Breccia's Place - Grott Part 1

The battle had been a fierce one. The evidence lay strewn between the dunes, the dead sprawled like the discarded toys of giants. The thirsty sands had swallowed the blood, and had already begun to sift over some of the fallen.

She stood on the crest of the dune, looking down at the carnage. Most of the fallen were orcs. That was not surprising. The orcs lay claim to the desert, and fiercely defended their territory from any trespassers they could catch. From the signs left, this group was a skirmish party, out looking for trouble.

They had found it. How many there had been of the travellers before the orcs fell upon them, she didn't know. But only two of them had joined the orcs in death on the sands. The rest had either left, or fled.

She descended the dune carefully. The orcs were unlikely to return to a place where so many of them had died, at least not soon. They were a superstitious bunch, and believed the desert would have to ‘eat' the dead before they would venture near again.

Bad for them. They lost whatever their fallen had carried that way. Good for her. While she could create food and water as she needed, she found the food she made tasteless, and the texture hard for her to eat.

Ransacking what they left would replenish her dwindling supplies of real food. And who knew what else they might have? But first...

The two travellers drew her, and she bent over the first. She hissed as she touched him; the sun had heated the chain armour he wore to a painful temperature. She turned the body, and looked into the dead eyes sadly, before speaking a quiet appeasement to his spirit. She mixed a few drops of her water with the sand of the desert to make mud, and drew with it a rune on the forehead of the fallen stranger. It shimmered for a moment, before drying, and blowing away. This soul would not be returned to unlife by any fell power. She had seen to that.

"No. I don't think it an unnecessary waste of time. Too many dark things walk through here." She did not look around as she spoke, but cocked her head to listen. "I followed you here. You can suffer while I do what I believe needed."

A little breeze kicked up sand around her, but she ignored it, and it ceased as she stepped through it. "Patience. All things come in time," she said, and walked over to the second of the fallen defenders.

She stood for a moment looking down at him, before crouching beside him. He had fought valiantly, it seemed, for there were many dead around him. The spear thrust through his belly - through the hardened leather he wore - had ended his stand. One hand still clutched the spear that pinned him grotesquely to the ground. She mixed a few more drops of water into the mud in her hand, and dipped a finger in. As she touched him to draw the symbol that would guard the soul from summons or other interference, she stopped. A drop of sweat trembled on the cheek of the fallen warrior, and she stared at it for a moment in surprise.

She pursed her lips as emotions warred within her, then cocked her head again, as if listening.

"But only pain can come from such," she replied in a soft voice to the silence around her. She listened again, then nodded. "I would do that anyway," she said tartly. "Do you think so little of me as to doubt that? But... I will try the other first. You led me here. You deal with it."

Evidently, the unseen made no response, for she sniffed, then wiped the mud from her hands. She reached for the spear, and began a sing-song chant, a blue glow beginning to shine around her.

Waking again surprised him. He had been certain that the last time the world had faded away would be the end of the pain. But pain had found him again, and he tasted blood on his lips. This was worse than the last time. Why couldn't he just die, and be done with it? His parched tongue moved in his mouth, and he wished for the end.

He lay still, listening to the sifting sounds of the sand moving, and waiting for the darkness to pull him back. It was not in him to pray to the gods for help or death - he had spurned them for too long, and would not change that now. It was better this way.

Not that he had no regrets. Who could say that they had none? Right now, he was regretting daring to trust the ones he travelled with.

We can use you. You're strong, and tough... we need a warrior with us. Will you come? they had asked. And he had come. He could picture each one of their faces. Faces that had looked down on him when the sudden attack was over. Faces he had defended with his life, because they had asked him as they would ask one of their own. He's done for, they had said. Leave him. We can't carry him, they said, as he gasped their names. Let's get out of here before they come back.

And they had left him. Hadn't even the mercy to put a knife to his throat. He could have understood that. It was what his own would have done.

A sound from near him made him open his one good eye - a sword cut in the battle had claimed the other - but there was only darkness.

No... a thin line of light showed along his cheek. Something was covering his eyes. Or his eye. Exerting as much strength as he could muster, he moved his hand to his face.

He froze. The voice was low, and soft, and the tone matter-of-fact. It spoke in the Common tongue, and he was proud that he had learned enough of that language to understand. And to reply. He turned his face towards the voice, the agony in his belly forgotten.

He closed his eye again. "No." The word came out more bitterly than he had expected. "Leave to die in sun. Not come," he managed, before gasping for breath.

"Easy. That's enough." A cool hand touched him, and he felt wetness on his lips. "Drink. Just a little for now."

The wetness was a cloth soaked in water. He sucked at it greedily. It was gone too soon. "More?" he asked.

"Not yet. Too much and you will be sick. Go to sleep." The person beside him moved away, and he felt a pang of fear.

"Wait?" he asked desperately. His fear gave him a strength he didn't know he had, and he flung out his arm regardless of the agony that the movement awoke within him. His fingers brushed chainmail. "Not go..." he begged, trying to grasp the other, and failing, his hand falling to the sand as his strength ran out. "Please..."

His hand was taken up by another, and held for a moment, before his arm was tucked in beside him again. "You need to rest," the voice told him gently. "This doesn't help you."

"Please?" The word was strange on his lips, and he hated himself as he heard the pleading in his own voice. "Not leave alone?" Silence answered him, and he felt despair. Then his hand was taken up again, and squeezed gently.

"I won't leave you here to die," the other told him, and he felt the touch of a hand on his forehead. "I promise."

Promises. He had heard promises before. Too many times... ‘He's too stupid to worry about.' ‘We can tell him anything we like.' ‘Who would believe him over us?' they would say, not caring he was listening. Too many broken promises. Too many things conveniently forgotten.

Why had he ever left home? Not that ‘home' was any better. They were a bitter, broken people since their city had fallen.

He closed his eye again, shutting out the thin line of light, and the fear, and the despair.

But the hand still gripped his, and he felt the other settle in beside him to sit.

"I know he has," she replied to the silence, as she tucked the troll's hand down beside him, and covered him warmly. Evening was falling, the swift desert twilight was even now upon them. The night winds would be cool, the heat leaching from the land into the endless sky. She moved over to her brazier, and shifted it a little closer to him, so that he would be warmed by the fire it held. That he had finally fallen asleep was obvious.

"I know he will. There is little hope of anything else," she said quietly, as she poked the coals into a flame. "But I will heal him anyway. You may call me what you will."

She tilted her head, as if listening, but she said no more, and busied herself by finding a small bag from her pack. From it, she pulled a cloth, which she spread on the sand, and smoothed out. Another, smaller bag was within the first, and she drew it out as well, emptying the contents into her hands.

The silence around her grew heavy, as even the breeze which blew about her stilled. She sat, waiting, watching the horizon.

As the first bright edge of the moon appeared, she began a low chant. When it fully cleared the horizon, she closed her eyes, and tossed the stones she held onto the painted cloth that lay before her.

For a long moment, she remained still, the last syllable of her chant still shaping her lips. Then, she opened her eyes, and leaned forward to examine her augury.

She blinked, and reached a hand towards the stones that lay in a distinct pattern before her.

"So it is to be thus... Choices. Always there are choices. Nevertheless, I have made mine. I will not change it now. Let things proceed. What will be... will be." She lifted her head as the breeze picked up again.

"No. Let me be. You led me here. My path will change now. I may follow again. Or I may not. It is done. The decision will no longer be mine. For I will not kill him." She swept the stones up, and put them and the cloth away again.

Almost unwillingly, she got to her feet, and went to stand over the troll. His face still wore the expression of pain and despair that had touched her heart. She crouched down, and watched him sleep for a time, before she sighed, and placed her hand on the bandage on his torso. Once more she worked her magicks, pouring healing into him, targeting the inner hurts left by the spear - both going in, and coming out - until her power was exhausted.

She collapsed onto her blanket, curling into a ball. She sighed, closed her eyes, and covered her face with her arm.

He awoke from strange dreams of half-heard conversations, voices that changed and shifted tone and timbre, with words in tongues that were always just on the edge of being understood. The dream voices faded, until only one voice spoke, and he gradually recognised it as the one who had spoken to him when he had last awakened.

"I will not," he heard. "Enough." There was a long pause. "I said ‘no'. You do not listen." He strained to hear, but could hear no other speaker.

He opened his eye again, finding his face still bound. The pain - both in his eye and in his belly - had dulled, and he moved a little, and touched his belly. A moist bandage bound him loosely there, and he explored it carefully, before raising his hand to his face.

"No. Let it be." A hand caught his, and drew it away as his fingers found the bandage around his eyes. "There are reasons it is there. Moving your eyes around will not help the injured one heal. Covering them both keeps them still." His hand was squeezed once before it was released. "You are healing well. It will be another day before I will let you eat food, but I will give you more water now."

He turned his face towards the voice. Low and gentle, it was obviously female. That was all he could tell, though.

He wasn't very hungry; he was in too much pain to want to eat. But his thirst was overwhelming. Once again, a cloth was held to his lips, and he sucked at it until it was dry. It helped, but wasn't enough.

The cloth was wiped across his cheeks, and forehead, and the coolness it left behind it was welcome. He closed his eye again as he felt her hands touch him, and draw back the bandages on his middle. He gritted his teeth and awaited the pain that was sure to come, but the cool hand merely rested on him, and he heard the soft voice of his caregiver rise in a chant.

A gentle warmth spread through him, bringing with it further easing of the pain that gripped him, and he relaxed as the magicks washed through him. The chanting drew to a close, after a time, and the warmth faded. The hands replaced the bandage deftly.

"I'm going to need to adjust your sunshade," she told him. "So please don't move around. I don't want to step on you by accident."

He nodded, and heard her get up, and walk around him. A sudden splash of heat on his face told him that the shade was moved, and that the sun was high. He listened as the stranger who tended him went about the chore.

"You not leave," he said, after a minute, his voice still only a hoarse whisper.

"I told you I wouldn't." A quick series of raps pounded some form of support into the sand. "I keep my promises." Another series of raps. "No, it will stay up if you leave it alone. The sand is firmer underneath the top layer."

"No." Cloth flapped in the breeze, and the heat of the sun abruptly left his face. "But you should leave it alone too. Don't thrash around, or you'll knock the supports over."

"No, you and I are the only people here." Her movements ceased. "There. That should take care of it. Shush. I don't care if it's lopsided. He can't see it, and it works."

"So. What's your name?" The footsteps paused beside him, and there was a light jingle of chain as she crouched or knelt beside him.

"My name is Preeki." The chain jingled, and he felt the wet cloth on his face again. "Why shouldn't I?"she asked acerbically. "It's not a secret. And I asked him first."

A light breeze blew over him, drying the water on his face, and cooling him. He heard it ripple the sunshade over his head.

Insane or not, the hands that tended him were kind. Had he ever had someone show him kindness? He knew that it existed. He had seen others treat each other that way.

But never him. His own people had little, even for their own. It was only when he left that he found there were other ways of thinking. Other ways of treating people than the harsh indifference he had grown up with.

Not that he had tried to be kind to anyone else. He was a warrior. Warriors just weren't nice to people. If you started doing things like that, you would lose respect.

Did he have respect now? He thought about it for a time, as he listened to the footsteps of his caregiver move around the encampment. You don't leave people you respect to die alone in the desert. He licked his lips.

"Yes?" Her voice came from closer than he had thought. She was merely very quiet.

"More water? Please?" That word again. But it felt needed, somehow, and less like the begging he equated it with.

There was a long pause. "A little," came her reply, at last. "It's hard for your gut to heal if it's working, Grott. I know you're thirsty, but if I give you too much, it could cause you problems inside."

The cloth touched his lips again, and he drank. The water had a faint musty taste.

She had drugged him, he realised, as he sank slowly into a sleep he could not fight off. His last thought was that at least it had tasted better than what his people used.

She drew away the bandage from the troll's eyes, and peered down at his face, carefully touching the edges of the wound that had claimed his eye.

"Yes. I know. But it will heal entirely, I think. He may even see from it again. It is the strength of his people, to heal so." She set her hand over it, and released the last of her power in healing. "But a little help will go a long way." She drew her hand back, and looked down at the face of her patient.

"Hush. You overstep yourself. There can be no such between us." Her eyes flashed in sudden anger. "I have no need to aid you. I have given you no promises. I can turn, and go from here, and not return. Who will you ask then?"

As the silence hung, she sighed, and looked down once more. Carefully, she washed the face of the troll, clearing away the sweat and sand that had been trapped by the bandage. He moved in his sleep, and she froze, waiting for him to settle again, before she folded a clean bandage, and replaced it, tying it securely, but not tightly. She looked at it, then cocked her head.

"Yes," she said. "Soon. Another day. And he will be well enough. Then... we'll see what will come. Until then..."

She rose, and shook out her blanket, and sat down upon it. "I have things to do. Let me rest, and do my work. If you are so eager to aid me... let me know if anything approaches us." She closed her eyes, and rested her hands on her knees. She relaxed slowly, still sitting, and slumped a little, her breaths falling in a strange rhythm.

A little breeze danced around her, but it moved away after a time, teased the edges of the sunshade, danced across the sleeping troll, and travelled a little way out into the desert, where it spun little dust devils away across the dunes.

Her hand was on him again when he awoke, resting on him, while her soft chant rose and fell. He listened to the pitch of her voice, and drifted as the warmth spread through him.

"So soon?" There was a weariness in the voice of his caretaker, and the hand resting on him was removed. "I'll need to check the dosage next time. That was supposed to keep you out far longer..."

"No next time. Please." He touched his own belly, feeling the air moving over it. His bandage had been removed. "Want stay awake." He raised his hand to the bandage over his eyes.

"Leave that alone," he was told, and he rubbed his hand. "If you behave, and that means no messing with your eyes just yet, I'll help you sit up. And find you something to eat, and drink."

"Want see," he protested, but knew he would comply. The fact that he was as weak as a kitten galled him.

"You will see soon enough," she told him. "It hasn't even been two days yet. I want you to rest, and heal."

"We'll get you sitting and then..." She broke off suddenly, as a gust of wind blew through the encampment, and she scrambled to her feet.

"From where?" she demanded, staying still, and listening. "You stay put, and don't make any noise... I'll keep it away from you. You don't need to get torn up further."

He felt her touch his shoulder, and then move away. He struggled to rise, but a sharp stabbing pain in his gut sent him back down. He raised his hand to his eyes again, but hesitated.

And then the fight began. Something shrieked in a high, quavering voice, and he heard her shout in response. A noisy burst of magicks close by him sent a wash of icy air over him, and he held his breath.

The fight seemed to last forever, but finally he heard the thud of a body striking the sand. His hand crept to the bandage over his eyes and reached for the knot.

"I told you to leave that alone." Her voice, if it was weary before, was doubly so now. Her hand caught his, and pulled it from his face.

"Something that should have stayed dead." She sighed, and sat down with a jingle of chain. "Give me a few minutes, and I'll help you sit."

He reached out his hand, towards her, and his fingers brushed skin. And came away wet. "You hurt?" he asked, feeling an anger, and a shame rise in him. He should have been able to defend himself, not just lay there helpless while some woman he didn't even know (and a crazy woman at that) fought for him.

"I'll be alright. So will you. Even though you tried to do something. You're bleeding again." She sighed. "And I have no strength left to heal you..."

He felt the breeze brush over him, and listened as his caregiver removed her mail, dropping it in the sand. The sound of water trickling into a bowl reminded him of his thirst, but he realised she was tending her hurts, when he heard her hiss in pain. He could wait for her.

"Will you? That would be... appreciated." She hissed again, and he heard a cloth wrung out. "And I thank you again."

"The desert. There are many spirits who walk here. Many have things to tell you, if you listen."

He swallowed. A crazy necromancer? This was not necessarily a good place for him to be. And yet... She didn't feel like a necromancer. Necromancers could heal, though. And you never know what they might want...

"Some of them may be. But they haven't been people for a very long time. Most are the world spirits. The sand. The wind. The stones. Totem creatures."

A sense of relief filled him. He had heard such as that before. "Preeki is shaman?"

"So we are called. We have our own name for ourselves." There was a rustle. "All right. Let's get you fed, and watered." She knelt down behind him. "Ready?"

"Yes." He braced himself. Her hands gripped his shoulders, and he sat up slowly, using his arms to push. She helped him, supporting him with more strength than he had expected. There was a sound as she shoved something behind him.

"Lean back," she said, and he did. Whatever was behind him was fairly solid, and lumpy, for all that it was cushioned by what felt like a folded blanket. "That should hold you. Not the best, but what I have available."

She moved away again, and he heard the sound of water pouring once more, and the sound of a spoon in a pot.

"Here," she said, once more beside him. "Hold out your hand." He did so, and felt a bowl set into it. "The spoon is on the right hand side. Be careful, it's a little warm."

"And here... this will help a little." He felt a folded blanket laid across his stomach and lap. "That should help protect you from the stew, if you drop any, and from pressure and heat if you want to set the bowl down." Something else was tucked beside him. "And this is water. It's full. Try not to gulp it all down at once. I don't want to have to clean up your spew." Her tone brooked no nonsense.

He nodded. "Yes. Will drink slow," he agreed. He set the bowl down carefully in his lap, and felt for the water. The flask was cold, and the stopper easily opened. He filled his mouth, then forced himself to close the flask, and tuck it back beside him. He held the water in his mouth for a moment, feeling his parched tissues soaking it in, before letting it trickle slowly down his throat.

It was blissful. And there was an entire flask there for him to drink. He picked the bowl up again, and raised the spoon cautiously.

It wasn't that hot. He took a mouthful. It was nothing fancy, but had been made with care, and he suddenly realised he was ravenous. He chewed slowly. He doubted she would want to clean up that, either. He alternated a few mouthfuls from the bowl with sips of water, and listened to the sounds of the shaman moving around the camp. She was limping, he realised, from the sound of her footsteps.

He lowered the bowl to his lap. Why did she defend him? Why risk your life for a stranger? He wouldn't have done it, had their places been reversed. Would he have even looked at a stranger dying on the sand?

Maybe. If nothing else, he would likely have given them his knife. To die of thirst and pain is an ugly death, and he would wish it on no one. Especially since he now had a taste of it himself.

"Are you finished, Grott?" She had come to stand beside him, and he realised he was full.

"Tired," he said, realising he was. His stomach was full, and he was no longer so thirsty that it was all he could think about.

"Good. Your body wants to rest. Best to let it." She moved up beside him, and slid his back rest out from behind him, and helped him lay down again.

"I won't be going anywhere. You sleep. It's good for you. I'll wake you for dinner, when it's time."

He nodded, feeling the heaviness of sleep upon him. Her hands tucked something soft beneath his head, and he drifted off.

"No. I didn't drug him." She straightened slowly, painfully from beside him, and limped back to the brazier. "He is healing. His body makes him sleep."

She picked up the bowl and spoon from the sand where she had dropped them, and cleaned them, before setting them aside with her own.

She winced as she straightened again, and looked down at her leg. She was still bleeding, the stain on the bandage was widening again.

"And I have no power for magicks now," she sighed. "No. I will be fine. There are other ways."

She sat down carefully on her bedroll, and opened the pack that stood beside it, and pulled out a small pouch, as well as a needle and a twist of thread.

A sprig of dried herb from the pouch was ground finely between two stones, and mixed with a little water to make a paste. Carefully, she unbound her leg, and prodded the edges of the deep gashes. She clenched her jaw, and readied the needle.

She was shaking when she was done, faint and light-headed from the pain and the loss of blood, but the wounds were closed. These were the deepest ones, where the creature's claws had ripped through the thin leather leggings that were all she had worn for leg protection. What was left of them wasn't worth repairing.

She soaked a clean bandage with water and wrung it out. The paste she had made was smeared onto it, and she wrapped it over the oozing lines of stitches. A second bandage over top secured it, and she sat still, breathing heavily.

"No. I said I was alright," she said quietly, keeping her voice steady. The fight had been closer than she would admit. She had already used much of her power to heal the troll, and had barely enough left to fight with. The other injuries were minor in comparison, although she had ensured she cleaned them well, but she could easily have been the one to fall, leaving her ‘guest' helpless.

"I know. I will think of some way to take care of it," she said, glancing over at the body that lay on the sand on the other side of the encampment. She stood up, carefully, leaning on a staff for aid, and picked her way over to her fallen foe.

Rotting flesh clung to its bones, and sharpened teeth and claws marked it as a predator. Whatever it had been alive, it had become a horror when it had been ripped from its grave, and given a foul semblance of life.

She blessed the hand that had given her the staff she leaned on, for it had a slight dweomer enchanting its wood, and that alone had allowed her to strike it. A normal staff would have done nothing.

She crouched over it, but it bore nothing worth taking from it, and she was loathe to touch it.

"Perhaps..." she said thoughtfully, and bent to place her hand on the sand beside it. "Will you aid me?" she asked quietly. "Will you remove this?"

Silence hung around the camp, and she remained still, waiting to see if there would be a response. They would ask her to do things, and the wind had already shown a willingness...

The sands shifted, and slowly the corpse sank down, as if into mud, and disappeared from view. She, right beside it, felt no movement, and the sand beneath her feet remained solid, as ground was supposed to.

A small smile touched her lips. "Thank you," she said to the unseen spirits of the desert. "I am grateful."

She sat down again, wearily, and looked over towards the sleeping troll.
It would be tonight. Or perhaps tomorrow..

"I need to rest," she said at last. "I will awaken if you call me." She lay down, and drew one of her blankets over herself to protect herself from the sun.

The silence in the encampment when he awoke had worried him, but she answered his call sleepily, and came to sit with him. She had spoken with him for a little time, before she moved off again, to busy herself with something.

He had sat up alone, without aid; the weakness of this morning had left him as he slept. Had left him with the full belly, he realised. There was still an ache, but he felt much better, except that he was thirsty again. And except for one other thing.

He bore it as best as he could, but it finally became unbearable. The bandage had kept his hands away from it, and he had noticed it had been tended as he slept.

He turned his back to the encampment, not wanting his sharp-eyed - and tongued - caretaker to see what he was doing. He slipped the bandage off, and blinked as the light dazzled him.

His questing fingers touched the wound that had sliced through his left eye, and something came away in his hand as he felt it. He looked down at the bit of thread between his fingers. She had stitched him up, and as his body healed, it was pushing the knots out. No wonder he was so itchy. He scratched at the wound lightly, feeling the others let go and fall off.

He closed his good eye. The other was quite blind, and would be for some time. He could feel the orb in its socket, however. The eye would regenerate in time, possibly as little as a week or two. There were no bones in an eye, and it was bones that took the time to regrow. He was still young, and his natural regeneration was at its peak.

The sound of the footstep behind him made him duck his shoulders and wince inwardly. It was too late to put the bandage back on, now...

"I've brought you your dinner, Grott," the now familiar voice began, and he turned, consumed with curiosity to finally see his caregiver.

She was reaching for his shoulder, to let him know where she was when he saw her, and his eye widened in shocked surprise, and he could feel his jaw drop.

Unconsciously, he recoiled from her touch, pulling himself away from her, unable to stop the reaction. And unwilling to stop it.

Froglok! The hated creatures that had warred with his people since they had tried to find a home for themselves. The foul things had driven them from one city after another, claiming at last the city once called Grobb, and turning what remained of his people into refugees. Refugees that were left with few options but to flee to their allies, the Dark Elves.

How could she have tricked him? How could he have stayed so long beside her without realising what she was?

She stood, calmly watching him, and something passed across her face. It was gone before he could register it.

"This is not poisoned, or drugged," she said at last, and lifted the spoon from the bowl she carried. She took a mouthful, then replaced the spoon, and set them down near him. "I'll leave it here." She turned, and limped back to a tiny brazier that sat in the centre of the small encampment. "Enough. I knew when I saw his face. You do not have to tell me." She picked up a second bowl, and spooned it full from a pot that hung over the brazier.

He couldn't take his eyes off of her. She was the first of her kind that he had been so close to. He had been born in Neriak, the Dark Elf city, and had never ventured to the swamp that his people had once called home. That, in fact, had been on the agenda when he had set out on his fated journey with his erstwhile companions.

She really did look like a giant frog. Her skin was smooth, and oddly patterned - a snowy white with black spots and blotches. Her eyes were liquid gold, and had the oddly shaped pupils of the small frogs he had hunted along the banks of the river in the Nektulos forest. But she stood upright, and her head was larger, longer... and her hands quick and dextrous, for all that she had too few fingers. She wore a chain hauberk over top of a leather gambeson.

"Eat your food, Grott," she said, her spoon paused halfway to her mouth. "It's getting cold."

His stomach rumbled, but he refused to reach for it. How could he eat what a froglok had made?

"I don't care. You are wrong. I may be a fool, but not so much as that." She stopped eating, looking down into her bowl, and sighing. "Yes," she said quietly, after a moment. "Tomorrow. Will you be satisfied then?" A little dust devil sprang up, and spun around the camp, but nothing was damaged by it. "Good. Then let me be for now."

The dust devil paused in place, then meandered away over the dune, leaving a strange trail in the sand.

Preeki looked down at her half-finished meal, then sighed again, and dumped it back into the pot.

"I will be moving on tomorrow, Grott," she said, turning to him. Her golden eyes held no expression he could recognise. She stood up, and gathered a few things from around the camp, then slowly walked up to him. She looked him up and down.

"You are well enough now to travel. To travel, to fight if you are careful, or to do whatever you wish." She took another step closer. "I told you I would not leave you here. I haven't. And I won't. You may come with me if you wish. I will not force you to, if you no longer wish my aid." She stood a moment more, as if waiting for him to speak, but he made no comment. "I'll pack in the morning. I won't do anything to you, Grott. You're safe here with me." She bent over, and set several things on the edge of his blankets. "Here. Food. Water. Compass, so you don't get lost. I saw you didn't have one." She straightened again. "Your gear is there beside you. All of it. So is your friend's. The one who died. I buried him in his armour, though." She pointed at his equipment with her chin, and he turned to look before cursing and jerking back.

But she hadn't moved, and she shook her head, and turned from him. "You'll need a new breastplate."

He looked at his gear, then, neatly piled beside him. His backpack. His armour. His swords. Beside his own pack, a second one, with a strange sword and dagger sitting on top of it. He looked back at her again, many feelings spinning in a turmoil inside him.

"How did I trick you, Grott?" She settled down on her blanket, and looked back at him calmly.

"Yes. I am. You didn't ask me if I was." She pulled a book from the pack that sat beside her, and opened it. A quill pen and a bottle of ink were withdrawn next. "Had you asked, I wouldn't have lied to you."

She sighed, and closed the book again. "Yes. I did. And the reason I gave you was true. It did help you heal more quickly. But I also did leave it on longer than it really needed to be there. It could have come off this morning." She looked at him, and her eyes met his squarely. "Would you have let me help you if you'd seen me? Somehow, I don't think so. And you would have died without it."

The froglok's golden eyes held him pinned, as she sat, silently holding his gaze with her own.

"The wind-spirit asked me the same thing," she told him, finally. "No one should die as you were left. Not you. Not an orc. Not a desert snake. Nothing. As to why I chose to help you instead of putting you out of your misery...?" She shook her head. "The wind calls me a fool. Perhaps that is reason enough." She looked at him a moment more, then opened her book again, and began to write in it.

He opened his mouth, but found himself at a loss for words. His anger still boiled in him, and he looked to the swords that sat beside him, in his reach. She was only a pace away. He frowned, and glanced about the encampment. They were alone, the two of them, out in the middle of nowhere, and she was wounded.

She moved suddenly, and he shifted his attention back to her, as she put away her book and pen, and drew out a patterned cloth from her pack, and spread it on the ground before her.

The swift twilight of the desert was upon them, and night was falling quickly. He frowned again. Her night vision was better than his own, he had been told, and she would have an upper hand in a battle once darkness fell...

He remained still, watching her, and waiting for the right moment. If he could strike quickly... one more of his people's enemies would fall. And no one would have to know of his shame in being tended by such as she.

As he watched her, the shaman picked up a flask from beside her, and drank from it. She corked it carefully, and set it back down. As the moon began to rise, she began to chant. After a time, she cast a handful of stones across the cloth she had set out, and lapsed into silence.

He drew one of his swords slowly, glad he had only a simple leather sheath, not a wooden scabbard. The weapon made barely a hiss, less than the sound of sand sifting across sand. He shifted his weight, rising to a crouch.

He looked down at it in surprise. He'd forgotten it was there. How silly of her to feed him...

The wind calls me a fool, she had said. Truly, she was a fool. A fool for tricking him. A fool for feeding him. A fool for healing him...

She had held his hand that first endless night, and promised she would not leave him.

She had defended him from some dark creature that had come, and had shown him more kindness than anyone had ever offered him. And had asked nothing of him in return.

He looked down at the bowl in silence. The night wind blew again, rippling the sunshade above him, and he looked up at it. It had been built of the shafts of broken spears, and a torn cloak. And it was, he thought incongruously, lopsided.

She watched him eat, then lay back into his nest of blankets. Below her, her body sat as she had left it, the drug she had swallowed bringing it sleep.

She slid down the strand that bound her to it, and slipped back inside herself, cleansing herself of the drug with her will. Had his choice been different...

Slowly, she opened her eyes, and raised her head. Her body still felt distant, and dull, but she would deal with that shortly.

The casting lay before her, and she studied it again, although the stones were burned into her heart. Every cast for the past days had been the same.

‘Death', one side read. ‘Sword' and ‘Anger' stood beside it. As clear a casting as she had ever seen. But it was as if a line had been drawn down the centre of the pattern. And the other side...

"Peace," she whispered, reaching out slowly to touch the stone. "Hope. Friend." Her hand touched each in turn.

Why had she insisted on caring for him? No one could fault her for ending his pain swiftly, had she chosen that path. But she hadn't. Her crechemates would call her insane. And mean it more than usual.

The vision came on her suddenly, robbing her of conscious thought and movement, and she hung above the scene as it unfolded, watching the future.

A future, anyway. Sometimes she could change the things she saw take shape. But usually, she could only be prepared to give what aid she could when it was all over.

The vision left her as suddenly as it had come, and she opened her eyes. She lay upon her blanket, and her hand was clenched tightly around... She looked down at the rune.

The froglok shaman was crouched beside her brazier, reheating the leftovers from the night before. She looked over at him as he got up, but made neither comment nor gesture at him.

He looked down at himself for the first time as he stood up, feeling a slight twinge. His fingers traced the edges of the huge scar that marked his belly, and he stared at it.

He tore his eyes from the marks of his injury to look at her again. She was watching him, her golden eyes betraying no emotion.

The blankets he had been lying on were in disarray at his feet, and he bent to pick them up. He shook the sand from them, and rolled them into a bundle, which he carried to her, and set down beside her.

"Only two of those are mine," she said calmly. "You may keep the rest." She offered him a steaming bowl dipped from the pot.

She had saved his life. He still didn't quite understand why. And now...
Killing her would have been so much simpler. But somehow... it hadn't been the right answer. He was confused. It was too much for him to figure out.

"When we are done eating, we will pack up and go," she said, scraping the pot to fill a bowl for herself. She set it aside briefly while she doused the fire in the brazier with sand.

"We go?" He swallowed his mouthful, and stared at her. This was more than he had bargained for. Not killing her was one thing. Travelling with her? "Where?"

"Well. I will take you north, to a place from which you can make your own way. I have to make a stop along the way, though. I need to find out what has the spirits so excited that they will drag me out here to do something for them. If it's feasible for me to do."

"If I am able to do it. They want me to find something that was left hidden somewhere, a very long time ago."

"Grott. We have some distance to go before you are in a safe place. You will need that food. Eat." She ate a spoonful from her own bowl, watching him over the rim.

He raised his spoon again, to finish his meal. Still dazed by the strangeness, he returned to his equipment, and began to put his armour on. He stopped when he reached his breastplate, and he examined the rent in it. The desert was the enemy of the hardened leather, softening the wax with which it had been permeated. He frowned as he studied the damage. The breastplate could still be worn; it would just be less effective until he fixed it. He shrugged, and put it on. It was better than nothing. Maybe he could take one of the plates off the back...

He sorted through the equipment that had belonged to his erstwhile companion, and took what he felt would be of use to him, or that he could sell. The rest he left where it was. No sense in carrying it if it was useless. But he had a good bedroll now, better than what he had started with. And the other's cloak, though short on him, was better than his own. The other's spare belt likewise was taken. It was too small for him, but it was of good leather, and well made. And he had an idea.

He looked at the other things that lay there. The food, water, and compass the froglok had left him the night before were useful. Leaving them here, when he would need them was stupid. He collected them slowly, and tucked them away.

When he was done, he turned, to see that the shaman had likewise packed, and had seated herself before she set out. She had unwrapped the bandage on her leg, and was healing herself. The blue glow between her hands faded after a time, and she sighed, and examined the wound. She bound it again, then stood up, leaning on her staff.

"That should hold me," she said. "I don't want to leave myself unable to fight again. Just in case." She looked up at him, then at the remains he was leaving behind. She limped over to them, and poked through them. She bent, and picked up one of the things he had left. "You don't want this?" she asked, holding up the book.

He shrugged. "If want," he said at last, while she stood waiting. He watched her put it away.

"Right, then. Let's go." She looked up at him again, as she shouldered her pack, and paused. "Grott, you don't have to come with me. I won't force you to come along. I'm not even sure where I'm going, except that it's the same way you need to go, to get back to civilisation. You can go wherever you like." She watched his face for another moment, then nodded, as if to herself. "May you be blessed, Grott." She lifted her hand, and spoke a word, and he felt a tingle as some magick settled around him. She nodded again, deliberately, in farewell, and looked around.

There was a stillness, then the sand rippled at her feet, and the little breeze that had blown around her the past days blew past. She set out at a walk, following it, barely limping. She climbed the face of a dune, and was gone from his view.

He stood there, watching after where she had disappeared. He pulled the compass she had given him from his pouch, and studied it. North, she had said. He looked up. The line of her tracks led north-west. He didn't have to go with her. He could just head out...

A bird cried overhead somewhere, and he looked up, shading his eyes. The day would be hot, as the day before had been. He touched the full container of water. He could go anywhere.

He climbed the dune, and looked out around him. Unconsciously, his eye sought out the small figure making her way across the sands. She wasn't moving that quickly. Running for her, with her leg, would be difficult.
Resolutely, he turned away. She was none of his concern. She was his enemy, after all.

She smiled inwardly, as the footsteps behind her caught up. She'd gifted him with fleetness before she left. Whether or not he would actually follow, it would be something he could use. She glanced up at him, her expression carefully guarded, as he fell in beside her. He wasn't looking at her.

Having company was strange. She was used to her solitude. She spent most of her time alone save for the spirits who whispered to her. Having a person along made things more complicated.

And yet, having company was also welcome, in a way. It was hard to be lonely when the totems, nature spirits, and elemental spirits sought one out. But they had their own ways, and their own agendas. And being company wasn't a part of what they were. Not that some couldn't be quite charming, as they tried to persuade her to listen, or to do some task for them that only a mortal could do.

But it wasn't the same as a real person. She looked up at him again, catching him giving her a sidelong glance, and she smiled, allowing it to touch her lips.

The desert was not as endless as it seemed. To the east, it was bordered by the sea. To the west, it was bordered by the badlands, and the hills that the orcs called Rujark.

The badlands were a forest of stone spires and bald mesas, baked by the sun, and shunned by most peoples. Even the orcs avoided the narrow canyons, and forbidding rocks. There was nothing there worth claiming, after all.

Grott frowned as they wound their way between the spires of rock, looking upwards at stones that seemed poised to fall. He felt the breeze pushing him along as he stopped to look up at one that balanced, and looked back at the path they had taken. Getting out of this place would be important. He resisted the wind, to study the return path, before following the shaman again. Their path led over rocks, and he noted, as he watched her, that her limp seemed to be getting worse.

She called a halt at midday, and sat in the shade of one of the needle-like spires to rest. Once again, she healed herself, although she did not remove the bandage this time.

They ate in silence, each from the travel-food they carried. He reached for the flask on his belt to wash it down.

"Leave that be," she told him, and he blinked in surprise. He looked over at her, to see her offering him a cup. He took it, and found it full.

"Have water," he told her, touching the flask she had given him earlier, but she smiled.

"And it will still be there. Drink from this for now. We may need the other another time. I have lots, and I'd rather lighten my load a little."

He watched her for a moment, as she filled a second cup, and drank. She refilled his, when he extended it, then put the cups away when they were done.

"Well. Sitting here won't get us there faster," she said, and pulled herself to her feet. She shouldered her pack once more, and turned, waiting for him to do likewise. When he was ready, she set off again, winding deeper into the badlands, following their invisible guide.

They camped early that evening. Twilight came swiftly, as the long fingers of shadow cast by the stone spires melded into a greater darkness. They could see the sun touching the tops of the formations, high above them, but it did not reach down to them, and the froglok halted gladly. She was limping heavily again, and the bandage around her leg was stained. She set up her brazier, and spread out her blankets on a wide flat stone.

"This will do," she said, as she settled down carefully onto her blankets. She pulled her pack close, and began to rummage in it.

The warrior dropped his own pack, and spread his bedroll out on a rock of his own. Like the shaman, he sat down upon it. He watched the froglok for a few moments, frowning as he saw her expression. When he realised what she was doing, he frowned again. He lowered his eyes to his own pack, then lifted them back to her. Slowly, he reached for the ties, and undid them, and began to look for what he knew was there.

She grimaced as she regarded the state of her food supplies. The food she had taken from the orcs hadn't been nearly as much as she had hoped, and feeding the troll as well as herself had put a great dent in her stores. She sorted through what she had left, and sighed inwardly. All too soon, they would be reduced to the food she could create through magick.

She thought about it as she picked out what they would eat that night. Perhaps... she could go half and half. She had enough meat left for soup. She could thicken it, and serve the heavy black bread that was all she could summon with it. He would eat the bread easily enough, and she could soak it in the soup to the point where she could force it down. It wasn't that it wasn't nutritious... but the texture made it nearly inedible. Dry, it was impossible to swallow. Wet, it was a slimy, sodden mass that turned her stomach.

She began her magicks, and filled the pot with water. One of the pressed rounds of dried meat that she carried as rations was selected, and the remaining few put away. For her, swallowed with water, it was a single, full meal. She sighed again, and began to grate it into the pot.

A large package landed at her feet, and she looked up suddenly, to see Grott staring down at her.

"Take," he said gruffly, and turned away again, to sit on the opposite side of the brazier, and watch her.

She blinked, then picked up the package, and unwrapped it. Within a layer of thick oiled parchment was a solid chunk of meat.

What it had been was impossible to tell. But it had been well preserved by smoking, and there was more than enough to keep the two of them for days, used judiciously. Even if they ate nothing else.

Some little voice deep inside cried out in disgust to her Eat unknown meat provided by a troll? but she squelched it firmly. Trust had to begin somewhere.

"Thank you," she said quietly, looking up at him, and half-bowing from her seat. "This will be plenty for us both, for a while."

The thin soup became a succulent stew, although she still served his portion with a hunk of the heavy dark bread. He ate quickly, and put his bowl away when he was done. She ate her own meal, and cleaned her bowl and spoon in the sand before she put them away.

He watched her, as she cleaned her hands as well, then unwrapped the bandage that bound her leg. She examined it, then sighed, and began a chant.

He recognised the chant as the one she had sang over him as he lay under her care. The blue glow that shone around her hands as she held her leg grew brighter, as she closed her eyes, and concentrated on her magicks.

It was full dark when she stopped, the words of the chant dying away, and the light of healing fading from her hands. She slumped wearily, but ran her hand over the smooth scars that were all that remained of the terrible wounds the ghoul had inflicted upon her. She didn't wish to chance reopening them again, not when they had an unknown distance to travel.

She lay back, to recover a little, before banking the fire in the brazier, and putting away the leftovers for breakfast the next day. At least, that was her intention.

Grott watched her as she relaxed, and her breathing slowed into the rhythm of sleep.

She awoke to the smell of the stew from the night before reheating. She turned her head, blinking. The troll crouched beside her tiny brazier, poking the wood that filled it into a bit more of a flame.

Wood? She carried charcoal to burn in it... She rubbed her eyes, and sat up. But the strange vision didn't vanish. The warrior looked up at her as she moved, and nodded once.

"Food," he said, indicating the pot. "Eat." He stood up, and went to his own pack, where he found his own bowl and spoon, and brought them back. He gave the stew a stir with the ladle, before filling his bowl, and sitting down to his breakfast.

She joined him after a moment, and filled her own bowl. "Where did the wood come from?" she asked him as she ate.

She nodded. "Thank you for doing this for me. I must have been more tired than I thought," she said.

Grott shrugged, but a small pleased smile touched his face briefly. She smiled at him.

"Do you want some more? There's a bit left in the pot." She held out her hand for his bowl, and he passed it to her to refill. She took the pot from the heat, and filled it with sand. The brazier was treated likewise, smothering the fire.

She scoured the pot while the brazier cooled, then sifted through the sand and ashes to pick out the charred wood, which she packed away carefully. She packed away the brazier, as well, then stood up, ready to travel. She blinked at the warrior.

He had been busy while she slept. The hole in his breastplate had been covered with a patch made from several sections of leather belt, crudely stitched into place. It looked horrendous, but – she conceded to herself – it would probably work well enough. She saw his look of pride as he saw her notice it, and she squelched her initial reaction. Laughing at him was the worst thing she could do. Fortunately, she had caught herself quickly enough, and the laughter emerged simply as a warm smile.

They continued their travel, following the ever-present breeze through the twisting maze of red stone. Now healed, she moved with ease, leaping what had been obstacles the day before. Her staff was slung over her shoulder, and she moved with the gait of one who had long practice in travelling over distances. Add to that the magicks she had dropped on them both, and the miles seemed to fly.

He trotted beside her, glad to be moving at a better pace. The sooner this task of hers was done, the sooner she would lead him out of the desert. The sooner he was away from her, the sooner he would be away from the unsettling and conflicting feelings that troubled him. She confused him.

He was also glad that she didn't try to engage him in conversation. He still didn't know what he would say to her. Answering simple questions was one thing. Actually talking with her... Her gratitude that morning had been a strange thing to him. Because she had meant it. It wasn't just mouth-words.

She remained quiet through the morning, speaking to him next at their midday break, when she told him they were getting close. Other than that, she spoke to the spirits only she could hear, and, as he listened to the one-sided conversation, his wonder at her abilities grew.

He looked down at her. She had stopped in her tracks, and stood, head cocked, listening. "Spirits?" he asked, frowning.

"Yes. They say..." she paused, as she listened, "They say there is a guardian, left to protect the thing they want me to find." She scowled suddenly. "You could have told me that earlier!" she exclaimed to the empty air angrily, and the warrior snorted.

She met his eyes, and they shared a moment of pure understanding, before she scowled again. She shook her head in disgust. "Now they are saying that the guardian can hurt them." She blinked. "But how can it hurt you? You are..." she stopped again, listening. "I don't understand them," she admitted finally in exasperation. "They're babbling now. We are very close. That's all I can get out of them. And that they're afraid." She looked around, up at the cliffs and spires.

The troll nodded. "Close," he repeated. He raised his head, and gazed around as well. "Look." He pointed. "Maybe is."

She followed his finger to the dark opening of a cave in the side of the mesa before them. "It could be," she said. "But there's another one over there, too." She pointed as well, and he turned, and nodded.

"Pick." He looked at her, and it was her turn to shrug. He snorted. "Then that," he said, indicating the one he spotted first, with his chin. He strode towards it, then clambered easily up the slope of tumbled stone.

The cave mouth was set some distance up the side of the cliff, but a wide ledge jutted from the stone just below it. The accumulation of rock that had loosened from the sides of the mesa led most of the way up to it.

The shaman studied the path the troll had taken, and began follow him, although the going was not nearly so easy for her. The warrior had reached the cliff wall, and was standing, hands on hips, looking up at the ledge above him. He turned to watch her as he waited.

Grott frowned, as she stumbled and fell, her outstretched hands stopping her from hitting the rocks face-first. She righted herself, and stood again, brushing herself off. She studied the rocks, then turned a different way, to try again to climb them.

She stopped suddenly, as the hand appeared in front of her face. She looked up at him, but he stood there, the hand still extended, his face expressionless. She smiled warmly at him as she took it. "Thank you, Grott."

He didn't reply, but helped her up the tumbled stones to the base of the cliff. They looked upward at the dark opening. It was still above the troll's head. He reached up a hand, then grunted.

"I think we could get up that way," Preeki pointed to another pile of rocks. The fallen stones led roughly up towards the ledge in front of the cave. "It wouldn't be an easy climb."

Grott snorted. He took his pack off, and dropped it at his feet. "No," he said, then leapt, and caught the edge of the ledge. Slowly, he chinned himself, then got his elbows planted.

"Remember, there's supposed to be a guardian," she called from below. He made no reply, but concentrated on getting a leg up onto the ledge. He rolled onto it, and stood up. The cave ceiling was a little lower than his head-height, and he bent to peer into it. He grunted again, then turned back to look down at her. She had begun to climb the other rocks, and he sniffed.

"Be careful. I don't want to have to put you back together again." Her eyes seemed to glow as she looked up at him.

He sniffed. "Not fall." He knelt down, and reached over the edge to offer her a hand up. She stretched to reach it, then muttered something, and carefully climbed a little higher, reaching up again towards his hand.

He saw her eyes widen, and he rolled instinctively. Sparks flew from the stone where he had been, as the sword smashed down onto the rock of the ledge.

A wordless scream of rage emerged from the desiccated throat of the creature that stood over him. He kicked out hard, and it shrieked again as he connected, sending it sprawling.

"Grott!" The shaman's voice echoed off the stone, but he had no time to wonder at the concern in it, for the thing was on him again.

The horror struck at him, and he whirled out of its way. It had no skill at all, flailing wildly with the sword it held.

He retaliated, then cursed as his blow was shrugged off by the creature. He could see the damage he had done, but the creature didn't seem to care.

It swung at him again, and with its speed and unpredictability, he couldn't dodge it. His hardened leather pauldron stopped the blow from killing him, but the power of the blow sent him reeling backwards. He managed to catch himself, feeling the edge of the ledge grate beneath his heel. His arm was numb, but it still responded when he moved it. He lunged forward, hoping to drive the creature back before it pushed him over the brink.

It slammed into the rock wall of the cave, but he had done next to no damage, buying himself only a little bit of breathing room.

His sword bit deeply into it again, as he thrust through its non-existent guard. The dried brown flesh made a crunching noise as he broke through it, and brittle pieces fell away as he twisted the sword in the wound.

The sword whistled by, just over his head as he ducked beneath the blow, and landed another strike of his own, this time to its leg. Bits of bone flew, but the tough leathery flesh was more of a protection than he thought.

He tried anyway, pulling back, trying to get out of its reach as the sword came down, aiming for his throat...

And a swirl of magick encircled it, a fine net of power that caught at its limbs and slowed the blow, and he scrambled out of the way as the creature shrieked angrily.

Another swirl of magick encircled the troll in a greenish haze, and the next blow that struck him was blunted in force. He grinned darkly. It seemed the shaman had made the ledge, and joined the fight.

Once again he charged into the mummified creature, slamming it into the wall, for it had turned, to seek out the source of the magicks. His twin swords sheared through it again, and bone and flesh flew as he drove his weapons into the creature, seeking something vital.

With its movements slowed by the froglok's net of magicks, he was able to land several solid blows, and finally severed one of the creature's limbs. He stepped back in dismay, for the loss of its arm didn't seem to faze it.

"Don't stop!" The shaman's voice called out from behind him. "You've weakened it!"

A ball of blue-white light illuminated the cave as it exploded on impact with the creature. Its high-pitched shriek made the troll wince.

Once again the horror turned on her. She ducked under its clumsy swing with ease, and returned with a blow of her own. She swung her staff with skill, aiming at its knees. There was a loud crack as she connected, and she again dodged as it tried to reach her.

Grott grunted, and stepped forward, unleashing a quick series of blows to attract its attention, and it turned on him, nearly taking his head off with its wild swing.

But he ducked just in time, and rammed it hard. It took a step backwards, and flailed its arm as it fell, tripped by the shaman who had thrust her staff between its legs. It landed hard, losing its grip on its sword, which went skittering off across the ledge. It rang as it fell to the stones below.

In a trice he was on the mummified thing, pinning it to the floor with his weight. Its claws scrabbled at him, raking long scratches in his armour, and finding flesh to tear in the spaces between.

Or it did until the shaman's staff interposed itself, and she broke its remaining arm.

He grunted his thanks, then took one of his swords, and drove it through the creature's throat as it writhed beneath him. He worked the blade back and forth, sawing, and finally, uttering another screech, it fell still, as he finally severed its head from its body.

"Now dead," he said heavily, and became aware of the stinging pain of the marks of the thing's claws, and the deeper throbbing hurt where he had taken the blow to his shoulder. He reached up to touch it, and felt the cleft in the leather. He looked at the blood on his fingertips for a moment, before wiping them on the floor. "Good fight."

"Is there such a thing?" the shaman asked him, as she straightened up beside him. She looked at him, then reached out to touch his shoulder.

"Let's see what it did to you. Come over here, and sit down." She pointed imperiously to a spot on the ledge.

"Armour stop. Still move arm. Not much hurt," he told her, and raised his arm to show her. She crossed her own arms, and he sighed, then got up, to sit where she indicated. He reached up to undo the buckles of his pauldron.

"Not much hurt my rear end, Grott. This went right through the leather... you need better armour."

He winced as she examined the wound, probing it carefully. "It's not that deep. You're right, the leather did stop it, mostly. But he hit you hard enough to crack bone. You're lucky you're so young, it didn't break all the way. If it had, you wouldn't have been using that arm."

"Hard bones," he said, stopping mid-shrug as she glared at him for the movement. "Will heal."

"It will. And I'll help it along, and take care of those scratches too. The last thing you need is to get sick from something like that. Filthy thing."

He sat still, bemused, as she cared for him, cleaning the scratches carefully before she healed them, then tending to his shoulder with deft hands. She healed the cut, but the break was more than she could do at once, with her power depleted after the fight. He reached out to stop her, before she exhausted herself.

"Will heal," he told her again. "Will rest." He removed her hands from him, and stood up, out of her reach. "Find thing now. Know what is?"

She stared at him, then nodded. "It's a stone. It has a tree on it." She opened her mouth again, then shook her head. "And you will rest. We'll set up camp down below somewhere."

He shrugged. "Said would," he told her, then moved deeper into the cave.
It wasn't much of a cave. The hollow stretched back into the cliff only a handful of paces before ending in a blank wall. But the wall had a niche set into it, and in it sat a roundish rock, elaborately carved. The swirls and lines were intertwined, but despite a certain abstract quality, it still exuded the feeling of a tree. It had a sense of eternity about it, as if it had rested there since the world was formed, and could rest there until it died.

"Is here," he called, over his shoulder, and stepped aside as she came to join him. "There. Take."

He half turned, to leave the cave, but spun back, an exclamation on his lips, for as her fingers touched the stone, her eyes rolled back into her head, and she collapsed, twitching, to the ground.

He didn't even think. In a single motion, he scooped her up, and carried her from the cave with his long strides, looking over his shoulder at the stone, should it strike him down too.

On the ledge outside the cave mouth he lowered her down. Fear and dismay marked his face as she shuddered in his arms. A fist clenched inside his gut as she grew still.

"Preeki?" he whispered, fearing the worst, and nearly gasped with relief when her eyes opened.

"It's all right, Grott. I'm not hurt." She reached up to pat his cheek gently. "I certainly wasn't expecting another one so soon, though." She sat up, and, flushing, he let her go. She climbed to her feet.

"What...?" He stared at her as she walked back into the cave. "No! Not touch again!"

"Relax. It didn't do anything." She picked the stone up, and carried it back outside. She undid the flap of her pack. "Let's get going. We'll camp down below tonight, so you can rest. We'll leave early tomorrow, though. This has to go somewhere, and fairly quickly."

"No." The troll crossed his arms. "Tell first. Fall. Shake. Think hurt. Think... maybe die. What was?"

She froze, her hand on the seals of her pack. She turned, to look up at the expressionless face of the warrior. Or mostly expressionless. Something hung in the back of his eyes, nearly hidden. Perhaps even from himself.

"That was... Sometimes I can see things before they happen." She looked back down at her pack, and slowly did up the closures. "It's painful, and I can't move while it's happening. I can't see what's going on around me." She straightened again. "I can't even breathe. It doesn't happen very often, or last very long, thank Marr." She shouldered her pack, and looked up at him. He was staring at her. She sighed. No one ever believed...

"Preeki see future? Preeki... powerful spirit-talker. Spirits give strong magick, give see-future..." His voice held awe. "Preeki..." He fumbled for words. "Preeki see Grott?" He saw the fleeting expression cross her face, and knew she had. "Preeki see... bad thing?"

"No. I saw something that you might do someday. It makes me glad I helped you." She blinked up at him. "You believe me?

He nodded. "Heard of. Troll have spirit-talkers. Make like Preeki's stones for see-future. Not like Preeki. Different. But some... see too. Not many say. Think because people kill. People not like hear see-future. " He studied her. "Preeki help because see?"

It was her turn to stare. The trolls had prophets too? But they killed them when the visions were unpopular... Suddenly, the disbelief she garnered, and the general doubt as to her sanity seemed vastly preferable. "No," she said at last. "I helped you because, well, I wanted to." She smiled at him. "It wasn't until you decided not to kill me that I was shown what you might do."

She nodded at him, and peered over the edge before lowering herself down carefully.

"Let's move a little away from here, Grott. I'd rather not camp beside that place." She gestured towards an outcrop a short distance away. "We can find a place over there."

He nodded, and picked up his pack. The sword the creature had wielded lay beside it, and he picked up that too, tucking it through his belt. He turned, and together they made their way down the tumbled rock slope.

In the shadow of the outcrop she had indicated, they found a nook that offered a good sheltered camp to rest the remainder of the day, and spend the night. Despite his protests, she used the rest of her power to heal him further, then made him sit, and relax while she took care of the camp set up. She smiled, when she saw he had dozed off, propped against the warm stone, cushioned with his blankets.

"Good," she said softly. He had not yet fully recovered from his earlier ordeal. She had been more worried than he knew when the guardian attacked him. She paused, as she considered that thought. She had been worried about him. Was it due to what she saw he might do?

She sat in silence, watching him sleep. She had not missed that he had held her when she was caught in the grip of her last vision. Nor the fear that had been in his voice when he spoke her name. He had been worried about her, as well. Even if he would not admit it.

He didn't sleep that long. He dozed for an hour or two, before rousing suddenly, a look of chagrin on his face. He looked around, to find her sitting, eyes closed, hands folded. A shimmer of light surrounded her, and he watched her for a moment, warily, before deciding she was in some form of meditation. He shrugged, after a moment, and noticed the pain in his shoulder had dwindled to a dull ache. Had she healed him again?

He thought about it for a few minutes. No. She hadn't had enough time to recover her power, by how far the sun had moved. He must have needed the rest, as she had told him. He shrugged again, deliberately, gauging the use he could make of his arm without stressing his shoulder. Again he looked over at her, then nodded, and headed out into a nearby canyon - quietly, so as not to disturb her.

When he returned, some time later, she hadn't moved, and he brought the two large snakes he had caught to the brazier. Her pot stood beside it. He reached for it.

"If you have cleaned them, I will cook them." His hand jerked from the handle, and he stared at her. She smiled. "That's the rule, you know."

"Rule?" He blinked, and looked down at the snakes. They had rules to eat snakes?

"Yes. You catch it, you clean it." Her eyes held laughter, and he grinned in sudden comprehension.

What she did was make a face. "Then you can eat them yourself. I'll eat the rest."

He snorted, then pointed at the reptiles. They were easily as large around as her wrist. "No insides. Leave where catch." He grinned again, when she picked one up to find it expertly cleaned.

"Then I'll gladly cook them." She filled the brazier with the partially burned wood she had saved from the night before. "Have a seat, mighty hunter."

She roasted the snakes in the coals, rather than making a soup or stew as he had expected. It was deceptively simple fare, but she had a deft hand with the seasonings, and he polished his bowl, and had seconds. He brightened as he thought of a way to show his appreciation. He took her bowl from her when she finished, and scoured the dishes clean in the sand.

They sat in silence together, she busying herself with her book, and he carefully applying whetstone to the blade the mummified guardian had carried. Its odd shape intrigued him, although the blade seemed to be covered in rust, and a hard brown substance.

It didn't take him long to figure out that what clung to the sword was the remains of its sheath, and that beneath the dried leather was a blade as bright and new as if it had been forged that day. It seemed to be none the worse for wear, despite the untold years it had been clutched by the creature. And despite being abused by striking the walls and floor of the cave in the battle, its edge hadn't been damaged. His expression became ever more amazed as he cleaned it.

"Preeki?" She looked up at his puzzled tone, and he extended the weapon to her. "What say?" His finger touched markings on the blade.

She took the blade from him, and held it up, turning it to let the light fall upon the letters. "I don't know. This is written in an elven language. I don't speak their tongue." She examined the sword. "This is a very lovely thing, Grott. It's magickal, but I don't... " she trailed off, cocking her head, and listening. "This?" she asked, surprised. She lowered the sword to her lap as she sat.

"This is what the spirits were afraid of. It can touch them, can strike them as if they were mortal. That is a powerful magick." She looked down at the weapon. "No. I won't." She shook her head. "Because even you need a check in the world. There are those of your kind that walk dark paths." She scowled suddenly. "I did... we did your task. I will complete it, and take the stone where it must go. The elves will know what must be done. I do not ask for a reward from you... but the sword is his. He earned it."
She handed the sword back to him. "Use it wisely, Grott. You will find it a good, solid weapon. It just happens to be able to cut things that many weapons cannot. The spirits of the dead, and those of nature cannot stand before it."

He took it, staring at her, and looking down at the sword. "Will use," he said at last, touching the writing on the blade with a nod. "Good sword. Strong steel."

"Be cautious in who you let look too closely at it. I don't trust the dark elves to not take it away because they want it themselves. It's probably worth a fortune." She picked up her book, then looked at the sky. "It's getting dark. It will be clear tonight. Good."

He watched her as she put her book and ink away, thinking about her words. She sat, watching the stars appear, one by one, as the darkness gathered. After a time, she stepped a little away from the camp, out from the shadow of the outcrop.

She took with her a pouch, which she opened as she settled down into the sand. Before her, she lay out the cloth he had seen before, and he set aside the sword to join her there. He sat down nearby to watch. The light of the rising moon seemed to be an important part of this ritual, and the stones shone in its pale beams as she threw them onto the cloth, ending her chant as she released them.

He leaned closer to look, as her hand moved from one symbol to another in the pattern.

She glanced up at him, then indicated the pattern of stones. "They say little that I did not know already. Look. Here are ‘Sun,' ‘Parting,' and ‘Friend'," she said, touching each one as she spoke. "They tell me that you will leave me tomorrow. I knew that." Her hand moved to a second cluster of stones. "Here is where I will go. ‘Travel.' ‘Meetings.' ‘Gift.' I will be carrying the stone to the elves in Felwithe. It is theirs. They must have it. It is important, somehow." Her hand paused, before she touched the last two stones in the pattern. "Here is your path. ‘Hope.' ‘Memory'." She looked at him. "Only you can decide what you will do from here, Grott."

He stared at the stones. Hope and memory. Spirits - and those who spoke to them - rarely were clear in their words. Meanings were often hidden and twisted within meanings. And yet...

Hope. Did he not have hope again, now? She had given him that. If she - one of his enemies - could see him as a person worth knowing, worth helping... then surely there were others. People he could count on to stay beside him. People worth trusting.

Memory. He grunted. One thing was certain. He would never forget these past days. Memory, indeed.

The froglok gathered the stones together, and put them away. She banked the coals in her brazier, and spread her bedding beside it.

"Goodnight, Grott," she said to him, as she slipped out of her hauberk, and curled into a ball on her blankets.

He smoothed out his own bedroll, and lay down, rolling himself into his blankets, but he did not fall asleep. He lay, staring upwards at the stars, thinking about what he had just realised.

Was he? He had never had a friend. The thought that she would think of him in such a way...

"Grott?" her quiet voice floated to him, and he turned his head to see her watching him from her blankets. "Thank you for helping me today. I wouldn't have been able to fight the guardian alone."

"There are always choices," she told him. "And I thank you for yours." She smiled at him, then lowered her head back down, and closed her eyes.

She trusted him. She had known he had been about to kill her. And yet she slept beside him, protected by the trust she had for him.

The tunnel mouth gaped wide, its smooth walls cut by the hand of man, not shaped by nature. The froglok stopped in front of it, then turned to the troll that halted behind her.

"You should know this place... this tunnel is cut through to the wooded farmlands west of Freeport. The city is just north of here, if you are safe there. If not, I believe that many gather within here, to buy and sell, and to gather companions for travel. You should be able to find work here... and to buy a new breastplate." A look of amusement touched her face. "I'd get the breastplate first."

He felt a smile curve his lips. "Yes. Will get." He crouched down, to look into her eyes. "Will not forget Preeki," he said solemnly. "Will see again?"

"I don't know, Grott. There are many things that I do not see, and my own future is one. I have never seen what my own fate will be, and I'm glad of that."

He nodded after a moment of thinking about that. "Hard to know," he agreed. He studied her a moment more, while she looked up at him, and he was surprised when she reached up to run her fingers along his cheek.

It was an oddly formal gesture, unlike the pat she had given him before. He raised his hand to his face, still feeling the trace of her fingers there.

He nodded. "Will." Slowly, he stood, then turned decisively and made his way into the tunnel. He rounded a corner, and was gone from her view.

She watched after him, leaning on one of the large stones that stood near the tunnel mouth.

"No. He will do well,"she said. "He has a sense of his own worth now. They do not value their own. I think that's why they are the way they are. If you do not value yourself, how can you value anything - or anyone - else?"

She cocked her head as if listening. "That's easy for you to say," she retorted. "You're a rock. Try living for a while."

She shook her head, and resettled her pack on her shoulders. It was a long way to Felwithe, and standing here was not going to get her there faster.