"Darkmoon Ridge (Chapter 4)" by James K. Bowers

    Sylnia was only an herbalist.  Perhaps she was the most skilled to ever embrace the calling, but the death of one of the riders only confirmed the fact that she, too, was only human.  Early in the day, a quiet service had been held in the chapel for the nameless soldier who had died despite all efforts to save him.  Ministered by T’ralex and attended only by Alorra and Sylnia, the rites were simple and somber.  Within the abbey tower, near the great hearth, Sylnia continued her vigil over the green-clad lady and the last of the two cavalrymen. T’ralex knew that these two, having lived through the night and into mid-morning, may now have a chance of surviving even though they had been so gravely injured.  He hadn’t intended that Sylnia be involved longer than a few short hours, but the health and recovery of the remaining two riders was still very much in question.  So, she remained.  She had either manipulated T’ralex or graciously offered her services -- of course, with Sylnia, it was always difficult to tell which.  [Bishop takes knight... check.]
    But the suffering was borne by the animals as well.  Two horses now remained.  Sadly, Cavinan had been unable to save the badly wounded steed that only yesterday evening had carried one of the injured soldiers into Southgate. The lone lantern providing light within the stable swayed on its hook and sputtered nervously, scattering shadows about as might a mad artist with an unused bit of canvas.  T’ralex methodically checked each horse’s injuries as Cavinan had instructed him.  He felt ill at ease in the stable, an odd feeling that he had never before felt.  It caused the hairs on the back of his neck to rise and T’ralex sensed he was being observed as he finished checking the wounds of the second horse.  It was fairly dark in the stable with the doors closed to the elements and T’ralex tried to attribute his unease to the darkness.  The caparisons, saddles, and other accouterments that arrived with the riders were unceremoniously heaped to one side of the small stable.  T’ralex made note of the unruly pile of gear and reminded himself that he must order it cleaned and then transported to the Earl’s stables.  And he thought of the Khurda’s sword.  True, Cavinan had found swords and other weapons when tending to the horses, but none was that one particular sword T’ralex was so certain should be here.  Still, here in the dim lantern light, T’ralex could not rid himself of the feeling that he was being watched.  No, this presence was “too calculating, too predatory,” the abbot thought.  T’ralex modified his initial understanding of his unease: he felt as if he was being hunted.
    “Priest...”  The darkness spoke, unhurried in its delivery, loudly enough too be easily understood, softly enough to leave doubt that words were spoken at all.  As if to erase such doubt, the figure drifted to the edge of the light, a mere hint of form and substance.  T’ralex felt a shiver run up his spine, the kind of shiver that defines the border between alertness and terror.  “The woman in your care... she has, perhaps, lost something of value?”
    T’ralex had no answer, his voice trapped somewhere beneath the lump in his throat.   His heart pounded, as if trying to leap from his ribcage.  T’ralex squinted at the darkness; his eyes strained to separate substance from shadow.  The effort proved to be an exercise in futility as the figure remained as insubstantial as a phantom.
    When it became obvious there would be no answer, the voice split the silence like a honey-coated rapier.  “Surely you could have asked Sylnia.  She knows all the local gossip.  And much of the gossip that isn’t local, or so I understand.  You don’t suppose she’s still guessing at the woman’s identity?  If Sylnia knows who the woman is, do you think for even one moment she will not wonder about certain... items... that have gone missing?”
    The weight of the stranger’s questions bore down on T’ralex, but at the same time, T’ralex felt his initial fear slowly dissipating.  The educated voice could not be the voice of some common cutpurse.  The voice had a soft quality yet bore an undeniable confidence, the commanding tone of the high-born. T’ralex was inundated by the stranger’s questions as well as his own.  Who was this stranger in the stables?  What was his part in all this, and how much did he know?  “I’m not certain I understand your questions, my good sir.  Perhaps you could...”
    “I think not, priest.  I’m quite certain you do understand my questions.  We both know who the woman is.  The Earl, of course, is also aware of her identity.  And, given Sylnia’s deductive powers and penchant for gossip, I’d wager that before midday most of Southgate has a reasonably good chance of knowing as well.  So, the question remains.  Are you, or are you not, interested in the whereabouts of a certain piece of, shall I say, military hardware?”
     “Well, sir, I believe she may have misplaced her weapon.”  T’ralex then decided to gamble, inquiring, “Am I to understand, then, you have some knowledge of its importance to her?”
    Again the shadow spoke. “Aye, that I do priest -- I know the importance of that sword as well as we both know of her importance to Penzand.  Also there is the matter of her current situation and how she came to find herself in such dire need.  I would also wager Sylnia has been guessing at the events leading to her arrival here.  She likely has some answers, but she’ll not easily solve this puzzlement.  I, on the other hand, was witness to what transpired.  I am also responsible for leading these few survivors to Southgate rather than one of the outposts in the Reach.  After all, how much aid would they have gotten under those barbaric conditions?”
     Despite the apparent goodwill of the stranger, T’ralex’s apprehension did not lessen further.  “Then I must thank you, kind sir, for your compassion.”
     “You’re quite welcome, but compassion has very little to do with my motivation. This was too strange a company for me to ignore.  It isn’t often the King’s finest are found patrolling this far south, let alone in the Reach.  I had been following the troop for some two days time, curious as to their purpose.  The original troop numbered thirty-five.  Most were regulars of one the King’s cavalry brigades.  Three wore the gold and scarlet braid of officers, one was your ‘lady in green’, and one heavily armored knight carried the arms of Varzenwauld.”  The shade paused for a moment, allowing T’ralex to absorb this last bit of information.  “From his bearing and the richness of his garb, I could only surmise that this last was the Viscount himself.  The puzzle, then, has become: What do King’s Cavalry, Khurda Penzand, and a nobleman of Dalhorn have in common?”
    There was a long silence in the stable, punctuated only by a few equine snorts and stamps.  It was T’ralex who next spoke.  “Surely you have come here for reasons beyond playing at riddles, good sir.  What is it you require?”
    The grim shadow’s laugh was low and devoid of mirth.  “I was under the impression that we were discussing what you require, my dear priest.  And what you need is a sword.  Unless I am terribly mistaken, this little incident could rip Khurudahl apart, leaving the Dukes Palatine to squabble among themselves.  Very bad for my business, what with moneys being spent on armies and weapons and war.”
    “Then you have news of the sword?” T’ralex asked hopefully.
    “News of the sword?  No -- I’m terribly sorry.  I have news of the cowards who ambushed the troop.  I have news of what I believe to be the Viscount of Varzenwauld.  I have news of evil afoot in Stonedown Reach.  What need I of news of the sword when I have this?”   From beneath the black cloak, the shadow produced a sword of singular craftsmanship.  “Take it, priest.  I have guarded it for as long as I care to.  And know this:  The horde of hillgnarls that waylaid the King’s troop is but a small patrol.  If they are bold enough to attack armed men in broad daylight then you can be certain their armies are girding themselves for war.  The gods have smiled on Southgate. If not for the heroics of the Viscount of Varzenwauld, there would have been no survivors.  And had I not been following the troop out of my own curiosity, you and your Earl might have had no warning of impending danger.  It surely wouldn’t do to be warming yourselves by your hearthfires while a wave of hillgnarls floods over Southgate.  They’re coming.  It will be soon if I know anything of hillgnarls, but time may yet be on your side.  Oh... One more thing... I’d make sure that sword is well hidden beneath your cloak.  No telling what Sylnia would make of a priest with a fancy sword...”
    T’ralex took the proffered blade, encased in its emerald enameled scabbard.  It was much heavier than he had expected and he marveled that a woman could possibly wield it in battle -- especially one as fragile as Khurda Penzand now seemed. He managed a polite word of thanks to the dark stranger then, as an afterthought, added, “To whom does Khurda Penzand owe her life and sword?  She will want to know if she ever regains her health.”
    “My apologies, priest.  That is one bit of information that neither you, nor Khurda Penzand, nor your dear gossiping herbalist needs.  You had better tend to the sword, the lady, and the cavalryman.  You will most likely want to pay the Earl a visit sometime soon I should think, and it would only pique Sylnia’s interest if you appeared to be rushing off without getting her full report.”
    “Yes, you’re correct, of course. Again, my thanks are yours, sir,” T’ralex said, in acknowledgment.  The additional words of gratitude, however, seemed entirely inadequate given the circumstances.  As T’ralex hurried from the stables, he couldn’t help looking over his shoulder once or twice.  He knew the stranger would soon be gone, perhaps never to be seen again.  The weight of the sword was reassuring as it shifted beneath the layers of cloak and robes.  If he could manage to hide it from Sylnia, he felt he could keep yesterday’s misfortunes from blossoming into wholesale disaster.  The stranger was right -- T’ralex would have to speak to the Earl, and soon.