and we did not know that this cave was your home.” The dragon cocked its head and looked at Carsten intently. For a moment, the dwarf feared that it would release another searing blast, but the beast held its fire.

“Did you, now?” It hissed, suddenly sounding intrigued. “How could you not know of Invac?”

“I do not live here,” the dwarf said, trying to slow his breathing. “And I am young, merely twenty-five. I have not heard any legends that speak of a dragon named Invac, and I heard my share of tales as a child.” The animal’s eyes flashed.

“Not legends, morsel. Facts. Of Invac could a great many things be spoken, if only he had not slain all who would have lived to tell his tales. You are twenty-five, you say? But you are a mere hatchling, even among your own people…” The dragon now slid down on its feet and curled up contentedly on a pile of gold in front of Carsten, his head less than two feet from the dwarf. “You say you did not wish to steal from Invac?” The dragon asked.

“N-no,” Carsten told him. “I am here for a friend.”

“A friend, hmm?” Invac said, sounding thoughtful. “That is right. You of the other blood bother with such things. Needing others is so outdated, you know. Invac finds only caring for himself much easier. But tell Invac, who is this friend, and what did you need that could help them?”

“She is a dark elf,” the dwarf said. “Her name is Arcaena Blackfire, and I need a staff as payment for someone to heal her.”

“Hmm…” the beast said, scratching its chin languidly. “You say it is a female dark elf? Perhaps she is no mere friend…” Carsten reddened, but he said nothing. “And this man? What did he say he would do?”

“Take her to a pool that could save her life,” Carsten replied. Suddenly, Invac began making a hideous barking noise. Puffs of smoke poured from his nostrils, wreathing the dwarf in smoke. With a jolt, Carsten realized that he was laughing. Why was he laughing? What was funny?

“The Pool of Creation,” Invac said, when he could speak again. “He agreed to take her to the Pool of Creation. You know not what he is about to do.”

Carsten shook his head. “I do not know the name. What is this Pool of Creation?”

“An ancient well that once was said to give long life,” Invac replied. “It united the dark and light elves as one people. The light elves made up the ruling class, and the dark the priests. They built a Temple of Rebirth in the bowels of the earth, around these sacred waters. For a long time, they lived in peace. Then, when Invac was a mere hatchling himself, a millennium ago, tragedy struck.”

“What happened?” Carsten asked.

“What always does,” the beast said. “A love story gone sour. There was a princess among the light elves who fell in love with a dark elven priest’s son. When her father heard of it, he was furious. Worked into a rage, he forbade the girl from ever having anything to do with him. But she did not listen. Instead, she continued to see him, and they struck up a courtship. As a result, the relationship between light and dark elves became strained.”

“It began small; a slight here, an angry expression there, nothing more. But it gradually grew more serious, nearly exploding into war. The high priest, the boy’s father, realized why the king of the light elves was so angry. As a result, he forbade his son from seeing the daughter of his new worst enemy. The lad naturally refused.”

“What finally happened?” Carsten asked.

“At the Dawn Festival, on the eve of the new year, the elf king entered the temple alone. There, he found the high priest preparing for the festival all alone. Seeing no one else around, he seized the priest and a sacrificial knife, walked him to the pool’s edge, and slew him in front of it. After he had died, the light elf left the corpse to float in the waters.”

Carsten felt his heart freeze. “And the elf king?” He asked.

“The priest’s son entered the temple as the light elf dealt the fatal blow,” Invac said. “In a rage, he charged him with no weapon save his staff. In surprise at this daring, the king stepped backward. But he tripped over the body of the priest, which made him fall backward. He struck his head on the pool’s stone rim and died.”

            “That is awful,” Carsten said. “And then they went to war? That is why they even today stand apart?”

            “Yes,” Invac said. “That is the true account of what happened to open the rift between light and dark elves.”

            “Why did you tell me this?” Carsten asked, trying not to show the revulsion and fear he felt brewing inside him.

            “To warn you,” the dragon replied. “You friend cannot bathe in those waters alone, and the person who enters with her may himself be punished.”

            “How?” Carsten asked.

            “When the priest’s blood tainted those holy waters, his son laid a curse on the pool. Any who bathe unworthily shall have their injuries healed, but they will never be permitted to feel pain or pleasure again. They will be trapped in living death until their body dies, as punishment for those who presume to take the power for themselves.”

            “How awful.” Suddenly, Carsten raised his head. “But you are stalling for time. What about the staff?” The dragon’s lips curved backward in a sinister smile.

            “Fear not,” he said. “You can have the staff, if you pass a simple test.”

            “And what is that?” The dragon reached his tail behind himself and wrapped something in it. Then, he brought the appendage around to face Carsten.

            “Two swords,” the beast said. “You must either draw the first one from the sheath or slay me with the second.”

            “That is all?” Carsten asked. “You want me to draw a sword from a sheath? Is that not a bit…simple?” Invac shook his head.

            “Yes, and yet it never ceases to surprise Invac how many men fail this simple test. Go on,” the dragon urged. “Take the swords and choose. Your friend must not have long left if they are taking her to the pool so soon.” Carsten examined the second sword first. It was a steel weapon, human, but still of good craftsmanship. The sheath was elaborately decorated with gems and gold inlay, and the blade felt well-balanced. The second weapon was less remarkable; a simple dwarf sword, double-bladed, with a sharpened crossguard. The sheath that bound it was hardened leather and, as he stared at the sheath, he thought he saw faint writing on it. Clearing the dust away, he felt his heart stop. Before him, on the leather, was engraved a binding mark, an ancient magical spell that pronounced judgment on any person who attempted to circumvent the magic that sealed the item in question. Working further, he managed to uncover more script, and he did his best to translate. What he read caused his spine to tingle and his heart to sink:

The blade in this sheath was fashioned of old,

For the hands of the worthy, the hearts of the bold.

The power contained my true son shall wield,

But to those undeserving the blade shall not yield.

Draw, warrior, my blade, if worthy thou be,

But know a dark path be appointed to thee.

If thou shalt know peace, savor it well,

For it was in tranquility that great darkness fell.

Thou shalt restore honor, if worthy thou art,

But know its last wielder didst break his own heart.

On the hilt, below these words, were engraved two words: Sorrow’s Bite. Carsten felt his blood chill. Sorrow’s Bite was the name of his great-grandfather’s sword, the one responsible for the death of Carsten’s great-great-uncle. The Masterwork weapon that had struck the first blow in the Sundering War, a weapon which had brought no end of pain on his people. Taking a deep breath, he wrapped his fingers around the sword hilt and pulled with all his strength. The weapon stubbornly refused to budge. Instead, Carsten felt a spider-webs of pain shoot up his arm and smelled his own skin burning. Looking at his left hand, he saw that something had burned through the glove. The binding spell apparently had a sting in the tail. It did not merely bar the unworthy, it punished them.

            “What on earth…” he began. This power had never been marked in a Masterwork weapon. It must be the sheath, he realized. The sheath is enchanted to keep the weapon out of unfit hands. Like a magical lock.

            “See?” Invac said, his killer grin broadening. “It is not quite so simple. Come on, now. Invac will give you two more attempts. If you fail, then you must fight Invac, and you would not wish to do that.”

            Carsten took a deep breath and laid his hand on the hilt again. He could feel his hear hammering in his chest. It was not that he feared death, or at least not his own. But Arcaena? He knew that he did not want her to die. Why, though, he could not say. No, perhaps he could. She was a friend, and he knew that he could never abandon a friend in peril. Arcaena had done so much for others, was it not just that they do the same for her? This on his mind, he gave the sword another pull. This time, the blade came eighteen inches out of the sheath, but it would go no farther. And the burning continued. As he did it this time, he saw a flash of orange energy as his hand continued to smoke.

            “Hmm,” Invac said. “Almost, but not quite. One more chance, morsel. Best if you make it count.” Carsten could feel fear rising in his chest. He might be a skilled warrior, the best his clan had. Even so, he was not so foolish as to presume that he could defeat a dragon in pitched battle, especially as large and wily of one as this particular beast appeared. Again, he found his mind wandering. If he was going to die, why was he going to do it? What was the purpose for all of this? Was it really all for naught? Was Arcaena really going to die? No, Carsten decided. He could not let her die. But why? Suddenly, it hit him like a ton of bricks: he loved her. They had depended so much on each other in prison that they had grown close enough to see one another at their ugliest. They had been together during the escape, and he had seen her willingness to do whatever it took to get the other prisoners away from their confinement. He had seen how her heart ached for Edessa, how much she had longed to help her and had done so, though perhaps at the cost of her own life. In everything she did, even in her less-than-perfect moments, she was an amazing woman. That was the moment that he realized why he was doing this, and the thought brought with it an overwhelming peace. If I have to die, Lord and Maker, he thought, at least let her live. If love means anything, let her survive my failure. And, taking a breath, he reached to draw the sword one last time.

Author's Note

Please note spelling and mechanics errors, along with plot holes. Positive feedback is appreciated but not required.