By mid-morning, the exiles were ready to move. At the head of the long, disorderly line, Elysia saw a white-haired old man, clad in a sable cloak, riding a black war steed. He rode under the unfurled wolf banner, which Dieter carried. Beside him, Manfred leaned down to say something to the old man; The baron then gestured, and the caravan that made up his people began to move forward.
The catgirl felt a shudder run through him at the sight of it all. She drank in the sight of the row of wagons and wagons with their armed escort of mounted and armored warriors, then climbed into a supply cart that she and Frey had seized from a sour old servant, who was dressed in the barony livery.
Around them, mountains pointed to the sky like gray giants, trees dotted the roadsides, and streams ran like quicksilver down the sides toward the source of a River. The rain mixed with snow softened the contours of the landscape and gave it an untamed beauty.
"Time to go again." Frey moaned as he took his head in his hands. His movements were sloppy and a little clumsy from his hangover.
They came forward with a dull thud and took their place in line. Behind them, the soldiers slung their bows across their backs, wrapped their cloaks tightly about them, and began the march. Their complaints were mixed with the whipping of the drivers, and with the lowing of the oxen. A baby began to cry, and a woman, somewhere behind them, began to sing in a low, musical voice, which drowned out the baby's cries.
Frey leaned forward, hoping to catch a glimpse of Krisvel among the people trudging through the sleet toward the rolling hills that unfolded below them like a map.
He felt almost at peace, carried away by all that human movement, as if a river were carrying him towards his goal. He already felt a part of that little traveling community, a feeling he hadn't enjoyed for a long time. He smiled, but Elysia's elbow in the ribs snapped him out of his reverie.
"Keep your eyes open, Frey. Orcs and goblins roam these mountains."
Frey gave Elysia a fierce look; however, when he looked up again it was not to appreciate the untamed beauty of the surroundings, but to keep an eye out for any uneven terrain that might be suitable for an ambush.
♦ ♦ ♦
Elysia turned her head to look at the mountains. She did not regret leaving these inhospitable highlands, as they had been raided several times by goblins. The Goblin Wolf Riders were repulsed, but with human casualties.
Her eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep, for, like all warriors, she had doubled her shifts in case of night attacks. Only Frey seemed disappointed that they weren't being chased.
"We will not see them again." Home Frey "no, after he kills the leader. They're all cowards when they don't have Hobgoblins to put fire into their bodies. Pity! Nothing beats killing a few goblins to whet your appetite. Healthy exercise is fantastic for digestion."
Elysia gave him a sour look, and jerked a thumb toward the wagon from which Krisvel and a tall, middle-aged woman were now alighting.
"I'm sure the wounded in that carriage will disagree with your idea of healthy exercise, Frey."
"In this life, cat girl." the dark hero replied with a shrug. "People get hurt. Just be glad it didn't touch you."
Frey looked bored, so he got off the cart and jumped onto the muddy ground.
"I'll take a walk. Don't worry, Elise. I have no intention of abandoning you. If you need help, just call out my name and I'll come."
Elysia stared at him, as if she suspected a hint of sarcasm, but Frey made sure to keep his tone flat. Elysia knew that Frey took his mission very seriously, as he wanted to be the hero of an epic story.
After taking one last look at Elysia. Frey walked towards where Krisvel and his wife were.
"Hello. Krisvel…" The two women eyed him warily. A frown passed over the sorceress's face, though her reptilian eyes, heavy-lidded, didn't seem to show any expression of hers. She fixed one of the raven feathers that adorned her hair.
"What good are they, Sir Frey? Two other men have died of their injuries. The arrows were poisoned. In mother's name, how I detest those wolf riders!"
"Where is Dr. Stock? He thought he would find himself helping you."
The older woman smiled although, in Frey's opinion, it was a teasing smile.
"He is busy with the baron's heir. Young Manfred has a cut on his arm, and Stock would rather let good men die than neglect an injury to little Manfred."
She turned and walked away from him, her hair and cloak billowing in the breeze.
"Don't listen to my lady." Krisvel said. "Mr. Manfred made fun of her in one of her plays, and he resents her. Actually, she is a good woman."
Frey looked at her as he wondered why her heartbeat seemed so noisy and her palms were so sweaty. He remembered the words Elysia had said to him in the tavern and felt her blush flush. Okay, he admitted to himself: he found Krisvel attractive. What was wrong with that? Maybe the fact that maybe she wasn't attracted to him. She looked around her; he felt that her tongue was paralyzed and he tried to think of something she could say. Nearby, some children were playing soldier.
"How are you?" she asked her at last.
"Good". she replied, somewhat shakily. "Last night I was scared because of howling wolves and falling arrows, but now... Well, during the day it all seems so unreal..."
From the wagon behind them came the moans of a dying man. She turned away for a moment, and then hardness crossed her face and she settled like a mask.
"It is not pleasant to work with the wounded." Frey commented.
"You get used to it". she replied as she shrugged.
Frey felt a chill upon seeing that expression on the girl's face; he before he had only seen it in the face of people whose profession was death. Looking around her, he noticed the children playing near the wounded wagon: one shooting an imaginary bow, and another letting out a gurgling cry, clutching his chest, and falling.
Frey suddenly felt isolated and far away from his home. The comfortable life in Damenburg Castle that he had left behind.
"It's easy to die here, isn't it?" He said.
Krisvel looked at him, softened the expression on her face, and slipped her arm through his.
"Come, let's go to a place where the air is cleaner." she decided her.
Behind them, the shrieks of children at play mingled with the moans of dying men.
♦ ♦ ♦
Frey saw the city the moment they emerged from the hills, late in the afternoon. To the northeast, the curve of the rapid current of the River continued, and beyond it the towering peaks of the Gray Mountains. To the south, another range of hills stretched bleakly into the distance. They were bare and formidable hills, and something about them made Frey shudder. They were the Wasterlands.
In the valley that remained inside the mountain, a walled city huddled. White shapes, which might have been sheep, were being led out through the gates. Frey thought he saw silhouettes moving on the wall, but from this distance he couldn't be sure. Dieter motioned for him to come closer.
"You speak very well". he told him. "Go down there to parley. Tell the people of the city that we mean no harm to them."
Frey just looked at the tall skinny man. "Which means". he thought "It's just that I'm expendable in case those people aren't friendly." It occurred to him that he could send him to hell, but Dieter must have guessed what he was thinking.
"You have accepted the baron's money." he just reminded her.
"It's true." Frey admitted. So he considered taking a hot bath, drinking in a real tavern, sleeping indoors—all the luxuries that even the most primitive of frontier towns could offer. The prospect of him was very tempting.
"Give me a horse." he asked for it. "And a white flag."
As he mounted the capricious warhorse, he tried not to think about what suspicious, bow-wielding men might do to a potential enemy's messenger. Although Frey doubted that they had enough skill to hurt him or that they had arrows capable of piercing through his armor.