The sun began its final descent over the horizon. The two scouts knew that, when stealth didn't work, speed was the best option. But even then, after long hours of running the two began to lag. Seeing his companions falter, the traveler also slowed his pace.
Arla, who led the other two, jerked her head one way, and lead them toward a thicket the three could rest in for a few moments. The two Long Scouts, despite long, nervous hours of training and in the field, were exhausted from the mad dash over unforgiving terrain. After a quarter of an hour, they began to look for a place to spend the night, or a portion of it.
The man stopped to look at a low branch off a tree, and pulled out some twine.
"What are you doing?" Finbar asked suspiciously.
The wolf-helmet seemed to emanate a sly sort of cockiness.
"Setting up a nasty little trap for the little buggers trailing us," he said gleefully. The two scouts watched, as he tied the twine to the branch, then unrolled it to a small knot in tree across from it.
"So what do we call you?" Arla inquired.
"My name?" the stranger started aback. "I haven't told you my name yet?"
Arla and Finbar shook their heads at the mock-wolf's astonishment.
"Oh!" he sounded surprised. "I guess you can call me Drake then."
"Drake?" Finbar said, not looking convinced.
"What do you want? You don't like that name?" Drake said, keeping a light humor. "Maybe something like Spike, or Butch would be better."
"Don't worry about it, Drake," Arla interrupted.
"Okay." Drake looked around, and, spotting a tree across from the branch, threw the spool across at it. He started around the branch to stretch the line.
"A tree branch in the face isn't going to do that much." Finbar sneered.
Drake considered the situation. Looking at Finbar, he stated, "You know, you're right."
He walked over to the branch, and reach back for his satchel. Opening it, he drew out a container He picked a crossbow bolt from inside and, with a swift motion, jammed it completely through the tree branch. He repeated the process four more times as he drew arrows from the container. He put the block back in the satchel and walked around the branch.
"My good ferret," Drake announced, "if you could please pull that branch back."
"My name's Finbar," the scout glowered. But he did as he was asked.
"And Miss...?" Drake asked pointedly at the collie.
"Arla," she answered.
"Miss Arla, could you just tighten the line around that knot in that oak."
She complied, and Drake tightened the twine and tied it around the tree he was at.
"Okay, that should do it," he announced with pride. Playfully, he followed, "Now let's go lead some false trails, and make some more tripwires."
Arla shook her head in amusement. Finbar wasn't too thrilled.
Night had already fallen by the time they found a place to camp. Up a rocky incline, the three found a place they could relax hidden from view, yet still oversee the valley. Long Scouts were careful to cover their tracks, and the stranger did nearly as well a job at his own when they finally converged. They did manage to find the time to set up various other booby traps and false trails during the day, though.
"Thanks, mister," Arla said, her eyes searching the forest for any signs of movement. She tried to hide the disappointment of not confirming the position nor size of the Lutin army.
Drake groaned as he sat down, his joints popping.
"I'm getting too old for this," he muttered. He took off the harness to which his spear and crossbow hung. His satchel came off next, then he stripped the sheathed sword from his side. He stretched, twisting around. His back protested with audible cracks. "Oomph. Much better."
Finbar came over the rise.
"I've covered up the best I could," he said, exhausted. He scowled at the stranger, "I would like to know why you led us up here, though. If they find our trail, then we're pinned here with no place to go except the grave."
"What makes you think we can't go anywhere," Drake commented, not intimidated by the ferret's attitude. The man simply pointed upward. Both Longs followed its path up the mountain. The tops were obscured by the depths of dusk.
Finbar just growled at the traveler's optimistic attitude as he rummaged through his bag for food.
"Here," Drake stated, tossing the deer-hide sack he had somehow managed to retain, "I have some leftover, it'll probably go bad in a day, so we should finish it off soon."
Finbar glared again, but accepted the offering. Inside the skin were pieces of deer meat, smoked and dried.
"So what brings you here, anyways... Drake?" Arla asked, her sharp canines ripping off a piece from a deer strip. "I haven't seen you before at Metamor."
"Metamor?" Drake inquired, his head cocking to the side, the wolf-shaped helmet amplifying Drake's curiosity. He shook is head and reached up to his helmet. With a click, the wolf's face and ears detached from the rest of the helmet, unfolding down to Drakes chest, flattening out to some sort of breastplate, "I'm that far west already?"
"You're not from Metamor?" Arla breathed in astonishment and realization, looking at Drake's features.
They were sharp, as if carved from stone, hardened with age. A trimmed grayed beard covered his face. His eyes, overshadowed by low eyebrows, he yellow-flecked blue irises seemed to penetrate into her, lending his face a feral look. His nose was also sharp, like a beak.
He continued to dismantle his helmet, as the back part folded behind him to protect his back. His hair, like his beard, was also cut close to his head. In all, his face was reminiscent of the very animal his armor portrayed.
He bit off a chunk of deer meat. He chewed and swallowed before answering.
"Nope, not that I haven't been there before. The last time I was..." he burrowed his brow in thought. "Gee. Um, what year is it?"
Arla told him. Drake whistled, then shook his head, chuckling.
"Man, I can't even remember. It's been a really long time."
Finbar spoke, "Then how did you make your way over here? Metamor is the only way to get into the Northlands."
"Well, it's sort of a long story," Drake answered.
"For years now, I've been wandering around the world, probably since I was about 18, maybe even a little older. Many months ago, I was sailing solo on the eastern coast of this continent. When a freak typhoon smacked me against the coastline. Stranded, with no food and water, I somehow survived. I just started walking west. I eventually reached a huge mountain range and started climbing northward.
"I came down the other side, then started to make my way west, again. I don't know why, but I usually get this sort of intuition: a sort of compulsion that says that I need to be somewhere. So I started walking.
"Then those short scallions decide to attack me. I led them on a merry chase, but they're a little tenacious. Aren't they?"
Arla smiled. Drake had a sort of rolling way of talking, emotional and energetic. Most of all, it was uplifting. She found her ears straining to listen to him. She nodded in affirmation to his observance.
"Damn, that's the first smile I've seen in a long time," he said to Arla, joy lighting his eyes. "Almost forgot what they look like. Pretty face too."
Arla felt herself blushing, and put her hand in front of her smile, as if trying to hide it. It wrapped around her muzzle, bringing her back to reality. Her face darkening in anger she knew all too well and embraced.
"You aren't afraid of us?" she asked. Drake's eyebrows knotted in confusion. "I mean, we aren't, well..." She bowed her head in her own confusion, and sorrow, but mostly anger.
He smiled, "Well, I don't really take into account of differences, mainly because I lived in Os-Var-Khai for awhile, and quite a few people walk around as animals. So I figured that there should be a good reason for your appearance, anyway."
Finbar muttered, "Yeah, like that bastard Nasoj."
"Nasoj?"
"He laid siege to Metamor Keep about seven years back," Arla explained. "He cast a spell that lingered, and turned all the people into babies, women, or animals. Our own wizards countered it, but his spell was too powerful. Now if people stay too long near the Keep, they become adolescents, change sex, or... this." She growled the last line.
Drake's eyes furrowed in thought, "Sounds like a disreputable person. He one of those small guys?"
Finbar shook his head also growling, "He's a greedy human sorcerer, demon raiser, and practitioner of the foul arts." He proceeded to tell Drake a small background of the wizard.
Drake's features darkened. "Well, I haven't had an enemy in a long time... I guess I couldn't go wrong by declaring war on this guy."
Arla was lost in her own thoughts as Finbar described their situation to the person. He didn't say too much though. Just that they were scouts. She could tell that Finbar didn't trust the man much. He only glossed over subjects, giving generalities. She didn't like the fact that he had, despite in their desperate situation, made light of their situation. Arla felt uplifted and relaxed when he spoke, when she should be anything but.
After a while, Drake stretched, and yawned. He reached to grab a deer strip when he found it was all gone.
"Ah, man," he whined, "Out of food. Do you guys mind, I thought I saw some mountain goat up the face a little way. You mind if I get one."
Finbar laughed harshly, "Only if you want to break your fool neck by falling in the dark. Besides, what are you going to do, eat it raw."
Drake looked confused, "Yeah, what's wrong with that?"
Finbar stared incredulously at the old human, who began laughing at his stare.
"Just have a fire going when I get back," Drake said in his mirth.
"We can't have a fire. It'll attract everybody for miles around," Arla protested.
Drake pointed out to the river out in the valley. The setting moon produced just enough light to see it, but the image of the valley was beginning to become obscured.
"That's fog starting to build. In about an hour or two, the fog'll be so thick you can walk on it. As for smoke, well, we're pretty high up, so there won't be too much to worry about." He reached into his pack. "Here's a bunch of kindling I pulled while I was being chased. I'll see if I can catch a couple of 'em. As I don't have much more wood, we need to make this go pretty far." He turned to leave
Arla spoke up, pointing to Drake's spear and crossbow, "Don't you need you're weapons."
He shook his head. "Too messy," was his answer.
Then his dark form was swallowed by darkness.
Finbar waited a few moments before speaking.
"I don't trust that guy. There is just something too..." he groped for a word.
Arla nodded in agreement.
"I know what you mean. Despite his age, it's like he is... childish, innocent. I like him, though, whether I can trust him or not. He made me smile, and it's been a long time since I've had a good reason to." She choked in Caroline's memory, and of Craig's death.
It was Finbar's turn to nod. He, too, remembered what Nasoj's forces did to their fellow Longs. He also remembered their raid for vengeance in retaliation.
"What really rubs me," Arla spoke, "though, is the way he reminds me of Rickkter, except, more open."
"I know what you mean," Finbar answered. "He has that same core, some sort of...quality, that could only be brought by experience. But, whereas Rickkter is to be so arrogant, this guy seems, as you said... boyish. It's like he never grew up. Is he insane, or senile?"
Arla didn't answer, but stared out at the valley, her eyes not looking for anything in particular, but yet taking in every aspect of her surroundings, instinctively keeping watch even though her thoughts pervaded her mind. Finbar muttered under his breath as he dug around for his collapsible shovel in his pack, readying a fire pit.
It was an hour before Drake returned, still unmasked. Across his shoulders were three goats. Finbar had finished the fire pit, the block of dirt and grass sitting on a piece of cloth. It would be replaced later, hopefully concealing the presence campfire ever existed. The fire hadn't been started yet, though.
While the two Long Scouts worked on starting the fire, Drake prepared the goats, deftly slicing them with a dagger drawn from his belt. The traveler had bled them before returning to camp. After putting a tarp down, he skinned them. While Finbar tended the fire, Arla cut the bones away from the meat, and Drake scraped the pelts, slapped tanning solution on one, and stretched it over the infantile fire; "It's a quick and dirty method of curing the hide," he explained.
Time passed, the meat smoked, and Drake fashioned the hides into sacks to hold the meat. When finished, he yawned and stretched.
"I don't know about you two, but who's going to take watch. I had a pretty decent sleep for the past few nights, and you guys look a little high-strung. I would offer the first watch..."
"That is all right," Finbar interrupted, "but I can handle the first watch. You can take tonight off, save it for tomorrow."
He smiled at Finbar. "Don't quite trust me yet, eh?"
Finbar stoically regarded Drake, who laughed at Finbar's reaction, or lack of it.
"I don't blame you. Besides, what was that old adage? Oh yes, 'better safe than sorry.' Well, that leads to a long life," Drake rambled. He sighed, "Well, if that's your choice, good night to you both."
"Good night."