The Winds of Ysgard - Part One

[Gryphos]

By some miracle which Bendalitz half-heartedly tried to convince himself was coincidence, his path took him past the Queen's chamber. By the door a guard stood, as guards tend to. And near him also lingered that maid from earlier, the one who escorted the overdressed huntress to the Queen.

As Bendalitz approached the guard nodded and the maid curtsied. The guard said, "Evening, m'lord."

"Call me by my name or not at all," said Bendalitz, briefly putting a hand on the guard's shoulder as he passed. "Bendalitz. 'Ben' for short, if you'd prefer. Or perhaps 'Litz'."

He almost walked away, but, as for so many times before, curiosity put him on a different course.

He turned to the maid. "Might I ask why Addison is having an audience with the Queen?"

His sudden question seemed to rather startle the maid. She almost jumped. "She wishes to thank the Queen for the invitation, Milord—"

"Bendalitz."

"Milord Bendalitz."

Bendalitz stroked his beard, looking past the maid at the door. "You just think me terribly nosy, mustn't you?" The maid's silence spoke enough of an answer. "And that's because I am. It's my job to be nosy, it's my purpose. Some people spend their precious time making beautiful things, or killing others, or sitting on thrones. I spend mine knowing more than others. But I digress." He smiled at the maid, turning on his heels and setting off down the corridor. "I thank you."

 

[Nimue]

"Would you not defend yourself when attacked? Before you think it noble to die without striking back, consider those who go with you and how that would affect them." Her face was impassive, her eyes heavy-lidded, as she said this. "Think of a dragon unborn because of it."

The queen smoothed the front of her surcoat, the lines around her eyes deepening in amusement at the phrase "egg hunt."

"Your clothing will be kept safe for you, as with all your possessions. We can make them available for borrowing, if that is what you wish. By the end of the day all the maids will know your wardrobe, such is always choice gossip." The queen smiled. She held a marked resemblance to a mountain cat, in that moment.

 

[Legendary Sidekick]

Addison perked up at the word gossip. "Aw, let 'em talk. Talk's done me more good than harm. Don't know if you got a look at me wyvernhide I had on earlier. That got a lot o' talk from those who never faced such a thing. Mounted that beast as he lifted off to flight and stabbed his head until he crashed back to the ground. A swamp broke me own fall, though nearly drowned me. I woke up in a healing tent. Lost a man to the wyvern that day, strapping lad o' nineteen, all muscle and steel he was. Nearly killed meself avenging him. Don't know if that was noble or stupid."

It did open a lot of doors, but this was not the time to reminisce about the past.

Addison went on, "Rest assured, Wolf Queen Hala, if the Yvalhyn get the better o' me, I mean to go down swinging. I know Farrun means to see us all safe, and Loke comes off mean, but he'd risk it all for the rest. We got enough putting others' safety first that I'm more likely to die from a tree toppling on me head than from the enemy, unless that enemy's the entire Yvalhyn army. Me meaning's that your words're heeded. I'll do me best to see the party safe and the dragons too."

As Addison paused, she could've sworn she heard the young maid's voice behind her. She waits for me?

With a coy smile, the Huntress added, "Oh, and I will return for me wardrobe! Ye got me word, Wolf Queen. I see a predator out to kill us, I'll shoot without hesitation and cry about it later."

 

[Nimue]

"Spoken like a true huntress," the queen said. "No less for the crying."

With those words she rose, her hand going to the pommel of her sword by reflex. "I must go on to other meetings, I am afraid. But it was good to meet you, Addison of Caern." Her eyes gleamed for a moment, and she lifted her gauntleted hand to the guard, who swung open the door out.

--


"Take care of yourself.”

His mother drew him down by the collar of his shirt and kissed him affectionately on the forehead. In the background of her well-lit clothier’s shop, he heard the seamstresses’ whispers and giggles.

“That’s what Thoros is for,” Farrun told her, smiling as he straightened.

Ilya Ramshorn shook her head, a dimple deepening in her cheek. She wore a headscarf of delicate green silk, sewn with tiny golden flowers that looked almost alive. It set off her skin, which was darker than his or Samir’s; there had been Folk blood in his father’s family somewhere.

“It has been good to see you, these past months.” For a moment, a glimpse of the sadness she was hiding surfaced in her dark eyes. He almost started forward, made a jest, anything to banish that, but he held himself back, and her face cleared again. “I have so much to boast about to the other ladies in the square. And here you are doing great new things."

"It's hardly me doing them," Farrun began, but she interrupted him with a pat on the chest--about as far up as she could reach.

"All women boast about their sons. I refuse to hold back because mine truly deserve the praise," she told him, a wicked glint in her eye. He knew for a fact that she talked of Samir just as much as she did him, if not more, and that was enough to appease him.

"I'll be back before you know it, Ma." He enveloped her in a hug, and she hugged him back, fiercely.

Farrun stepped back outside, laden with three new tunics and a new coat, which was so fine he didn't dare take it with him. Once he was past the lamplit windows of her shop, he let his smile fade and his shoulders drop.

Every time he saw her there was a new strand of silver in her combed-back hair, a little more hollowness to her cheeks. How valuable this time was, and how little of it he had... He shook himself, and headed up to the castle long enough to give the new clothes to a page, with careful instructions on where to put them. Then he headed to the Bull Dragon, where the Watch gathered after the sun went down.

--

The taproom was rowdy enough that no one noticed him come in, nor head for the young captains’ table in the corner. It had been a festival day, after all, and the rounds drawn up so all the Watch had time off to enjoy the free ale. Pipesmoke and roaring laughter drifted through the room. Farrun dodged a stumbling rookie and laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder.

Samir swung around in his chair, grinning, and when he saw Farrun his grin changed, but didn’t dim. Farrun was always--still--surprised by how grown Samir looked, even clean-shaven to show off his cheekbones, his hair shaved close in the fashion of the eastern Dunmen. He still had those big puppy’s eyes, though. “Brother!” Samir shouted, clasping Farrun’s arm. “Come drink with us!” he said at once, though Farrun noticed that the watchmen and watchwomen at the table were suddenly sitting up straighter and neater than they had been a moment ago.

“Alas, I need an early start tomorrow,” Farrun replied jovially. “Can I talk to you a moment, Sam?”

“Aye, you can,” Samir said, getting up. “Here, we’ll chuck Norvin out of that table in the corner.”

They did just that, and as Farrun lowered himself onto the chair the barmaid came over, artfully swishing her pale-blue skirts and inquiring whether they might possibly be thirsty?

“Oh, give us the Black Amber cask, will you? And keep pouring it,” Farrun told her amiably.

Samir raised both eyebrows. “Early start, eh?”

“This is the last night I’ll be drinking good Hintercrown mead for a while, might as well make the best of it.” Farrun leaned both elbows against the table and cleared his throat. “Sam, I know today, at the choosing, you might’ve wished for...something different…”

“What?” There was genuine surprise in Samir’s voice, and at that the knot in Farrun’s chest eased. “Farrun, I wanted to be a dragonrider when I was fifteen. And...maybe a few times since then,” he admitted, toying with the silver braid on his collar. “But not for a long while. Gods above, I mean, I wouldn’t want to leave. I’ve just made captain this year, I’ve been laying up coin for a house in the outer city, maybe by Svartholme. And things with Kariena--”

Samir stopped short, just as the barmaid slid two tall cups of rich blood-mead onto the table. Farrun grabbed his and downed half of it, taking just long enough to lull his brother into a false sense of security. Then--

“Kariena, eh?” he rumbled, raising one very curious eyebrow.

Samir turned beet-red, and, with some not-so-gentle prodding and the aid of a couple measures more of mead, gave up all the details. By the end of it, Farrun was sorry he hadn’t met the woman himself, if only to see what she actually looked like--his brother’s increasingly tipsy descriptions were a little too poetic to make sense.

Not long after, a few of Samir’s friends lurched by, trading jests and reveling in Sam’s unusual drunkenness. Farrun shooed him off to carouse with them, knowing that was what his brother had come here to do in the first place, and once he was gone asked the barmaid for a pitcher with his next cup.

As he watched Samir join a knot of singing watchmen, he felt a pang of envy for his younger brother. He was building a life here, near to his kin, and he was in good stead to begin a family of his own. Farrun wished the ground he stood on could be so stable. It had been longer than he wanted to think since he’d been that in love with a woman. It was one thing to dally with someone when war might tear them apart the next day, or make love on the eve of battle out of sheer hot-bloodedness. But nothing had lasted.

It wasn’t envy that got him to the bottom of the pitcher, though. It was thinking, despite his best efforts, about how Samir would grow old long before he did. Or he wouldn’t grow old at all. And those were the only choices.

Farrun stared at the rim of his cup, slowly realizing that the measure before should have been his last, or maybe the measure before that. If he stayed any longer Samir would notice that he was still there. He scraped back his chair and unhooked his purse from his belt, then left it beside the empty pitcher. If generosity meant the tavern could buy another few casks of mead that fine, so much the better.

--

 

[Nimue]

He was meandering through the darkness of the archway into the lower corridor of the castle when someone hailed him.

“My lord Farrun, the queen wishes to speak with you.”

“Hathvar’s horn, you’re jesting,” Farrun groaned, rubbing his hand over his face. At the fretting look that went through the courier’s eyes, he shook his head. “Nah, don’t mind me. Take me to ‘er.”

Hala Svora was in her den, a dim tower room with a single arrow-slit window and a iron ring of tallow candles. Old armor and weapons were racked along the walls, and on a table in the middle of the room was a fingertip-worn map of Ysgard in great scale. Hala was leaning against the table, her hair in a single plait down her back. She was dressed in dark breeches and a linen shirt, her left hand covered by a leather falconry glove. Through the linen he could see how lean and sinewy her shoulders still were, and the fingers tapping the table-top were blunt and callused.

“Evenin’,” he said, and lowered himself to the bench by the door.

She eyed him, and lifted an earthenware pitcher. He shook his head vigorously, and she said, drily, “It’s water. You’ll thank me in the morning.” She dropped the entire pitcher in his hands. He gave a shrug, lifted it, and drank deeply.

“Those candidates, then.” She settled into a leather-backed chair, rubbing her wrist. “What do you think?”

He blinked muzzily, catching his breath. “Good bunch, I think.” There was a pause. “You want me to pass judgment on what the gods chose?”

“Gods through human vessels,” Hala muttered.

Farrun’s shoulders drooped. “I’ll be taking Bendalitz away from your service.”

“I’d like to see what comes of that particular twist of fate,” she said calmly. More calmly than he would have expected. When he looked at her, she gave one of her half-shrugs. “I don’t take tools out of the forge before the blacksmith is done. You work with what is given to you.”

“As long as I’m not...not meltin’ down a perfectly good blade, is what I mean.”

She regarded him, amused. Then, after he had gulped down more water, she asked, “And Loke Elfslayer?”

His eyes flashed upwards. “He’ll make a fine dragonrider. Already a hero. I’d want him on the battlefield. You don’t agree?” Her tone had said something else.

Hala raked her fingers through her hair. “He stayed rogue as long as he could. Think of the damnation a rogue dragonrider would bring to the stalemate… We have what we have because many elven nobles in the North believe it’s too much trouble to retrieve slave territories. You know this.” Her voice was taut and dark. “When we strike again, it must be with all the peoples of the south against them. We need the Auroe, the Ettarlanders… not a mad dragonrider and an angry rabble.”

Farrun stared at her. “You don’t think he’d do that?”

“There is more to him than the figure in those ballads,” she said grimly. “His shadow is darker than yours, or even mine.”

Farrun rubbed his eye, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “Still, for the people… He’d make a fine hero, a fine…”

“What, Farrun? A fine champion?” When he said nothing, she said quietly, “So you can fly away on dragonback, cross the seas to the Helcarae?”

He winced. Which of his drinking brothers had spilled that? He lifted his eyes to hers, his jaw set. “Until all of Ysgard is reclaimed, I won’t rest,” he said fiercely. “I can’t. You know that.”

“I know that,” she said. A crow croaked in the silence, on the roof somewhere. “We need you, Farrun. Don’t you dare make it sound otherwise.”

“Gods, Hala, I’m too tired for this,” he mumbled, head resting in his hands. He meant now, tonight, drunk, but his words hung heavily in the air.

“Think of this journey as a respite. No war meetings, no skirmishes, no peacemaking,” Hala said lightly. Then, “How’s your mum?”

He sat back against the wall. “Good,” he said, truthfully. “She’s doing good.”

--

Thoros was a great dark slumbering shape in the cavern as Farrun stumbled to the niche where he slept, little more than a bed and a few trunks set into the stone. It was a good bed, though. He thought about this fervently as he pulled off his boots and thumped back onto the furs. His eyes almost rolled up in his head.

I wanted to talk to you, came the dragon’s reproachful voice. The shivering sound of scales moving on stone reached him. Farrun cracked open one eye.

I was drunk, didn’t want to bother you with it. Besides, you’ve been asleep all day.

I ate, Thoros said simply, then added, There won’t be fatted bullocks in the wilds.

Nor casks of blood-mead, Farrun agreed, smiling daftly in the darkness. He relaxed a little, opening up his mind to the bond.

Thoros was silent for a while. You’re unhappy.

Farrun sighed, the smile slipping from his face. No, I… What use was there arguing with a dragon who could read his mind? I can’t help thinking that I’m running away from my duty here. What if nothing comes of this, what if… What if battle breaks out on the border, and we’re five hundred leagues away?

We fly. I did it before, and my wings were half this size. Thoros had no patience in his head for this. You are too sodden to be worrying, the dragon told him, dourly.

He was right, as always. Farrun exhaled, and shut his eyes.

 

[Ireth]

Rikhard had never been one to rise late, even after regaining his freedom and the prospect of leisure. Years of habit from long before his slavery brought him up shortly after the sun. He blinked in confusion to find himself lying on the floor, but soon remembered where he was and why.

He was tempted to take his time with breakfast, to toast his apples and bread over the fire and savor them, but he knew he ought to make a good impression with his companions. So he ate just slow enough to taste his food, not fast enough to be accused of wolfing it down (even if someone were there to accuse him). Then he gathered his belongings and set off through the castle to find out where he and the others would meet Farrun to begin their quest.

Passing guards directed him to a courtyard, smaller than the one he'd been in yesterday. Rikhard looked around, somewhat surprised to find he was the first to arrive, aside from a handful of soldiers who were loading a wood-and-canvas cart with supplies. Might as well make good use of his time, then. Laying his walking staff off to one side, he took up his spear and held it before him, engaging in battle with an imagined enemy. He wondered what the Yvalhyn looked like, how they would fight. Did they look much different than the Iridheen he knew?

One of the soldiers called to him, "You won't get far fighting your shadow, lad. Better to go up against a flesh-and-blood foe." He hoisted a wooden box into the cart and took a step back, stretching out his limbs.

Rikhard paused and nodded, looking the soldier up and down. He was a tall, burly man of Dun descent, with a fawn complexion and straight black hair cropped close to his head. Dark brown eyes regarded him beneath raised brows.

"Leave off," another soldier said to the first. "We still have work to do, and no time to shirk. Besides, I'll wager Farrun will give him lessons on his own time. That or he'll learn the hard way, when it's that or die."

The first soldier shook his head. "This one looks like he's never seen a real battle. The more he learns before he sets out, the better." He left his companions and strode toward Rikhard, holding out a hand. "Call me Caspar."

"I'm Rikhard," he said, shaking the proffered hand.

Caspar nodded, looking him over. "I think you could do with a lesson or two before your companions get here. Have you a staff I could borrow?"

Rikhard retrieved it and handed it over.

Caspar tested its balance in his hand, nodding in satisfaction. "Good wood, this. Now--" He shifted his hold, gripping the staff like a spear. "See how I hold the shaft? Copy me. Good. Now get a good footing, keep your balance -- yes, that's right -- and attack me!"

Rikhard lunged, but Caspar deflected the blow and forced him back again. Then the soldier took the offensive, while Rikhard struggled to maintain his ground. Soon he was flat on his back, wheezing for breath, with Caspar's foot planted on his chest and the butt of the staff resting against his throat.

"Dead," said Caspar, looking down at him. "Or you would be, if I'd been aiming to kill. Let's try again." He removed the staff and helped Rikhard up, and the lesson continued.

Rikhard mimicked every stance and motion Caspar showed him, determined to commit it all to memory. No doubt it would be the difference between life and death in a real fight, companions or no companions.

 

[DMThaane]

Loke walked into the courtyard with his small mountain horse, Snorri, trailing behind on a lead. He seemed to be the second to arrive, with the young boy, Rikhard, practicing with one of the soldiers.

He tied Snorri off to the side and decided to watch.

Some of his supplies were in his saddlebags but the rest, including his own spear and his spare throwing axes, had already been sent up and loaded onto the cart. Not that he was lightly armed. Although he hadn't seen a battle in years, he still trained in his armour. The weight was normal to him.

And he had dressed up for the occasion. He'd worn his mail hauberk under his engraved leather vest, as well as his splinted greaves and bracers, and his wolf fur cloak. His hand axe was secured to his shield in an uncommon style and the shield had been slung over his back. Two throwing axes sat on his right hip, the ornate hilt of his sword visible above the richly decorated and fur lined scabbard secured on his left. He wouldn't wear the weight throughout the journey, but it would make the right impression, on the people and the guards, if not his companions.

"Loke, huh," a guard said, giving him an impressed lookover. "I served with an Iridheen during the Losbar Castle assault. Said he fought with you."

"Probably, I made many enemies in my time."

"I mean he was—"

"I know what you meant." He clapped the guard on the shoulder. "Don't believe everything you hear."

He walked past, heading over to Rikhard. "Focus on the point," he advised. "As long as that point is between you and your opponent he cannot advance. If he cannot advance, he cannot kill you."

 

[Legendary Sidekick]

Addison awoke on the bearskin rug by the fire. She decided to slip out of her sleeping furs and pack her things, making an occasional glance at the lump on her bed as she prepared for departure. She would wear the breelhide armor out, with her lighter wolfskin rather than the long bearskin. "In honor o' the Wolf Queen," she said to the sleeping maid.

The girl sat up with a start. "Oh! Forgive, milady. I must have dozed off."

"Hours ago," Addison replied.

The maid missed the comment as she swiveled her head left and right. Seeing that she was in the center of the bed, the maid asked, "Did you not have room to sleep, milady?"

"I am a Huntress. I sleep on rocks." Addison clenched a fist in a gesture of mock pride, then added in a sincere tone, "The rug by the fire's more luxury than I'm used to. That and I enjoy your company, Peggy. 'Twas worth giving up me bed for that."

"I should have made room for you, milady."

"Oh, but I ain't your lady and ye ain't mine, Peggy."

"Margaret," the maid said. "Forgive, mila--Addison, but I have said my name is Margaret, have I not?"

"Ye have. Peggy's short for it in Caern."

"How is Peggy short for Margaret?"

"That ain't the question on your mind, Peggy." Addison stepped closer with the look of a predator. "Your wondering what'd'ave happened had ye left room in me bed... or had I climbed in anyway."

The Huntress took one of the maid's pale hands. The girl merely complied as a bone bracelet was slipped onto her wrist.

Addison stepped back and watched in silence as the speechless maid reacted to the gift. Peggy's expression pleased Addison more than she would admit. Her own eyes felt moist, but there were many reasons for that, none of which she would share. She simply said to the maid--to Peggy, "Don't think o' what last night could've been. Think o' what ye wanted it to be. If it turns out you and I're beasts o' the same breed, you'll find your lady."

 

[Ireth]

Rikhard and Caspar paused as Loke entered the courtyard. Rikhard listened to Loke speak, and nodded in understanding. "Thanks. I'll remember that."

 

[Tom]

As always, Einan woke early. The sunlight peaking through the curtains cut across his face, and he blinked, then squinted, as he looked around the unfamiliar room. Where was he? The sheets were too smooth, the mattress under him too soft. It took a few moments, but memories of the day before gradually filled his head.

So it wasn't just some wild dream, he mused, sliding out of bed. This journey is real.

After packing his belongings, he met Troia in the hallway, just as the night before. She was quiet this morning, her face closed and eyes downcast in what Einan knew was deep thought. As they headed for the courtyard he maintained the silence--speech was not always needed between them, he knew; sometimes more meaning could be communicated in no words at all than many.

Soldiers were loading up supplies into the wagon when they entered the courtyard. The comments and playful jibes tossed from man to man as they worked made Einan grin; this was how it was in Firin, during the harvest, when everyone was out in the fields together.

“I need to feed my dog,” Troia said to one of the soldiers. “Is the kitchen anywhere around here?”

“Sure,” he said, pointing. “The back door is right over there. Just ask one of the cooks for the meat scraps from last night’s meal.”

“Thank you.” With that, Troia and Ari headed off.

“Here,” Einan said to the soldier. “I’ll help.”

The man picked up a bundle and tossed it to him. “Of course.”

Grunting, Einan hefted the bundle, hoisting it into the wagon bed. Another bundle followed, and another, and soon he fell into the familiar rhythm of work. As he passed baggage into the wagon he studied the soldier—a tall man, his sandy hair and sturdy build speaking of his Folk descent. His deep-set eyes were green, rather than the common blue, though, and his skin bronze; perhaps he had Dun blood in him too.

“An elf, are you?” the man asked.

Einan blinked, caught off guard by the question. “Uh, yes. Yes, I am.”

“Iridheen?”

“Yes.”

“I fought beside some Iridheen,” the soldier said, glancing at him. “By the way, I’m Leram.”

“Einan.” He smiled briefly.

 

[Legendary Sidekick]

Addison left Peggy to tend to her room, and she let one of the men take her bags.

Her meeting with Hala likely had much to do with the guards' silence as she roamed freely like a walking arsenal: bow shouldered, quiver across her wolfskin, grappler on her right hip, carving knife at her left, axe in hand wielded in the most passive position possible, and if that weren't enough she had two shockers in her purse. She would prefer not to have all of her gear on her in battle, but for her morning run, the more gear the better the exercise.

In the courtyard, she sprinted forward, feeling the wind and her own wild curls against her face. The terrain was not as rough as she was used to, allowing her the opportunity to turn her head to the magnificent castle without risk of planting her face in the ground. She scaled a hilltop in record time, and there she swung her blade at the air, imagining enemies.

She didn't imagine Yvalhyn, at least not as they must truly appear. Instead she recalled Farrun's comment. Ice faced bastards. And so her imaginary opponents were demon-men made of ice. They shattered on impact, though some lucky ones raked their icy claws across Addison's wyvernhide.

Ridiculous. Real enemies' movements would not be so easy to anticipate. Beasts followed behavior patterns, but people learned tactics that Addison had not. I ain't Loke. I beat 'em as a Huntress, or I get beat.

She let the surrounding foes melt away, and searched the area around her. Between what trees would the enemy emerge? Where would she roll her shockers? Where was a safe hole to pick the enemy off? And what of the beasts and her powers over them?

Addison entertained these thoughts as she continued to run. She watched birds flit from tree to tree, and imagined where she wanted them to fly. Three birds flew in front of her. She would add birds as she saw them, and soon she had two sparrows, three robins, a crow and a lark. She had the lark take the lead and the rest only had one command: follow the lark. She had the lark fly up, fly down, zig zag a bit, and always fly in front of her.

When her path led to a clearing, she sent the birds overhead. She stopped running so she could watch them circle at her will. A blue crackle jumped from her hair, breaking Addison's concentration, and the birds broke formation. The crow cawed in bewilderment and was chased off by the six smaller birds.

"Yeah, go on, li'l ones," Addison called out. "Peck him in the ass, that egg-snatching low-life!"

Eggs sounded good. Addison decided to get a bite to eat.

 

[Gryphos]

That morning Bendalitz marched out of his chamber thoroughly geared up. Dagger at his side, bolts on his belt, crossbow slung over his back, and that bottomless satchel over his shoulder, prepared the night before with a whole new array of items. Only some of which were deadly.

While he marched out of his chamber, he rode into the courtyard, astride a loyal mare. Od, she was called, an unremarkable beast in stature, but beautiful in colour, whiter than snow. So many times she'd been Bendalitz's only company on all those tedious journeys from town to castle, and never complained.

Bendalitz was about to complain, though, when he saw that two of the party had yet to even arrive.

"Where, oh where..." he trotted up alongside the wagon, "are Farrun and Addison?"

 

[Ireth]

Rikhard saw Bendalitz arriving from flat on the ground, where Caspar's latest attack had sent him. He replied as he got up and brushed dirt from his knees. "I thought I saw Addison here earlier, but she went back inside. No sign of Farrun yet."

 

[Tom]

Einan looked up to see Benalitz above him on horseback. He shrugged. "I don't know. Thought you were the man with all the answers."

As the words escaped him, he bit his lip, trying too late to hold them back. Damn, why had he done that? This was the Queen's Left Hand, the last man in the kingdom one wanted to offend.

 

[Legendary Sidekick]

As Addison arrived, intent on ordering scrambled eggs from the cook, she could have sworn she heard Ari's padding and panting.

She wasn't sure she could speak to Ari's mind just guessing where he was, so she tried speaking to Troia the regular way (loudly). "Are ye back there, Troia? I hope we ain't expected to cook our own meals here. I'd burn a kettle o' tea, if ye can believe it."

 

[Tom]

"Oh!" Troia said, jumping a little. Addison's loud call echoed around the kitchen. "Yes, I'm here. I was just getting Ari his food."

She waved her hand from where she was standing in the corner, chopping up a strip of meat into pieces Ari could eat. The cook had given it to her, saying it was too tough for eating. For humans, at least. Ari's teeth were made for ripping meat apart--something he badly wanted to do at the moment. He gazed up at her forlornly as she worked, mouth half open in expectation.

"Not a cook, are you?" she asked, smiling. "Eh, I'm no great hand at it either. My mother once said I could burn bread just by looking at it."

 

[Gryphos]

Bendalitz fixed Einan with a blank stare, which he eventually turned into an amused smile. "I know. Funny that." Chuckling, he leaned down to clap Einan on the shoulder, perhaps a little bit harder than necessary, before navigating Od a little bit away from the wagon. "Farrun had better show up soon."

 

[Tom]

Einan kept his eyes on Benalitz as the man guided his horse away. Finally he turned back to his work with a slight shiver.

"A bit unnerving, isn't he?" Leram asked. He kept his voice low, his eyes fixed on what he was doing, as he spoke.

Einan followed his cue and ducked his head as he threw another bundle into the now nearly full wagon. "Aye. Looks like he could stare a hole right through your forehead."

He paused for a moment to catch his breath, rubbing his arms. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing up, and a prickling feeling had settled itself between his shoulder blades. It felt like the phantom of a coming dagger.

 

[Legendary Sidekick]

Addison was glad not to be the only one, both here and bad at cooking.

"That's the only thing I don't miss about me time alone in the wilderness—not suffering me own cooking. It ain't that I can't, just I waste some o' the meat. I cook thick cuts so I can dig up something edible from the black crust."

The cook gave Addison a sharp look.

"Troia, won't ye join me for eggs with bits o' meat in it and whatever's on the kettle? And don't tell me it's just us two that thought to eat in the morning. I went out to get some air and saw the men're all toppling each other over. Men and their games o' toppling!"

 

[Tom]

Tossing Ari his breakfast, Troia turned, grinning, to see Addison with her curly hair wild and disheveled.

"Some food would be nice," she said, wiping her hands on her tunic. "I don't know about the men-folk; they're busy strutting about like bantams. Maybe their stomachs will drill some sense into them before too long."

The cook was giving both of them a definite glower by now. It was the "get out of my kitchen" look that Troia's mother often used on her, when her attempts at being helpful ended with disastrous results. The bread had been her last casualty, the week before; she'd forgotten to add the yeast and it had turned out as nearly as hard, and just about as appetizing, as a rock.

"Maybe we should just stay out of the way," she murmured to Addison.