Awakening with a twitch Misanthe's eyes fluttered open and she found herself staring up at the moonlit night sky through the leaves of the bush under which she had chosen to sleep. Following the track had been considerably more difficult than she had first thought and she was nearly a day behind. She hoped that she had not much further to go lest she loose the faint traces entirely. Rising onto her paws she shook herself vigorously before casting her gaze outward. Nothing moved in the night shadows around her for which she was glad, there were many wild beasts that would make an easy meal of her in the small form she wore. Lowering her head she caught up the tightly bound bundle, around which she had been curled in sleep, in her small muzzle and slipped out from under the brush. Once in the open she gauged the time by the angle of the half full moon before striking out once more.
After a short while she came upon the edge of the forest and paused atop a hill to gaze out at the broad swath of open ground before her. Fields stretched out from the edge of the forest; some cultivated, others fallow, while slumbering animals used still more. In the distance she could make out the shadow of some distant tower rising from the walled compound of some residence. There were no torches upon the walls and only the merest glimmerings of distant light through shuttered windows to hint that there was any life within. The trace she followed led toward that distant hulking shadow.
Moving forward into the grass the vixen disappeared from sight. Evading farmyard dogs made her detour several times but she was sly enough to evade them with relative ease. Coming up to the wooden palisade wall she gazed up at its distant top. People, very clear to her sensitive night eyes, walked along the crest of the wall on alert patrol. Sticking close at the base of the wall the small fox slunk through the tall grass seeking some gap through which she might squeeze.
Malger looked up from the examination of the worst of his wounds at the soft scuff of feet on the stone above his small enclosure. A shadow occluded the sharply angled rays of morning sun as someone came to visit. By the familiar soft whisk of the visitor's footfalls he knew who it was.
"Have you had pleasant dreams, my prey?" the assassin crooned from above with warm but somehow simultaneously sinister cold humor.
"Splendid." Malger lied with a growling sigh. Truth told he had gotten very little worthwhile sleep in two days and he was exhausted to the core. He could not eat what was brought to him not for lack of appetite but for lack of will. He simply could not care enough about the food to partake of it. He drank water only when his flesh demanded it and even that felt like cold sand in his guts.
"Ah, that is too bad." His tormentor sighed theatrically as they paced slowly around the grate covered opening that served as the top to his cell. A simple gabled construction of wood and shale prevented Malger from seeing the sun, or having it glare balefully down at the height of mid-day. "I could share some of mine, if you'd care to join. I had forgotten what real fear felt like; the horror and pain of feeling my failures all over again. Does that dark bitch still favor you with walking her shadow realm, hmmm? Does she warn you of approaching danger, still?"
"Savor them until you die." Malger pushed himself back against the wall on the cot and drew his knees up to his chest. The assassin hit his most grievous injury with the accuracy of a murder's dagger thrust. Nocturna had turned her back to him, the dream realms were out of reach. For the first time since he had discovered the gift he was locked in the blind dreams and horrific memories of those without Nocturna's blessing. "May you not suffer them long." Why, he grieved, had giving Llyn justice cost him so very, very much?
The Hand chortled in that androgynous tenor and clucked their tongue. "For shame, wanting to see me suffer. Because of you I've had to suffer these five long years, trapped in this weak body after tarrying overlong where you went to ground." The pacing stopped but all Malger could spy when he looked up was a shadow fringed with a halo of scarlet as the sun at the Hand's back shone through the clothing they wore. "But you did not go to ground, did you? Like the coward always running you just kept fleeing north. Did you go all the way to Nasojassa? Caralore, perhaps? I heard that their lord was a pleasant fellow. Though you're a bit old for his tastes you may have turned his fancy nonetheless."
Malger canted his head up and forced out a braying laugh that broke in mid utterance. "Ah, heh! Struck you right in the pride, didn't I?" he snarled angrily, his chest heaving in exhaustion from lack of sleep and too many overwhelming emotions. "Nicked your stones and gave you tits, eh? All that for a few Merchants, I hope it was not worth it."
"It will never be worth it!" The Hand spat fiercely, "I will never forgive you. I may just choose not to kill you, but rather haunt you wherever you may go until you run out of lovers and friends and brothers and sisters to cut." The pacing resumed but with more agitation in the unseen woman's step. "Ah, yes, you no longer have brothers or sisters, or a sire for that matter, or even mother. Poor, poor child, all alone." She gloated. "Your pupils are so handsome, so young and so pretty. Tell me, have you bedded either of them? Both of them? One at a time, or perhaps both together?"
"Begone or be done with me. Take their hands, if you dare." He stopped trying to track the circular pacing above and dropped his chin to his knees. "If you can." Fervently he prayed that Murikeer would see her coming and burn her down before he lost his hands or his head.
The Hand paused for several long moments in the sun where she could stand more close to the edge of the grate and look down at him. "You look wonderfully pitiful down there, I want to savor your misery a little time more." After a moment she laughed. "I'd lend you a hand getting out of there, but I'm all out. You did not care for the last hand I gave you."
"You could give me your hands, wench. I would thank you for that."
"Oh, you are such a lovely thing. One day, never fear, I shall. Wrapped around the hilt of the sword in your guts." With that the woman who was once a man with no name that Malger ever knew turned and swept away with light, mirthful laughter.
The vastness of the tundra stretched out in all directions without limit with crystalline clarity lent by the cold air. Only the smoke of the previous night's Lutin celebration rose to smudge the horizon a league or so distant. Before them stretched the broad roadway that the Lutins and their Giant allies had laboriously built and upon that roadway stood five huge towers. Ponderously the huge constructs moved forward on giant wheels hewn from stone toward a long dike that would carry them across a valley. One side of the dike restrained a huge temporary lake and on the other side a steep walled valley stretched into the distance.
"This was the only place I could find where we could slow them." Murikeer said to Thomas, who stood beside him on the vastness of the tundra. A cold wind rippled the short grass at their feet but did not stir so much as a single hair upon their heads. The cold also failed to bite them despite the single layer of thin clothing both wore. "I snuck into their camp the night before under an illusion spell much like the one I wore now but far less complex. I had created some magical stones, with the aid of some earth spirits, which I slipped into stress points on the axles and wheels of the towers."
"They are impressive constructs." Thomas mused as he rubbed his jaw. "An engineer of masterful skill put a lot of time into their design and construction."
"Unfortunate for him that I discovered them." Murikeer chortled. "See here just as the second tower passes the mid-point, just above the culverts there." He pointed out the gaping holes some distance below the crest of the dike through which water poured in a considerable flow. Stones laid down that face of the dike prevented the water from eroding through the soft earth. As they watched a muted flash sparked from beneath each of the towers. For some moments nothing seemed to happen, then a wheel on the second tower began to list and wobble. Giants and other, smaller forms fled away from the tower as it began to tilt. The first wheel broke loose and tumbled down the valley side of the dike, crashing over one of the culverts as it fell. As the tower leaned ever more precariously a second wheel failed, hastening its slow demise. The first tower began to move more quickly while those behind attempted to slow. "The magic itself was not terribly powerful, but I placed the stones carefully. I was travelling with a mink named Llyn at the time and she used an item I gave her to trigger the spell."
As the second tower finally fell and the third had lost a wheel of its own and began another inexorable fall Thomas watched with slack jawed surprise. "For such simple magic the effects are profound!" The second tower had shattered a culvert in its fall and water was rapidly eating away at the dike. The third tower fell into the widening gulf and, in falling, served only to widen the gap further. "With a single stroke you brought an entire army to ruin."
"We did." Murikeer conceded, "For all of her faults Llyn was a lovely woman." Reaching up he touched the patch over his left eye. "For her I gave up an eye, and much of my power to ceaseless pain, but it was a price I would pay again."
The sound of door hinges squeaking intruded upon the muffled chaos of the falling towers, "Bright gods!" someone exclaimed loudly in surprise. Elvmere, unseen somewhere under the illusion of the tundra being played out for the archivist's curiosity, chuckled at the newcomer's horrified surprise. With a sweep of one hand Murikeer banished the illusion and blinked at the gloom of Thomas' office with the absence of the tundra morning. Standing in the open doorway was a guard that had been assigned to them that morning, his jaw hanging open while he blinked stupidly.
"Ah, Terrlan, our apologies!" Thomas said hastily with a smile, "The young lad was showing me an illusion."
The guard shook himself but did not encroach any further into the room. His eyes darted about as if expecting some other unexpected magical trick to spring out at him. "Unh!" he grunted irritably with a shake of his head, "Damn scary stuff, magic. I feared some calamity had befallen me when I walked into … whatever that was."
"A trick of the light, my good man." Thomas reassured him, "Nothing more. What brings you?"
"Page Hector just passed word that these fellows can see their master at their convenience." Terrlan offered diffidently. Elvmere pushed himself up from his chair and set aside a book he had been perusing while Murikeer regaled Thomas with his past exploits.
"Now would be most convenient." Murikeer chuffed. "Where is he?"
"In the tower room."
"I'll take you there, lads." Thomas said as he strode toward the door. Murikeer fell in behind him while the guard stepped back to let Elvmere out ahead of them. The sky was overcast with heavy clouds that cast a pall of gloom over the courtyard as they stepped out of the archives and into the main courtyard. Somewhere in the distance thunder growled and the air smelled heavily of coming rain. Thomas set a brisk pace toward the broad base of the observatory tower, circling around to one side away from the Temple entry. The ground floor was dominated by that Temple and they had to circle around to the back of the tower, and ascend a flight of stairs toward a broad balcony upon which two guards stood post to either side of a wide doorway. While they climbed the stair Thomas humorously pointed out the windows, easily reached by walking along a narrow ledge, through which one might look in on the Lothanasa's office. When they reached the balcony one of the guards turned to push the door open for them.
"Terrlan, could you wait here for us? It's a pretty narrow climb and the three of us are going to be enough of a crowd." Thomas asked when they reached the door. "Weather's looking to turn wet, so why not just have a seat down here while we ascend."
"As you wish, sire." Terrlan shrugged, well glad to be away from the disquieting magical trickery of the one-eyed mage masquerading as a minstrel. He started as a small animal slipped between his ankles and darted into the tower on the heels of the archivist and the two travelers. The creature was gone too swiftly to identify but he was little alarmed; there were cats aplenty roaming about the manor grounds.
Murikeer was surprised at the spaciousness of the tower when they entered the lowest level. He would have thought that the walls would be far thicker than they were; a testament to the skill of the Elves who built it. Winding upward around the inner wall of the tower was a flight of stone stairs toward which Thomas led them. The first floor they entered, some two stories above the ground over the Temple and Lothanasa's office, seemed to be some sort of armoury. A quartet of large tables took up much of the floor space with their attendant chairs while racks of weaponry were neatly arranged along the walls. Narrow arrowloops let in the wan light of the gloomy day.
"They're keeping him in the tower?" Murikeer scoffed in surprise while they climbed the narrow stair.
"Where else better?" Thomas replied back to him with a chuckle. "Armoury on the main floor, discounting the Temple, and storage all the way up to the top. Best place in the world to put a dungeon; it's not as if they can easily escape unless they have wings." He glanced back over his shoulder at Murikeer, "He does not, does he, have wings?"
Murikeer shook his head, "No." The stair narrowed after the first level where it had been open to the guard room, forcing them to proceed single file. Murikeer found it hard to imagine how difficult it had been to navigate a drunken Malger up the stairwell.
"What is he, if I may ask?" Doors on their left led into other rooms and they passed four in all while they climbed.
"A Pine Marten. Sort of like a weasel, but bigger."
"I'm familiar with them, they're passing common in the woods hereabouts." Thomas led them at last to a fifth door where he stopped, looking down. "What in Eli's name is that?" He grunted in surprise. Lying on the floor before the door was one of the most grisly things Murikeer could imagine; a desiccated hand shrouded in the remains of a woman's fine glove. A tangle of black muslin had been partially unwrapped from it and there were rings on two of the shrunken fingers.
Using his foot the archivist prodded at the mummified remains in disgust. "Who would leave such a thing as that out here?"
"Someone particularly sinister." Murikeer muttered in revulsion, "It looks like a hand."
Thomas kicked it over to the far wall as he made a sign of the tree. Elvmere stepped back down too steps when he spied the thing and clutched at his tree, uttering a silent prayer. Shuddering at the gruesome remains Thomas snatched a key down from a peg Thomas used it to unlock the door and push it open slowly.
Malger, seated upon the stretched canvas cot with his knees drawn up to his chest, looked up at the opening door. He barely registered shock or relief when Murikeer sidled past the archivist with Elvmere close behind. "Malger, are you well?" The priest asked when he reached the cot and knelt before him. He grasped the minstrel's hands tightly in concern.
"Elvmere, Muri, I'm glad to see you." He sighed, his voice raw edged. His breath was shallow and swift with exhaustion. The unexpected appearance of his friends struck him like a hammer's blow but he found he could not grasp any sort of response. He was so weary he could hardly bring himself to even care.
"Gods' blood, Malger, you look like hell." Murikeer observed, sitting down on the end of the bunk. Thomas entered as well but said nothing. "You do not look well at all."
"I'm exhausted, Muri. I have not slept more than an hour since the caravan, except when you got me drunk." He unclasped his hands and turned them to grasp Elvmere's, giving the illusion concealed raccoon's rough paws a weak squeeze to comfort the concerned priest.
"Nightmares?" Murikeer asked gently.
"Gods…" Malger wanly shook his head, "Worse than nightmares, Muri. Memories. All of them, I cannot fight them back."
"Memories?" Elvmere asked, glancing at Murikeer in confusion.
Malger sighed heavily, his head bobbing listlessly on his neck, "Memories. It is what I do, Elvmere."
Elvmere nodded, somewhat familiar with Malger's ability to heal by somehow sharing the memories of others through his dream walking. "I do not understand, how are you suffering memories?" He shifted his weight back onto his heels and released Malger's hands. "Put your legs down so I can get your shirt off, Malger. I want to examine your wounds."
"No, Elvmere." Malger pushed at his hands weakly when Elvmere tried to draw off his shirt. "You must go, now, both of you."
Elvmere blinked, his jaw dropping in surprise. Even Murikeer raised the brow over his good eye curiously. "Go? Malger, are you divested of your wits? We're here to help."
"For your lives, you must go." Malger said again with an attempt at vehemence that fell short of a petulant growl.
Elvmere huffed and shook his head. Leaning forward he grasped Malger's shoulders firmly and gave him a shake, much surprised at how easily he swayed the minstrel with the motion. "No, wait, Malger, you have to slow down. The memories, how do they plague you? What memories?"
Leaning his head back against the stone wall Malger let out a choked sigh and grasped futilely at Elvmere's arms trying to remove his grasp. "Everyone's memories, Elvmere. Everyone I've ever healed, every memory I've ever shared with them. That's why I bed them, Elvmere, it is the most efficient path to their inmost self where those pains reside. Once I have gotten that close, in that moment when the spirit is open, I share their dreams, I share their memories. I take the pain and terror away from the memory into myself, leaving them free of the emotions that taint the memory.
"They still have the memory, but there is no pain for them with it. Because I've taken the pain with the sharing." He tapped his brow, "It's in here, all of it. Seeing Llyn's torturers opened the floodgates. Nocturna has turned her back on me, I cannot escape into my dreams."
"Why would she?"
"Nocturna?" Thomas inquired, speaking for the first time. "He follows the daedra?"
Murikeer looked over to him, "Nocturna stands neutral among the pantheon, Thomas. Neither dark nor light, but theology is not at issue here. Just don't go telling the Lothanasa, she's already got blinders on as it is."
Thomas snorted and shook his head, "No worries there, I shant."
Against Malger's protests Elvmere finally did succeed in drawing off his shirt. Under the guise of the illusion his human flesh was purpled with bruises so much that Elvmere let out an involuntary gasp. Even Murikeer winced at the evidence of how much damage he had taken to slaughter Sideshow and his men. Pushing back his empathic response Elvmere leaned close to examine their stitching. "I can't do this properly through your illusion." He hissed aside to Murikeer and then over his shoulder at the true human among them.
"He's seen us already, Elvmere. Malger should not come as too much a surprise. Take the amulet off if you must." Elvmere sighed softly and nodded.
"You must go, leave." Malger pushed at him with a grunt. Elvmere rocked back on his heels and scowled, swatting Malger's hands away. Catching his amulet he fought the minstrel to draw it off. Immediately the illusion vanished to reveal the unkempt fur of Malger's upper body. Much of the blood and grime had been washed away but he had not been able to properly bathe since. Thomas gasped softly but stood his ground.
"Astounding." The archivist breathed, moving closer. He squatted at Elvmere's side and his eyes drank in the chimeric amalgam of man and animal seated before him. "Truly fantastic, what that curse has wrought." Malger glared at him with backed ears and showed his teeth through lifted lips. He grunted and hissed a breath as Elvmere tried to gently part his fur to examine the stitching they had done two days previous.
"You have to go!" Malger hissed in pain, "For me, you must flee this place!"
"Malger, you've gone witless." Murikeer chuffed, "Is he fevered, Elvmere?"
The priest touched his fingertips to Malger's breast for a few moments, "No. His wounds are not festering, that is a blessing. But he is completely exhausted. Malger, you will not heal properly if you do not eat."
"And if you do not flee this place you may not live long enough to see me die." Malger groaned as the priest's gentle fingers probed his many bruises and cuts. Thomas drew over the basin of water left by servants earlier in the day.
"Why, Malger?" Elvmere asked after a brief nod of thanks to the archivist. Dabbing a clean cloth in the water he began dabbing at the cuts he could find under the marten's dense fur. Many of them had been too small to stitch and, with all of his fur, they could not be bandaged.
"Malger, we are in no danger here." Murikeer scolded.
"You are, Muri, both of you. I fled to Metamor for a reason, and that reason resides here!"
"What?" Murikeer's brow furrowed and he tilted his head in confusion.
"Muri, my family was hunted down like dogs by assassins. One of them— " He choked a gasp and writhed at Elvmere's touch and the priest jerked his hands back with a wince. "One of them hunted me there."
"To Metamor?"
"Aye." He nodded and gritted his teeth, hissing breath through them and rapping his head back against the wall in a vain attempt to shift the pain somewhere else. Murikeer leaned across and put his hand behind the minstrel's head to stay his destructive behavior. "Tarried too long, lost my track, and— ahh!" His body jerked away when Elvmere examined the largest of his stitched wounds. "Gods, Elvmere, please!"
"Be still, Malger!" Elvmere complained.
"How can I be still, by the gods, with you trying to rip my wounds open afresh?" the marten snarled quite effectively. Thomas raised an eyebrow and looked at the priest as if questioning his wisdom for poking the injured beast's wounds. Malger's teeth were sharp, long, and looked plenty capable of inflicting considerable injury with a quick bite.
"Malger, the assassin?" Murikeer prompted.
"She's here, Muri, she's here." He moaned. "She found me and, Muri, she's gods honest evil. She could give Ba'al lessons in it. She means to kill you. That is her sport, her manner of torturing her victims before she ends them." Reaching out Malger caught the skunk's wrist, "She hacks off people's hands, Muri, hence her appellation, 'the Hand'."
"Who is she, here, Malger? Have you seen her?" Murikeer asked urgently, remembering the trophy left outside the door. "She left a prize outside your door, a mummified hand on the flagstones."
Malger sighed and dropped his head back as he jerked a thumb upward toward the grate above. Rain pattered lightly on the roof above that grate but none of it found its way into the cell. "She threw it at me from up there." He muttered morosely, "Gloating over my imprisonment. I could never see her for she stood too far back from the edge, or in the sun glare. She was wearing red this morning when she came to torment me." Turning his hand he gazed at the ruby ring he wore. "The hand belonged to a girl I bedded in Silvassa. That was the reason I fled, but she chased me all over Sathmore and the Midlands. I was only able to escape her in Metamor, by becoming this." He thumped his chest and winced at the flare of pain it caused.
"I will guard against her, then." Murikeer affirmed, "I've got magic to deal with that. Master Rickkter was most skilled in wards of the most violent sort. Should she attempt harm to us she will find unpleasant surprises awaiting."
"Murikeer, you and Elvmere must flee. Make for Silvassa, seek out Nylene at the Lightbringer Temple."
"We're going nowhere without you, Malger." Elvmere said reassuringly. Settling back on his heels he wiped his hands with another rag. The ones he had used to clean Malger's wounds were tainted red and brown.
Malger leveled a stare at the priest before him, "And if the Earl weighs his justice against me? What then?"
"We fight."
"Muri?" Elvmere grunted in surprise.
"Good lad, such a course lacks any wisdom." Thomas chided gently.
Murikeer turned a hard look toward the elder man, "You've seen what I could do as a mere journeyman, sir. What think you of my abilities that I have ascended to Master rank? I mean not to fight if I can find another course, but for Llyn's justice I will lay waste to all within reach."
"Murikeer!" Elvmere scolded, "Such pointless assertions are mere folly. Would you have the Earl lock us in tower cells of our own? Stay your wrath!"
Murikeer chuffed and nodded and forced his fur down. Though Thomas could not see his ruffled pelt the effect transitioned rather well through the illusion in a red flush of anger. Elvmere handed Malger his amulet back and rocked back on his heels before rising. "We should all becalm ourselves and seek more rational avenues to gain Malger's freedom. Until then we should retire. I will return this evening, the Earl willing, with food for you." He gazed down at the marten sternly, "And you will eat, even if I have to sit on you and force it down your throat."
Malger waved a weak hand at him while he draped the amulet around his neck, returning the illusion once again. Above them the pattering rain had become a drumming deluge on the shale roof. Murikeer did not fancy trying to dash across the courtyard under that skyfall. "Go, I feel near to passing out after Elvmere's torture. But watch yourselves. The Hand was— is— one of the best assassins money could buy. I don't want your hands being thrown at me from the grate above."
"Nor do we." Murikeer gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. Thomas smiled and favored Malger with a bow and a brief prayer for his good health, an utterance which Malger accepted with a vacant stare, and retreated to the door. Elvmere followed him and Murikeer left last.
On their way down the winding stair, lost in their individual thoughts, none of them noticed the bundled furry form concealed against the wood of an inset doorway as they passed. Alert eyes watched them pass over the bush of tail draped over the animal's muzzle.
Listening intently with acute ears the vixen waited until she heard the door below close before moving. She had spied two of the three she sought only that morning where they sat speaking with the master of the house over their cups. Getting into the manor had been a simple task as there was a considerable gap beneath a postern gate that allowed her to slip through in the dark unseen.
The local feline population took immediate affront to her presence within their domain but she was easily able to intimidate them into full retreat, hissing and spitting. Following her quarry had proved more difficult once they had withdrawn to the main house so she had been forced to conceal herself in a bush and wait. Fitfully she slept, plagued by snippets of unpleasant dreams harkening back to the dissolution of her first house and her subsequent sale to a servant courier. That woman had proven to be a particularly vile caretaker whose sole interest in the profit she could gain from her new slaves.
Not that she had ever entertained the illusion that she was, or had ever been, anything but a well treated slave. All of her caste fell under the management of the house to which they were granted. They had no rights beyond proper care so long as they served dutifully and skillfully. The woman into whose charge she was sent after her first house released her spared only enough to maintain the health and beauty of her slaves, and eventually sold them once their profits had dwindled.
With some care she had managed that in a commendably short time, but her lot hard hardly improved with that sale, either. Hauled aboard a ship with a dozen others of her caste she suffered through a long and unpleasant journey on ship and over land to the distant alien kingdom where she was stuck. From there she was traded off to a train of successively less pleasant owners who, lacking any knowledge of her culture or the placement of her caste within it, used her for their own ends with little concern for her health.
The worst of them, by far, was the man who his slayer had dubbed Sideshow. He was, indeed, a freak who would have been more appropriate within the rolling prisons than afoot lording over them. He, at least, had some worldly knowledge and understood the worth of the woman he had picked up for a pittance from a petty lordling in Brekaris. Under his often brutal hand the woman had learned to bend, in spirit, far further than she had ever thought herself capable of in the past. She debased herself to appease his unpleasant appetites, even when he carted her into the cold north and chained her with a dozen others to suffer the twisted magic of that land.
That transformation brought nightmares of its own but she had long ago grown to accept it. Sideshow had shown her how to use her new form in ways none of the others that served him, free of the wagons, had ever been able to accomplish. For those skills she was spared much of his brutality, but had ever awaited the chance to be free of him. In the years she suffered him she had never found any escape, until his past caught up to him.
Justice came and wrought its swift, brutal price of blood upon him and those who served him. For that she was in debt. Her caste demanded it, and for this one she would heed the training she had been raised to.
Uncurling from the crook of the door she glanced down the stairwell and then up. It was an incongruous place to detain anyone, but the two had led her here and here she would find him. Taking up the small bundle she had brought from the wagons she padded silently up the stair, pausing at each door to sniff at the gaps, until she came to the one that held a familiar scent. Setting the bundle down she splayed flat upon the floor to look under the gap between the heavy wood and the floor.
She spied the man immediately, slumped against the far wall upon a cot as if dead. He twitched and writhed, trapped in some dark dream, but he slept on. Nosing the bundle under the door she squeezed herself through the gap and entered his cell. Padding to the cot she reared up to put her front paws upon it and gazed at her new Master intently. For him her life, her service, unto death. He cried out and thrashed against the cot, slumping over onto his side and curling himself into a pitiable ball. He wept, and she wept with him. Whatever torture took place within his dreams were beyond her ability to aid, but his flesh was within her power to aid.
He was a wreck, his naked torso purpled with bruises and slashed with cuts, many of them coarsely mended. She had something that would aid that, gifted to her in Sideshow's last dying moments. Her brutal master had gazed up at her, unable to move for the ruin wrought upon his breast, but likewise unable to die. Given time he would heal, but she knew the secret of his miracles, and snatched it from him even as she saw the horror dawning in his desperate eyes. She watched that last spark fade and lamented only that it faded so swiftly; no promise of lingering pain that the magic would grant him while he healed.
But he was, well and truly and with utmost finality, dead. The last thing his eyes saw was his servant, his pliable, affectionate, most loyal of servants, bending over him with a last parting flash of teeth.
Returning to the bundle she shifted smoothly, from small vixen to a form far taller but still, by the people of this foreign realm, short. Kneeling naked she unwrapped the bundle and drew out the chain she had snatched from around Sideshow's neck. From that chain dangled a simple ring of polished steel. It was unadorned and bore no stones to make it worthy of a thief's attention, but it was far more precious than any that Sideshow had borne upon his fingers. It was the secret of his survival, enabling him to overcome the most pernicious of diseases or the most lethal of attacks. It did only one thing, but it did that very, very well so that not even a scar remained where a blade had laid its keen edge.
Returning to the cot she knelt beside it and took up one of her savior's hands but immediately released it with a surprised yip. It felt wrong, terribly wrong, so much so that she had dropped it in fright. Cautiously she leaned forward to touch the back of his dangling hand and felt something most incongruous; fur. Her brows furrowed and her ears twitched but she did not recoil from the strange sensation. Gently grasping his hand he turned it over and ran her fingertips across his palm, feeling calloused pads and fur, all the way out to his fingertips where she felt claws.
Claws!
Somehow he was not as he appeared. Under the guise of human flesh and voice and scent he was not human. Was he some sort of demon, he wondered, or avenging angel hiding in the fragility of mortal flesh? An Oni of her childhood tales, come to walk the lands of man for whatever purpose only an Oni could understand? With a short hiss of breath through her nose she pushed that aside; he was her Master now, be he whatever he was, she belonged to him for good or for ill. Letting the chain slide from the ring she held his hand steady to slip it onto one of his fingers.
It was loose, for Sideshow's fingers had been thicker than this man's, but after a few moments it seemed to fit perfectly. She did not perceive the change but saw that, after a few moments, it fit his finger as neatly as if crafted for him alone. Gently she laid his hand upon his breast and stroked his brow with a delicate touch. He moaned out in some slumbering horror and flailed aimlessly with his hands. One struck her weakly upon the cheek but she only savored his first touch however clumsily it was made. With a bow she offered a brief prayer to the gods of her childhood, far away and near forgotten, before returning to the bundle and tying it securely once more. Slipping it out of sight under the cot she shifted back down to her smaller vulpine form and slipped under the cot as well. Curling about herself she laid her chin upon her paws, her tail over her muzzle, and waited.
The night was dark but loud, muffled cries reached his ears from the world beyond but they were not easily discerned through the drum of rain on stretched canvass. Cold steel lay against his chest and he felt a fool for its presence but he could not bring himself to cast it aside. Suddenly a shadowy form slipped into the tent silently, bringing a clutch of surprised fear to his heart. Water coursed from the ink-black cloak that swathed the intruder and, in a flickering flash of lightening he saw the face.
Horrible face, both terrifying and cold in its stern mein. The man made no motion but he could see weapons in his hands, sword and dagger respectively, and they dripped blood as black as the cloak over the gleam of polished steel. A horrified cry wrenched itself from his breast and the man reacted with a speed that belied perception. Both hands came up toward him but not to brandish those bloodied blades. Rather the man thrust out his hands, palms open but for finger and thumb holding each hilt, toward him.
White hot agony exploded through his breast and the world vanished into darkness.
Malger lurched upright with a horrified cry and clutched at his chest, breath heaving as he scrabbled against the cot trying to discern where he was, or if he was even alive. He could still feel the sharp, stabbing agony of crushing pain clutching at his ribs but realized a moment later that it was only his heaving lungs igniting spasms of pain from his multitude of injuries.
With a pained moan he dropped back onto the cot and scrubbed at his face with his hands. Whose horrible memory was that, he thought, for it was not one he had ever witnessed before. The emotions that pulsed through it were no less intense for his not having shared them with the poor soul who survived that murderous attack. For several minutes he lay there staring up at the grate above and tried to still his rapid breaths but he found it difficult. His stamina was pushed to its limits and beyond from lack of worthwhile sleep.
After a time he pushed himself upright and leaned back against the cool stones of the cell wall. The evening light was wan under unseen clouds but the rain had passed at some point while he was trapped in other people's remembered pain. Most of all he felt the absence of Nocturna keenly, as painful in its intensity as any of his wounds if not moreso by a large degree.
"Why?" He croaked hoarsely, his throat raw from screaming in his sleep, "Why have you turned your back on me, Mosha?" he asked the silence of the cell, but there was no answer. Reaching to his breast, still naked after Elvmere's attentions that morning, and took up the pendant of Nocturna he wore. He raised it to his lips and pressed them against the cool metal. "I miss you."
He felt his eyes drifting heavily closed as he sat there but he was unable to stay the inexorable weight of sleep pressing heavily upon his breast. When the shadows of light sleep slipped over his eyes he saw again the strobing flash of light upon a man's cold, merciless face. His hair was as black as his cloak and what was once a neatly trimmed beard was wildly unkempt. Blood streaked the pale flesh and the glow of a lightening flash caused his dark eyes to flicker when they came to bear on him.
With a start Malger awoke, jerking his head back reflexively only to slam it painfully against the unyielding stone of the cell wall. He lurched forward with a grunt and clutched the back of his head. Even awake the visions plagued him. He feared for his very sanity and, for a moment, wished for the peaceful surcease of death.
Some time later a knock at the door roused him from another half-awake nodding with a grumbling groan. His head added its fresh ache to the general discomfort of his body. "Malger, it is Elvmere." The lock thunked and rattled as a key worked to release it.
"Go away, Elvmere." Malger groused irritably, "I am in no mood to suffer your prodding a second time." His chest heaved as he tried to breathe but no matter how hard he tried he could not find his wind. His body felt flush but not feverish, the effects of sleep trying to win out over wakefulness.
The door pushed open at last and the priest awkwardly made his way in while trying to hold up a serving tray. "I only bring food and water, Malger. You must eat." Leaving the door standing open the priest, young in body due to the fey touch of Metamor's curse but old in true years, carefully set the tray down onto the small tool that served double duty as a table. He quirked a brow when he looked back to Malger. "That is odd."
"What?" Malger found he was achingly hungry but he also found that he had no will to actually suffer the effort of lifting food to muzzle.
Elvmere turned to face him, crouching to be on eye level. "I could have sworn your bruises were considerably darker this morning." He did not, however, make any move to examine them by touch. The illusion was actually more accurate in revealing them for under his fur they would be not be visible.
"They're bruises." Malger sighed as he looked down at himself, noting that they were indeed somewhat less malignant looking. "They fade."
Elvmere looked at him for a few more moments and then shrugged, "I guess they do." He shook his head and turned to the tray. "You said your appetite was weak this morning, so I did not think you would want anything particularly heavy. I just brought some soup, more broth than anything really, and bread." He looked across to the minstrel, "And I won't go anywhere until you finish."
Malger grunted and rolled his eyes while his stomach growled hungrily. "Where's Muri?"
"Still supping with the Earl. Two of Grimmam's men came with us from the caravan, if you recall? They're in attendance as well and speak in your favor." Spooning soup from the tureen into a bowl he held it out toward him. Malger cupped it between his hands, muzzle watering at the savory boquette of flavors, but they shook and a little spilled over the rim of the bowl. Elvmere leaned close and steadied it before taking it back. "Here, let me."
Neither of them noticed the small form huddled under the cot watching them with gleaming golden eyes.
"How do they speak of me?" Malger huffed after managing to choke down a spoonful. The broth was not unpleasant in the least but his palette rebelled at the thought of food. His stomach was only more argumentative, striking him with a wave of nausea so severe he had to push Elvmere's hand away with a groan.
"You refrained from slaughtering them." Elvmere replied gently with a look of concern. He held the spoon until Malger's nausea settled and offered it again. "You must eat, Malger."
"I would like nothing more, Elvmere, but it only sickens me."
"You will have to suffer it. We do not wish you to perish by starvation."
"Ah," Malger clenched his gut against the grumbling of his stomach and forced down another spoon of broth. "Only to die to the headsman's axe, aye?"
"Don't grouse so!" Elvmere admonished, spooning up more broth. "The Earl has listened to Murikeer and I, and Grimmam's men as well. Grimmam's son came, if you recall, and tells the Earl that the caravan master pushed him at your blade. He says you took a blow to avoid striking him down."
Malger nodded and brushed his elbow against one of his more severe gashes. While he could not remember the source of each injury, that had been one of the more painful and stood out from his foggy recollection of the fight. Only his foes stood clearly in memory; what they had done years past to another but recalled as clearly as if Malger had suffered their touch, and the moments that brought them before his blades. "I was not after him."
"Nor any of them." Elvmere held the spoon steady to let the minstrel sip from its edge. Malger felt his gorge rise up but choked it down with the thin, savory broth. "I watched, Malger. In horror, but I watched. You did all you were able to avoid striking any of the soldiers. So far as I saw you only injured one of the two who came with us when you bit his nose."
"He still has it?"
Elvmere chuffed a soft laugh, "He does, though with a new piercing."
"Perhaps he will find a decent decoration for it."
The head of the quarrel was simple iron, but more than deadly enough for such a simple device. He could see how the iron was discolored from age, dark pits of rust standing out on its metal surface as clearly as craters on the moon. His heart was in his throat, both in fear and his hasty flight from the young man holding the crossbow upon which the quarrel was knocked.
Slowly his eyes came up from the tip of death held steady upon him and met the man's eyes; gray eyes, hard and cold while beneath them a victorious smile pulled at the corners of a humorless mouth. "You'll look good on the floor of my estate." Thorne hissed tauntingly and clenched down on the trigger of the crossbow. The bowstring cracked loudly, hurtling the bolt down its slot, and fear exploded through its target along with a wild surge of energy.
The bolt wavered in its brief flight of perhaps a half dozen paces, bobbling and then shrieking past his ear close enough to brush his fur.
"I killed you!" Murikeer lurched up in fright and tried to run but a sudden savage grip on his arm forestalled him. He turned to lash out at the restraint but a hand pushed against the center of his chest swiftly and strongly. His wild swing came up short, missing Elvmere's nose by an inch. He caught himself before he attempted a backswing and simply let his arm drop. After a moment Elvmere released his other arm and settled back onto his side of the huge bed.
"These dreams are one fright after another." Murikeer hissed as he scrubbed at his face, feeling the fur of his fingers though his eye only saw pale human flesh.
"Aye." Elvmere turned and dropped his legs over the opposite side of the bed to sit up. He leaned forward, hands on his knees, and let out a huff of breath. "Malger's suffering moreso than we, I fear."
"Eh?" Murikeer stretched and glanced toward the casement; sunlight peeked past the drapes. He had been long into the night with the Earl, his men, the two from the caravan, and others sharing war stories. For the most part Murikeer said little until Thomas braced him to show the Earl the illusion of Nasoj's towers falling to destruction. "With his injuries, and not eating, I can little doubt."
Elvmere shook his head and looked back over his shoulder, "No, worse. What does he do, Murikeer? What has he told us he does?"
"He dreams?" Murikeer's brows furrowed, "He walks the dream realm?"
"Aye. And he shares."
"Oh, ah. He shares memories. He takes from that sharing the emotions of the memories."
"He shares horrific memories, Muri." Elvmere stood and stretched before shaking himself and adjusting the loose linen of his leggings. "Instead of sharing memories of pleasant things, he takes the horror from others' memories. If we're suffering nightmares of our own memories, imagine what he suffers?"
"Ouch," Murikeer winced.
"I don't think he's slept even as well as we have since coming here, and we have not been sleeping well at all."
"Did he eat?"
"As much as I could force him to, but that was far too little. I will take more food up to him shortly." Elvmere spoke through the simple broadcloth of his shirt as he drew it on. "Who did you kill, if I might ask?"
"Thorne." Murikeer touched his eye patch. "The man who murdered Llyn." Throwing back the coverlet he stood and took his shirt from the hook upon which it hung. "He was my pupil once, long before he came to attack Metamor. He tried to kill me when I changed."
Elvmere murmured a consolatory sigh with a nod, "He failed, you did not."
"Would that he had succeeded and Llyn would still live."
"Mayhap, but mayhap not. He became one of Nasoj's pawns and joined the attack on Metamor that may have lead to Llyn's death in other ways. Do not trouble yourself for things beyond your power, Muri." Elvmere said gently.
"Aye." Murikeer pulled on his own shirt and tucked it under his belt after adjusting his own leggings. "Let us look in on our master. His weighing out comes on the morrow."
"A nightmare that plagues me with every waking moment." Falling in beside Murikeer they left the room. A couple of guards sat on chairs just outside the door and offered brief nods and smiles in greetings before joining them.