"Darkmoon Ridge (Chapter 2)" by James K. Bowers

    The night slowly retreated from the sun’s inexorable attack.  Glittering shards of dawn glanced off branches and sparkled on stonework clad in icy armor.  Light crept into the tower through the few narrow slits that served as windows, the colored glass spreading soft rainbow hues into the room.  Set high in the walls, the windows served to fend the winter’s worst and to mark the tower’s holy purpose, but during times of war archers would remove the glass to rain arrows on the enemies of Southgate.  T’ralex hoped and prayed the glass would always remain.
    The coming of dawn, as cold and bitter as it might be, was comforting, for the night had not gone well.  Despite T’ralex’s efforts and the various herbal cures administered by Sylnia, one of the soldiers had died and there seemed little hope for the other soldier or the Khurda.  Their breathing was still labored and neither had regained consciousness.  T’ralex’s search of the stable shortly after the Earl’s departure had produced no sword and it seemed unlikely that Cavinan would have failed to mention what he had done with any accouterments the riders may have slung on their mounts.  The only scrap of good fortune was that the two who still lived no longer bled from their wounds.
    T’ralex adjusted the blanket covering the Khurda, then checked the soldier.  There was little more he could do for them now.  He then turned his attention toward the hearth.  Alorra still slept quietly in a chair near the warmth as Sylnia, her well of gossip finally run dry, quietly stirred a kettle over the low flames.
    Sylnia’s newest poultice brew would surely cure any ailment if its healing powers were half as potent as its nauseating odor. T’ralex kept his distance, though the odor was unlikely to be better five paces away as it was near the hearth, and wondered how Alorra could possibly sleep so near the foul smell.  Pouches and vials were scattered about within reach of the old herbalist and occasionally she paused to snatch one of them up to add a pinch or two to her concoction.  She mumbled to herself as she stirred the small kettle, occasionally sniffing the steaming wisps rising from it.  Apparently the stench wasn’t ghastly enough for she grunted her dissatisfaction as she added a few blue-green drops from a small vial.
    Sylnia craned over the kettle and inhaled deeply.  She cackled softly and, eyes sparkling, turned to T’ralex.  “Yer holiness, wot I got ‘ere might jus’ get ‘em up an’ dancin’ by midday.  Biynt’yar seeds ta brace th’ blood... urchyat root ta help fight fevers an’ chills... an’ a touch o’ the junterberry oughta suck th’ poisons out.  Th’ trick is gettin’ th’ mix jus’ so.  Iffen ya don’t ken plants like they was yer own unmentionables, ya could make a right fine poison with this stuff.  Soon’s it cools we slap it on ‘em an’ wait ta see... should be jest a few hours ‘til they’s lookin’ more like folk than th’ other fella.  Else they be too sick fer roots an’ herbs ta cure.”
    “Yes, Sylnia, let us hope this works,” replied T’ralex.  “I would much rather bear some good news to the Earl.”  As much as he disliked becoming involved in any conversation with Sylnia, T’ralex realized too late that he had fallen into her trap.  He forced back the groan that was welling up inside as Sylnia warmed up for her newest game of verbal chess.
    “Wotcha s’pose th’ Earl’s mos’ like ta do ‘bout these here?  Seems th’ lady’s fancy clothes an’ all an’ them others bein’ King’s men oughta have ‘im ajumpin’ about like a knave on fire.  Who ya s’pose she might be?  Looks a bit too ox-strong ta be a lady fair from th’ courts.  Skin’s a touch too weathered for a milk-bather.  Wot’s the tale yer not tellin’ ol’ Sylnia?”  [Pawn to queen three.]  Sylnia lifted the kettle carefully from the hearth and placed it gently down into a large bucket she had filled with clean snow.  “Hmpfhh... good its winter... quick-cooled urchyat works a might better.”
    T’ralex stood and stared.  Sylnia was no fool, her quite intentional butchery of the spoken word being perhaps the best example.  Which question to tackle first?  How could he lie and yet not lie?  How much could he say without Sylnia’s intuition shifting the other pieces into the puzzle?  How could he change the subject?  [Knight to king’s bishop three.]
    “Well, wot then?  Ya know I’ll not tell a soul.  ‘Least not afore chickens got teeth.”  Persistence, of course, was another of Sylnia’s fine traits.  “This lady ‘ere.  Ya think she’s maybe up from Carnelia?  They’s more likely ta get more sun there, so I hear.  But wot’s she doin’ ridin’ about with soldiers o’ the King?”   [Rook to king six.]
    The more Sylnia pried, the more uncomfortable T’ralex became and the more relieved he was that he had thought to remove the Khurda’s necklace before Sylnia’s arrival.  “See here, Sylnia, it’s not that I don’t trust you completely,” he began, deciding that trusting a Khurda’s life to herbalist cures qualified his statement as a fact.  “We simply don’t know much about them.  Perhaps that in itself would be enough to goad the Earl into jumping a bit, though whether in flames or not I would not know.  And, yes, it’s obvious the lady is someone of some station judging from her garb, and that is likely why she is in the company of men-at-arms.  Perhaps she is an ambassador of sorts.”  T’ralex heaved an internal sigh of relief as he congratulated himself for fending off the first attack.
    “But, ya see ‘ere, m’dear Abbot... she’s all decked out in green.  Odd, don’cha think?  Jest like thems from Penzand.  And a right tough one she looks, too.  With a scar or two ‘ere an’ about -- like she’s a warrior same’s th’ others.”  Sylnia glanced briefly at T’ralex, as if expecting some response to her baited musings, then forged ahead with her reasoning.  “But, odd, that.  Iffen she’s a ‘zander like the greens might lead ya ta think,  then wot’cha s’pose she’s a-doin’ with these ‘ere King’s horsemen?”  Sylnia’s brow wrinkled as her head tilted slightly.  Then she turned to face T’ralex.  Their eyes met and locked as Sylnia continued.  “Yer holiness, there’s a touch more ‘ere than appears.  I’d wager these riders were of two sep’rate bands.  But, iffen I’m right about that, where might they ha’ been goin’?  Wot happened out there ta bring ‘em together?  Wot happened out there ta nearly take their lives?  An’ iffen three made it ta Southgate, jest how many didn’t?”  [Knight takes pawn.]
    T’ralex closed his eyes, reviewing several hypothetical scenarios, watching imagined events unfold in his mind’s eye.  Then, with a steady voice, T’ralex answered her.  So softly did he speak that he was, at first, unsure Sylnia could hear him.  “I’m not sure any of us are prepared for the answers...”
    T’ralex and Sylnia stood in silence, both fearing that T’ralex was correct.  With a shrug, Sylnia turned back to the urchyat brew.  It had congealed into a paste that bore the same sickly burnt-orange color as the urchyat root itself.  Satisfied that it had reached just the right consistency, Sylnia carried the small kettle over to the lady in green, intent on busying herself with the tending of wounds.  She hummed idly as she smeared the foul-smelling goo on the Khurda’s wounds.
    T’ralex watched quietly, and checked inside his robe for the necklace he had wisely hidden from Sylnia.  As his fingers lightly closed around the cold metal, T’ralex congratulated himself.  [Bishop to queen’s knight seven... check.]   He was sure she suspected the lady was a Khurda, but T’ralex was equally certain there was no sense in arming Sylnia with the truth.  If word got out that there was an injured gentlewoman from Penzand in town, it would result in less speculation than if Sylnia gossiped about Khurda Penzand’s misfortune.  Still, he felt ill at ease.