Olympus RPG Blog

Though it had been already cured thanks to Gestin’s magery, the smell of the beast’s poison was still rank in Gabriel’s nose. He could not help but to scratch the rapidly fading scar on his cheek. It itched fiercely – was that a side effect of the magical healing or something he was simply imagining? – but he thrust it away and gave the dead beast another look. The head of a lion, a goat and an asp? Gabriel shook his own head in disgust and glanced around.

Rainald was muttering darkly under his breath – he had been late to the fight for some reason, though Gabriel knew not why – and Radskyrta was standing off to one side, visibly elated over having survived yet another fight. As was so often the case, Dane was silent as he watched their surroundings, but Gestlin more than made up for that with his incessant rambling about everything and nothing simultaneously. At the moment, the strange wizard was attending Merasiël – so, she too had been bitten; Gabriel gave her a quick once-over to ensure she was otherwise uninjured … apart from her pride, of course, before letting his eyes continue their transit. Mendel and Magnifico were discussing the other dead creature even as the clown’s two dragons tore it apart. Gabriel watched the large beasts for a heartbeat longer before looking away once more.

And still, the stench of poison would not go away. It was so very like…

Twenty Years Ago

His blood was still hot, his temper frayed, but Gabriel swallowed the rage and struggled to find control.

Four of the would-be murderers were already dead – two others had fled when the fight turned poorly for them, but Gabriel recognized their faces and knew where they would run to – but a fifth was on the floor, moaning over the stump that had once been his sword hand. He was too deeply in shock to flee, but still, Gabriel did not turn his back to him, not even as he knelt before the dying man twisting and turning on the filthy cot.

The murderers had struck without warning, smashing through the doors of the hovel Gabriel shared with his father and attacking with a ferocity that was unexpected. Here, in this tiny little hut, tucked in the slums of this miserable town, it had been harsh, bloody knife work, though Father had drawn the family blade near the end, after they had felled two of the slayers. That had not been enough. One man had managed to penetrate Father’s defenses with a lucky strike.

And the poison on that murderer’s blade had almost instantly dropped him.

“Gabriel.” Father’s voice was harsh, tortured, strained. His muscles twitched and spasmed. Ligaments groaned at the strain. Father was weeping tears of blood even as crimson poured from his nose and ears. Gabriel tightened his hold on the family blade, casting a sharp, fierce glare at the prisoner, before leaning closer to his father. “Need you to be strong,” Claudius Auditore hissed through clenched teeth. “Remember promise.” At that, Gabriel nodded tightly, even though he had no intentions of obeying it. A year ago, when they first came to this place, this miserable, stinking town where they could keep their heads down, his father forced him to swear he would seek no vengeance against the Megalan houses who had been behind the death of their family. Father groaned again – he clearly tried to say more, but the pain was too great – and Gabriel inhaled deeply. He fought for control, clawed for the Void where he could feed his every emotion.

“I will be strong, Father,” he murmured as he set aside the family sword. He drew his long knife, trying hard to not shake. This poison was known to him, after all. The Widow’s Kiss, it was called, and if the victim was not hurried on to the Afterlife, they would linger in unspeakable agony for days, sometimes even weeks on end. This miserable town barely had a church worthy of the name and the priest who ran it was a lazy drunk who could barely craft a passable sermon, let alone heal deadly poison.

“Do. It.” Father rasped. Gabriel hesitated.

And then, he pushed the blade home.

Long moments later, after the light had gone out of his father’s eyes, Gabriel forced himself to his feet. He turned to face the cowering man on the floor. The would-be murderer’s gaze instantly locked onto the bloody knife in Gabriel’s hand and he paled even further.

“You and I are going to have a discussion,” Gabriel said coolly. “This will not be over quickly,” he continued, smiling at how the man tried to press himself back even further against the hovel wall. “You will not enjoy this. But I will know the truth of who sent you here and why.” Words began tumbling from the man’s lips, names and places and amounts, and Gabriel listened quietly, intently, until the confession faltered. “Not enough,” he said darkly, gesturing toward the still form of his father. “Not enough by half.”

He set fire to the hovel when he departed, burning his father’s corpse in a manner the northern barbarians would approve of, with the bodies of Claudius’ slain arrayed around him. The blaze spread quickly, consuming the small house and quickly spreading to the other homes here in the slums of this Caithness town. It pained him to do this – the fire endangered hundreds of innocents, but there had been seven or eight such blazes this particularly dry summer, so everyone was well prepared for another – but he needed the cover it provided to escape undetected. Enraged grief thumped through him, but he clung to the last tatters of his self-control. There would be time to mourn later, when he was not in this damned city that stunk of horses and shit, when he was not hunting the fools who should not have accepted this contract.

His father’s sword was at his side and three of the poisoned dirks were safely secured in protective scabbards designed for this sort of thing. He intended to return these weapons to their proper owners, blade-first, and then…

And then, he would turn to Megalos. There were men and women there who needed killing.

Behind him, alarm bells began to ring.

Auqui.

Standing on the deck of the Gleaming Endeavour, his hands gripping the railing tightly, Gabriel stared at the Templar who had bared his head and revealed his identity. Shock had rooted him in place, had stolen every bit of his strength, and he stared at the boy … no. He was a man now.

And he stood with the enemy.

Fury chased the surprise, overwhelmed it, seared it into nothing. Gabriel tightened his hold on the ship’s rails, aware that Dane and Mendel were both quizzing him, having recognized the figure on the beach as well. How was this possible? How was Auqui still alive?

How?

Four Years Ago

On the first day of summer, atop the crumbling ruins of a long abandoned fortress that dominated a lonely stretch of beach, Gabriel Auditore faced his lost student.

The day was glorious – wind that smelled of rain caressed his face while gulls circled overhead, intent on the many fish that danced in the bay, and the feel of the warm sun just now peeking over the distant mountains that dominated the far horizon was pleasant – and Gabriel inhaled the soothing scents. This interminable hunt had dragged on for so very long that he no longer knew quite where he was anymore; this abandoned keep could be Megalan, or might have paid homage to the masters of al-Wazif, or perhaps even belonged to Cardiel. None of that mattered, though. The hunt was finally over.

He did not have long to wait. Auqui, wearing leathers rough with wear, approached slowly, each step deliberately placed upon the decaying stone walkway that loomed over the beach many yards below. The facial scar Gabriel had given him an eternity ago had healed nicely – one could only see if one knew it was there – and the boy moved with an easy grace hinting at lethality. Seeing the hint of facial hair was jarring and a solemn reminder that the Huallapan was no longer a boy. He wore no armor and carried only a long, thin rapier at his side. Gabriel turned to face him and bent his head formally.

“Auqui.”

“Gabriel.” The lack of an honorific stung, but Gabriel thrust it away, buried it under a layer of icy control. “You should not have come here.” Auqui’s faint accent was barely noticeable, but the cold anger in his eyes could not be hidden.

“I sought a reckoning,” Gabriel replied softly. He met the boy … no. Not a boy. He met the young man’s eyes. “Did you kill her?” he asked. There was no need to identify Kira, not by name, not to Auqui.

“No,” Auqui said simply before frowning. “But I made no effort to stop those that did from murdering her.” Rage swelled and Gabriel swallowed it, concentrated on control. His emotions vanished into the void. “She learned of my master’s plans and had to be dealt with.”

“Your master.” This time, it was Gabriel’s voice that could have cracked ice and the fleeting half-smile Auqui gave him was mocking. “Is he here?” Gabriel asked, his eyes flicking to the crumbling ruins. “I would greatly like to greet him as he deserves.”

“He is not.” Again, Auqui offered that mocking smile. “His business is elsewhere.”

“So. There is only us.”

“As it should be.” The boy dropped his hand upon the sheathed weapon at his side. “Will you do me the honor of discarding your armor?”

“You stood aside and let those men torture and murder her,” Gabriel replied tightly. “I owe you nothing.”

“Then let us be done with this, Master,” Auqui snarled, his blade whispering free. He glided forward, too aggressive by half as always, but Gabriel was waiting, his father’s sword glinting in the sun. The Kingfisher Circles the Pond met Courtier Taps His Fan. Back and forth they danced, the sharp shriek of metal against metal echoing through the air. Watered Silk batted aside The Falling Leaf. Stones crumbled underfoot as the ancient bridge shivered and trembled under their weight. Gabriel fought the instinctive urge to use The Mongoose Takes a Viper – how often had Auqui seen him use it? – and Two Hares Leaping met Striking the Spark.

Gabriel’s footing faltered slightly upon the rocks and Auqui pounced. Kissing the Adder sparked off the elven corselet and the boy grunted with frustration before throwing himself into a diving roll as Gabriel nearly took his head with The Heron Spreads Its Wings. His apprentice was back on his feet by the time Gabriel had recovered his footing and they circled once.

No words were offered.

Auqui came in low – The Kingfisher Takes a Silverback – and Gabriel caught the attack with Branch in the Storm, redirecting his onetime student’s longer blade away before countering with Black Pebbles on Snow. Blood flew as the Auditore family blade scored a glancing cut and Auqui snarled at the pain. He came on strong once more – The Dove Takes Flight followed by a very rapid Lightning of Three Prongs – but Gabriel flowed away from the assault, springing up and over the onslaught. Rocks fell free as he pushed off of the side, smashing into fragments on the beach below. He landed lightly and instantly retaliated with The Wolf Lunges. It was a rare form, one that he’d used only a handful of times, and the hilt punch caught Auqui completely by surprise. Blood streaming from his nose, the boy barely managed to evade the follow-up overhand strike.

Again, they circled.

Gabriel could see the doubt beginning to creep into his former student’s eyes. They had exchanged a dozen blows and already, Auqui was bleeding from multiple wounds. Neither were particularly life-threatening, but the fact that Gabriel had avoided using any of the more advanced techniques was something that could not be ignored. That, better than anything else, betrayed the depth of his anger at his student. This was meant to be humiliation and Gabriel noted the very instant comprehension sank in.

He gave Auqui no time to rest and came in fast – Threading the Needle, another simple strike taught to students very early – and then batted aside a surprisingly sloppy Parting the Silk. Anger trembled on the edge of the void, but Gabriel pushed it aside. River of Light very nearly took Auqui’s arm and, as the boy met it with Kingfisher Circles the Pond, Gabriel let slip his fury.

And then, he really attacked.

Back Auqui fell, offense abandoned in the face of Gabriel’s determined onslaught, but it was not enough. Snow in High Wind gave the boy another bloody stripe across the chest and Bundling Straw badly injured his left arm. Their blades clashed once more and in Auqui’s eyes, Gabriel could see fear. It should have given him pause, should have stayed his hand or urged him to mercy.

It did not.

Mongoose Takes a Viper came faster than it ever had before and he felt the sudden, all-too familiar shiver of his father’s sword sinking through flesh. Auqui gasped.

“Requiescat in pace,” Gabriel murmured as the boy staggered back, his own weapon sliding out of her nerveless fingers and clattering to the stone. Stepping back, he let Auqui stagger back, dark blood staining the boy’s jerkin and pants. The stone masonry shivered once more and Gabriel had just enough time to throw himself back before the entire section Auqui stood upon collapsed.

Without a sound, the boy vanished from sight, tumbling down among the falling stone.

A quartet of arrows striking the stone masonry around him was Gabriel’s first warning that Auqui had lied about being alone and he grimaced at the sight of the archers now manning the ruined battlements of the fortress. There were only a handful, but he had seen how much damage even a single well-trained bowman could do, especially as there was no way for him to reach them! He risked a quick glance over the side – Auqui wasn’t moving and was at least partially trapped by stone debris; a fall from this height would likely not kill, but with the bridgework collapsing around him? – before kneeling quickly to retrieve his onetime student’s fallen rapier. With a flick of his wrist, he sent it spinning toward the nearby ocean as he backed away, eyes flicking between the archers and the unmoving form below. The wise option was to retreat. Arrows continued to rain down around him but he was clearly out of their effective range at the moment. Descending to give his betrayer the Widow’s Kiss would give them a chance to drop him. And there was still at least one other man who needed to die. He looked once more at the unmoving body below him. Yes, Gabriel decided. Auqui was dead.

“Requiescat in pace,” he repeated before turning away.

He never looked back.

With a loud clash of metal, Rainald met the guard’s attack with his own shield and held. There were two of them, armed only with what could be donned rapidly and still with sleep crusting their eyes, plus the Templar and the crossbowman. Merasiël was already in the great room, having tumbled past one of the soldiers, but Gabriel’s attention was on the Templar. He was holding his weapon aloft, lips moving in what could have been a prayer but was more likely as spell. Gabriel grinned wolfishly – this was just like fighting the Vasar all over again.

Well … almost.

Eight Years Ago

The hills were black with bugs.

They flooded down toward the vanguard from both sides of the mountain pass, their great legs eating up vast distances in great chunks. War horns – human, elven, dwarven, Huallapan – sounded as the crusaders fell back into practiced formations. Already, flags were flashing as the commander of this host – Sir Dane Sardock – issued rapid commands and instructions for placement. The slap of bowstrings echoed around them and hundreds of charging Vasar stumbled as arrows slammed home. Enough of the creatures fell that their surprise assault was blunted just long enough for the last of the crusaders to fall into place.

To Gabriel, the noise of the battlefield was of little importance. He focused on control, mentally envisioning a flame as he fed all of his emotions into it. Around him, the soldiers of the infantry formation he was ostensibly in command of shifted anxiously, muttering and grumbling with poorly concealed fear. More than a few glanced in his direction – he was, Gabriel had to admit, the least armored of them, though to a man, they had witnessed his lethality in battle – and he let their gazes wash over him without visible reaction. Here, in this place, in this moment, none of that mattered. Inhale control. Exhale emotion.

“Hold!” the serjeant bellowed, his words resulting in the soldiers firming up their shield wall. In all matters, he was the true leader of this company, not Gabriel, and no one thought otherwise. The Vasar drew closer …

Boom. The bugs smashed into the braced pikes and spears with a teeth-rattling crash. Blood and ichor flew as the creatures struggled to overwhelm them. Men screamed. Metal clashed against chitin. The screams of wounded and dying warriors, human and not, filled the air like a shrill cacophony.

And still, Gabriel stood, unmoved, unreacting, unyielding. His eyes flickered over the Vasar’s numbers. Where? This many could not be controlled easily. So where? There!

He sprang forward, using the bent back of a soldier kneeling to reload his crossbow as a springboard to hurdle up over the shield wall. Cries of surprise rang out behind him as he landed in the middle of the Vasar formation, rolled forward and then darted up. He twisted around one of the bugs, spun around another, and kept running. A moment later, he reached his target.

The Alpha shrieked and hissed in surprise as Gabriel attacked. He opened with Arc of the Moon and the bug threw itself back, narrowly evading his decapitating strike, and then tried to retaliate with its glaive. Gabriel caught the surprisingly light weapon thrust with his rapier, expertly redirecting it into the dirt. With the bug momentarily out of position, he flowed into a favored strike. The Mongoose Takes a Viper put the creature even further out of place and his rapid follow-up thrust punched through the armored chitin. Again, the Alpha shrieked, though this time it was in pain, and the Vasar it was psychically connected to visibly trembled. Even as the bug staggered back, Gabriel struck again with Snow in High Wind – ichor flew as the Alpha dropped to its knees. It had just enough time to look up at him before The Thistledown Floats on the Whirlwind took its head.

Instantly, chaos erupted amongst the Vasar attacking his unit. Some went insane with fury, attacking anything, including their allies, within range. Others simply froze in place and stared stupidly at the crusaders who were killing them. Yet others simply continued on with what they were already doing, in some cases utterly ignoring their now insane brothers stabbing at them from behind.

It was … glorious.

“Push now!” the serjeant roared. Spears and pikes and swords flashed. Gabriel eyed the results, nodded, and flowed forward, his sword dancing. Stones Falling Down the Mountain became The Tower of Morning. The Leopard’s Caress crippled the leg of a bug, opening it up for Kissing the Adder. The Falling Leaf caught a glaive attack, and he slid easily into Watered Silk, leaving behind another twitching corpse. “Well done, my lord!” the serjeant exclaimed as Gabriel almost leisurely flowed from Lightning of Three Prongs to Low Wind Rising. The soldiers advanced another step, allowing him to step back behind their shields. He glanced to the west where Rainald was assigned and smiled – the North-Hammer was in the midst of the battle, laying about with that ridiculous hammer of his, but it seemed he too had opted to target an Alpha at the first opportunity. On the other side of the northman, the unsmiling elf woman, Merasiël, was attached to another formation, but they were too distant for Gabriel to see.

He shook his head, pushing the random thoughts out of his mind, and went back to work. There was killing to be done.

“You dance the forms well,” a dark-haired stranger said later that evening. The camp was in a jubilant mood – the Vasar ambush had cracked like a nut thanks to expert placement, and the thunderous approach of the Royalist detachment led by that mountain of a man, Malfoy, had sent them scattering. There had been casualties, of course, but they were few compared to what could have been and the field was littered with slain bugs. Even better was the sheer number of local Huallapans present who had witnessed the decisive victory. They chattered with awe and excitement, many already pleading to join the army.

“Not well enough,” Gabriel admitted with a scowl. His arm still stung from where a Vasar glaive had eluded his defenses and scored a cut. Mendel had given it a look and then ordered it wrapped, but was too busy with the truly wounded to waste his magical skills upon such a tiny scratch. Rainald had mocked its very existence – loudly – and then tried to convince everyone within hearing distance (and some beyond) that he could have held the bugs himself.

“So say we all,” the stranger said with a smile. He was wearing the arms of a Megalos footman, but bore a single-edged long-blade that curved slightly instead of the usual broadsword so prevalent in this army. The man stood with both hands clasped at the small of his back, but at a simple glance, Gabriel knew he was in the presence of a true blademaster. It was in the man’s posture, the easy, poised way he stood, or perhaps the cool composure in his eyes. Likely a combination of them all. “Who trained you?” the man asked.

“My father,” Gabriel replied. “He never formally tested for dragon-mark and died before he could finish my training.”

“By what I saw, Friend,” the dark-haired man said, “you have seen to that yourself.” He unclasped his hands and offered one. “I am Gaius, late of Quartedec.” The gauntlets upon his arms bore the unmistakable sigil of a dragon-marked master of the sword and the tattoo upon the back of his ungloved hands.sparkled in the sun.

“Gabriel, late of Wallace.” He clasped the man’s hand. “You are far from Quartedec, Master Gaius,” he added.

“I was traveling through Caithness when this expedition was assembled.” The master flashed a smile. “What sort of swordsman would I be if I made no efforts to join it?” His eyes flickered with amusement the moment he saw Auqui practicing nearby. The dark-haired half-elf girl who had somehow attached herself to them both- Kira, Gabriel thought she was named – was there as well, watching with those laughing eyes of hers. “You have students,” Master Gaius said with something undefinable in his voice.

“The boy lost his father some years back,” Gabriel replied slowly. He frowned – Auqui was being sloppy with the forms again; he would never be as good as he wanted if he didn’t learn to focus! – and continued carefully. “Instructing him … he and I feel into this arrangement by circumstance, not intention.” Master Gaius nodded. “The girl … she has asked to learn the blade but I have not answered.” Girl. Was it accurate to call her thus? She was half-elf and could easily be twice his age.

“Still,” the dragon-marked master said, “your name is well known within the camp. The men of Caithness accord you the respect of a blademaster.” Gabriel dipped his head slightly in simple acknowledgement of this fact.

“Kill enough of them and even Caithnessers will take note,” he replied wryly, earning a short bark of laughter from the blademaster before him. “I was about to have dinner,” Gabriel added. “Would you join me?” The dark-haired man shook his head.

“Alas,” Gaius said, “I have other duties to attend.” He drew his weapon in single, fluid move, falling into a ready stance even before the blade was out. For his part, Gabriel had already spun away, his own weapon whispering free of its scabbard. “Let us see if you are worthy of the acclaim I hear,” the dragon-marked man said. He flowed forward.

And they began to dance.

Never in his life had Gabriel been this hard-pressed, not even when he’d first touched a sword and his father began to instruct him. The Kingfisher Circles the Pond narrowly batted aside Courtier Taps His Fan. Master Gaius was faster than anyone he’d ever faced, even those damnable dark elves, and the whole world constricted to this single moment. Twisting the Wind met Kissing the Adder. Sounds fell away, leaving only the void. Ribbon in the Air nearly disemboweled him, but Watered Silk almost took Master Gaius’ left eye. They circled.

“You dance the forms exceptionally well,” the older man said. “I had my doubts with that shorter blade …”

He attacked even before he was finished speaking – Lightning of Three Prongs – but Gabriel was retreating, slipping sideways to counter with The Mongoose Takes a Viper. It slid past Master Gaius’ defenses and would have struck home had the blademaster not twisted away desperately at the last instant. Again, they circled.

“What is this madness?” someone who sounded a great deal like Wallace bellowed. Gabriel gave Master Gaius a questioning look and the older man nodded slightly. Together, they stepped back from each other, lowering their blades in smooth, practiced motions that almost mirrored one another, and finally bowed slightly.

“A test, Your Grace,” Gaius said. He sheathed his sword. “I wished to see the talents of your young knight firsthand.”

“By trying to kill him?” Wallace was glowering, though most of the warriors around him looked either bored or annoyed that he’d broken the contest up. Rainald was definitely irritated and stood in a ring of men that Gabriel knew to all be inveterate gamblers. Money had not yet changed hands and now seemed unlikely to do so.

“Without challenge,” Master Gaius said simply, “one cannot test their limits.” He bowed his head quickly, first to Wallace and then to Gabriel. “Another time, young blademaster,” he said with another smile before gliding away with an easy grace that hinted at lethality.

“Many apologies, my lord,” Gabriel said, directing his words to Wallace and successfully pulling the man’s attention away from the departing Gaius. Departing from a man of his rank without seeking his permission could be considered as something of an insult – the fact that Gaius chose to use the arrogant saunter that was Cat Crosses the Courtyard indicated it was obviously intended as such – but Gabriel did not want Wallace to act without thinking. Again. There was already enough trouble with the royalists, especially if the rumors about the lord and that Simonton merchant girl had any basis in truth; they didn’t need to create even more trouble with the much needed Megalan mercenaries. “I will see that this does not happen again.”

“Damned fools,” Wallace muttered as he stomped off. He was flanked by Dane who offered only an amused shake of his head, and a moment later, Gabriel stumbled back a step when Rainald stabbed a meaty finger into his chest.

“I lose much silvers on you,” the burly northman grumbled. Gabriel blinked.

“We did not finish our duel,” he said.

“Five moves and dead,” Rainald retorted, gesturing sharply with one hand that held up four fingers. “Less probably, then with the dancing off and stealing more of my deads.” He glared halfheartedly and Gabriel frowned, mentally translating the big man’s words into something understandable.

“Your deads,” he repeated. “Your kills?”

“Yes, this. You know I mean this. Next time, making better, lítillbróðir.” He walked away, bellowing for someone to break out the ale in that ground-rattling voice of his. Or perhaps he was asking for the privy. With his accent, sometimes it was difficult to tell.

The feel of eyes upon him drew his attention and Gabriel almost winced at the too-bright gaze of Auqui. As before, the boy was staring at him with stars in his eyes, so desperate for glory that he refused to look at the hard work still ahead. Try as he might, Gabriel still had not instilled in the lad the understanding of what it truly meant to be a blademaster. The constant work, the fanatical devotion to the Art, none of that sank in. All Auqui saw was the end result and he wanted it now.

“Snow in High Wind!” he snapped, suddenly cross. To his credit, Auqui responded quickly enough and with adequate grace so as to not entirely look the fool, but Gabriel scowled as if disappointed. “Arc of the Moon!” he ordered as he drew closer, his critical eye noting the weaknesses in his student’s form. The young woman, Kira, drew her own weapon and followed Auqui’s lead – she had a natural grace and speed that the boy needed to work for, but her inexperience with the stances resulted in sloppy forms – and Gabriel blew out another frustrated breath. “Terrible,” he muttered, including both of them. “One quarter speed,” he said as he assumed the ready stance himself, nodding when they did the same. “Cutting the Wind,” he instructed as he flowed into the proper stance.

There was a lot of work to do.

It was strangely enjoyable working alongside someone else.

Gabriel ghosted through the shadows outside the Order compound, three or four steps ahead of an equally silent Merasiël. This would require knife-work in the dark and there was no one in this band of theirs he trusted more for that. Rainald and Dane were fine in open combat, and the casters invaluable at so many other times, but here? Now? He much preferred the company and skills of someone who understood the meaning of stealth.

They reached the wall without incident and Merasiël gave him a questioning look that he answered with a sharp nod. Being the taller of the two, Gabriel laced his fingers together and half-crouched. A moment later, Merasiël was there, her foot in his hands, and he heaved up. She scrambled over the wall with barely a sound, and Gabriel followed, using as a springboard one of the many wooden stands normally populated by vendors during the day. He touched down in the shadows of the stable a heartbeat later, noting without surprise that Merasiël had already drawn Angrist. Seeing someone else carry the weapon that had belonged to him for nigh on a decade was … odd but necessary given her lack of supplies. Besides, it did not mean anything. It was merely a temporary loan. Yes, she was attractive and of elven ancestry and they shared more similarities than not, but that didn’t mean … he wasn’t …

Oh. Oh, dammit. Not again. He shook his head in slight disgust and focused on the mission ahead of them. There would be time to evaluate this later. He wanted to scowl. Well, at least he had not humiliated himself in front of her as he had when he first met Miratáriel so very long ago…

Twelve Years Ago

He was being watched.

His first instinct was to reach for his father’s blade, but Gabriel shoved the reflex aside and continued his slow plod forward. By his admittedly muddled reckoning, Harkwood was close and with these ridiculous Caithnessers still trying to murder one another in this senseless rebellion, it stood to reason that the small city would have scouts deployed, especially if the rumors were true about the new elven defenders augmenting the guard. If he was honest with himself, that was one of the reasons he’d decided to strike out for Harkwood following that catastrophe at Blythe – in his four and twenty years, he’d only seen an elf in passing or at a distance and curiosity, ever his bane, set his feet upon this path. Abruptly, Gabriel scowled. It was not as if he had anything else to do at the moment.

The feel of being watched never waned as he continued along the well-trod path that should have been a road but most certainly could not be considered such a thing even by the most liberal of definitions, though Gabriel was too busy trying to keep from grimacing with each step he took. His entire body ached, but it was the poorly healing wound in his side that concerned him the most. He had taken it during the mad retreat from Blythe, when the townsfolk fled screaming before the reptilian onslaught and the few men capable (or willing) to stand in defense of their homes broke before the attack. Few were as lucky as he – Fat Tom, his employer, was dead as was every other member of the merchant’s guards – and for that he was thankful. He simply wished the pain would stop.

Did Saurians poison their blades, he wondered as he continued his slow walk? Or even clean them? Filth from poorly cleaned blades could kill a man as quickly as steel. He had done what he could after escaping the battle, but the ragged gash was hot and inflamed. God, but it hurt. He needed a healer. How many days had it been since Blythe? How long since he saw Fat Tom swallow a yard of steel and die screaming? How much time since he escaped those maddened lizards, descending upon his lamed horse to devour it like starving beasts? All of the days blurred together now – he remembered the many fleeing refugees, scattering in all directions, and the screams of the dead and the dying, and the smell of death and blood and shit.

Wait. He smelled blood now. His reflexes, dulled by exhaustion and pain, finally began to rouse and he started to reach for his father’s sword.

“I would recommend against that, warrior,” a melodic voice instructed him. Seeming to materialize out of the very woods themselves was a distinctly feminine form, though he could not see her face, not with that dark hood covering her head and the sun so low in the sky. She carried a bow of exquisite craftsmanship and at a glance, Gabriel could not but to admire her visible grace. It was as if she floated across the earth instead of walked. Never before had he seen anyone move that well, not even his late father who was as close to a blademaster as any man could be without bearing the dragons. He shook the thought away and tried to focus through the haze of fog in his head.

“I’m heading toward Harkwood,” he said through a thick tongue. His head was swimming and he was so hot, which made no sense. Spring was only just beginning and he had not pushed himself that hard today.

“Then you are walking in the wrong direction,” the woman said. She nodded back the way he came. “Harkwood is that way and nigh on two nights travel.” Gabriel frowned, glancing back. Had his fever so dulled his wits that he missed a turn? Where did this trail lead? “You are injured,” the woman said as she glided toward him. This close, he could make out her face – she had strong features, with cool, hazel eyes that studied him with a calculating gaze. There was something distinctly non-human about her appraisal of him. She was an elf, he realized.

“A scratch,” he murmured in response. “Pay it no mind.”

“Scratches do not stink of infection, warrior,” the elf said wryly. ”Come. The day dwindles. I have a camp nearby. We shall attend your wound and upon the morrow, I shall take you to Harkwood.” She turned away, as if his obedience was a fait accompli, and after a long moment of consideration, Gabriel followed. If he truly was lost as it would seem, then having a local escort was a very good idea. Damned Caithnessers. Why could they not place signs or markers as Megalos did?

They passed the source of the blood he smelled on their way to her camp – it was a trio of dead orcs, each with twin arrows standing out of their chests. Their throats had also been slit and, by the look of one of the three, they had died hard. Gabriel paused briefly, examining them with open curiosity, and the woman gave him a look.

“You act as if you have never seen the dead before,” she said in a light voice.

“Not dead orcs,” Gabriel replied. “Men, yes, and Saurians as well, but I’ve had few dealings with orcs.”

“Then I envy you,” she said. There was a volume of grim history in her voice and Gabriel wondered who she had lost. “Come,” she ordered sharply.

Her camp was expertly concealed and located in a very defensible location just within an immense but mostly hollowed-out tree. There was only the one bedroll and the impression he immediately got was one of order. The ring of stones surrounding the small fire formed an almost perfect circle, the three small pots were arranged from smallest to largest, even the bedroll was tight and square in terms of placement. Gabriel took this in, noting how the woman unstrung her bow, then placed it in the very center of her blanket, going so far as to nudge adjust it slightly though he could not for the life of him see what she changed.

“Saurian,” the elf woman said as he was fighting against a sudden urge to just sit down for a week or five. “You said Saurians.” She pushed her hood back, revealing hair the color of ripe wheat. “You come from Blythe, do not?” Gabriel nodded as he eased his own travel pack to the dirt, grimacing as his muscles pulled at the fire at his side. He noticed her frown but it did not register for absurdly long moments. His head began to pound and his vision swam. Did he have any water left? He was suddenly unbearably thirsty.

“I was there when it fell,” he muttered. “I am Gabriel.”

“Of Megalos, by your accent,” the elf mused. “My name is Miratáriel.” She added something else, something liquid and long and impossible for him to repeat, let alone comprehend, and Gabriel blinked again. Was that her entire name? Merciful God, that had to be hard to say fast. He paused, opened his mouth to reply and, without thinking, offered her his hand, intending to thank her for her hospitality.

That, as it turned out, was a mistake.

The movement pulled at the wound in his side and what had been a small fire erupted like an inferno. He felt something tear – likely his poor attempts to stitch together the injury – and the sudden, unexpected pain drove him to his knees with a gasp. A cool hand touched his forehead and he heard Miratáriel speak from a hundred leagues away.

“You’re burning up!” she said and Gabriel tried very, very hard to smile.

And instead, he threw up on her boots.