Of Falorn (part two)
The unlikely trio picked their way through the treeline, the tall shapes of the pines rising up to meet the night sky like sentinels on a stoic watch. They spoke little at first, as they were still in earshot of the castle and any patrols the bandits may have posted. The further they passed into the forest, the more thoughts wandered, and tongues loosened.
"How is it," Ambria said to the stranger she leaned on, "that you came upon me and carried me to my brother's dwelling?"
Grant shifted to accommodate her weight a bit more readily. "I was there," he said. "Fighting with you."
"I didn't see you," she said.
"You never have," he replied, half under his breath.
Avon shrugged. "I saw you both, from a distance." His part in the battle had been on the sidelines, the whispers and gestures of the arcane that were less offensive and more a matter of self-preservation.
"And whose side were you on?" Ambria asked pointedly. Grant's rough leather attire and worn short sword were still a matter of suspicion.
If Grant were hurt by her accusation, his tone did little to betray his feelings. "I worked for your father."
"In what capacity?" she asked.
"I kept an eye on the comings and goings of Falorn, and Ferrisport," he answered vaguely, then guided her steps to avoid a root sticking up from the dank ground of the forest floor. "Careful- don't trip."
"A spy," Avon said, more succinctly. He stepped over the root, lifting his robes gingerly to avoid tearing the hem.
"An impolite way to put it," Grant said. "But yes- a rapscallion, a dodger, a purveyor of information, a dealer in deals, a trafficker in tales and trouble - a card carrying member of the rogue's association, if it please you or if it does not, even so."
"My goodness," Ambria said, and drew away from him instinctively, to stand on her own no matter how incapable she felt at present. She pulled her cloak tighter around herself.
Grant snorted. "Please. I know what you are thinking, and no. I pose no threat to you and your person, m'lady." His sarcastic bent of the word lady was not lost on her.
"I did not mean to impugn your honor," Ambria protested.
Avon laughed softly under his breath. They had stopped walking to argue, so he took advantage of the moment to collect a bit of pitch from the pine bark of a tree he found himself under. Never one to waste a good component.
"I swore an oath of loyalty to your family," Grant continued, " and I intend to abide by it. Unless you'd rather make your own way- in which case, release me from my bond and we'll have done. Best of luck to you, fare well in the world, and all that. Go about your own plans, whatever they may be."
"I haven't exactly..." Ambria admitted. She had no plans to speak of, and worried now that this man might leave her and her brother right here, in the forest. "No. We should not separate..."
"Then let's get moving," Grant suggested, and offered his arm once again. "Trust me, if I had any bad intent, I'd be carrying you off to this Bloodthorn fellow and collecting a sizable reward for your capture."
The weight of her injuries was far greater than the weight of her trepidation, so she leaned heavily on the offered arm. "Bloodthorn?" she asked.
"The brigand king who invaded your home," Grant explained carefully, as if to a slow child. "The one who killed your father."
Ambria recalled the bandit in question- the clear leader of the group, with shaggy blood red beard and wild eyes. The great sword he'd wielded had been the one to cleave Lord Falorn's head from his shoulders in one swift blow. On his armored chest , the bandit king had worn a symbol - a bloody red fist with a black rose wound around it, the sharp thorns penetrating the hand. "I remember..."
"He's been sweeping down the coast," Avon said. "I recall father speaking of it..."
"And now he's got a castle," Grant said. They began their trek again. Somewhere overhead, the shriek of a night bird pierced the heavy air.
"Our castle," Ambria said.
"Your castle," Avon corrected.
"His castle now," Grant finished. "The man with the army owns the land."
"But it's our home," Ambria protested. The thought of those rough men violating their living space, riffling through their possessions was unbearable.
"Not anymore," Grant said, firm though not unkind. "From Ferris perhaps we are best off traveling by ship, to some further destination." The bandits would not stop at the castle walls. Grant knew from experience how they would spill over to the town, and spread like plague boils from there.
"I have no money for passage," Ambria said. There'd hardly been time for her to do more than don her armor and rush into the fray.
"I've nothing to speak of," Avon said, though he carried two full packs. Nothing with which to barter passage was a more accurate assessment.
"Leave it to me," Grant said. "I'll find a way - even if we have to stow aboard."
Ambria's scandalized look was lost to the darkness of the night as they pressed on. The thinning of the trees meant that they were nearing civilization again.
"If you were in my father's employ," Ambria asked, "How was it that I never saw you?"
"How many of your guard did you ever really see?" Grant asked.
"There were many men throughout the castle," Ambria protested. "I saw hundreds of guardsmen on a near daily basis."
"Name five," Grant said, a faint irritation in his voice.
"I'm in no mood to play guessing games with you," she snapped. Five names did not come to mind, but surely under better circumstances, she would have known...
"You can't, can you?"
Avon laughed. "I can."
"I didn't ask you," Grant said, turning to stare pointedly at the woman on his arm.
"I don't see the point..."
"No, I can't imagine that you do," Grant said, and lapsed back into silence.
The first colors of dawn were beginning to break through the horizon, silhouetting the faint outline of Ferris town. They had run near out of trees, with the mulchy underbelly of the forest starting to give way to the grassland that surrounded Ferris. Grant stopped walking, and surveyed the brother and sister appraisingly. Avon had poor posture and a habit of avoiding his eyes - things that would work in his favor, given the circumstances. Ambria, on the other hand...
"Slouch a bit," he told her. "Tuck your hair further under your hood, so none of it can be seen. Look down, and speak little."
Weary from her soul to her bones, Ambria did not fight his instruction. She cast her eyes down, and drew her hood so that her face was all but obscured in its shadow.
"Follow me," Grant said, and began to walk towards town. Ambria followed, her eyes downcast, her spirits low. Each lost in thoughts of what Ferris might hold, they traveled silently down the hill neither noticing that Avon had disappeared from sight.
"How is it," Ambria said to the stranger she leaned on, "that you came upon me and carried me to my brother's dwelling?"
Grant shifted to accommodate her weight a bit more readily. "I was there," he said. "Fighting with you."
"I didn't see you," she said.
"You never have," he replied, half under his breath.
Avon shrugged. "I saw you both, from a distance." His part in the battle had been on the sidelines, the whispers and gestures of the arcane that were less offensive and more a matter of self-preservation.
"And whose side were you on?" Ambria asked pointedly. Grant's rough leather attire and worn short sword were still a matter of suspicion.
If Grant were hurt by her accusation, his tone did little to betray his feelings. "I worked for your father."
"In what capacity?" she asked.
"I kept an eye on the comings and goings of Falorn, and Ferrisport," he answered vaguely, then guided her steps to avoid a root sticking up from the dank ground of the forest floor. "Careful- don't trip."
"A spy," Avon said, more succinctly. He stepped over the root, lifting his robes gingerly to avoid tearing the hem.
"An impolite way to put it," Grant said. "But yes- a rapscallion, a dodger, a purveyor of information, a dealer in deals, a trafficker in tales and trouble - a card carrying member of the rogue's association, if it please you or if it does not, even so."
"My goodness," Ambria said, and drew away from him instinctively, to stand on her own no matter how incapable she felt at present. She pulled her cloak tighter around herself.
Grant snorted. "Please. I know what you are thinking, and no. I pose no threat to you and your person, m'lady." His sarcastic bent of the word lady was not lost on her.
"I did not mean to impugn your honor," Ambria protested.
Avon laughed softly under his breath. They had stopped walking to argue, so he took advantage of the moment to collect a bit of pitch from the pine bark of a tree he found himself under. Never one to waste a good component.
"I swore an oath of loyalty to your family," Grant continued, " and I intend to abide by it. Unless you'd rather make your own way- in which case, release me from my bond and we'll have done. Best of luck to you, fare well in the world, and all that. Go about your own plans, whatever they may be."
"I haven't exactly..." Ambria admitted. She had no plans to speak of, and worried now that this man might leave her and her brother right here, in the forest. "No. We should not separate..."
"Then let's get moving," Grant suggested, and offered his arm once again. "Trust me, if I had any bad intent, I'd be carrying you off to this Bloodthorn fellow and collecting a sizable reward for your capture."
The weight of her injuries was far greater than the weight of her trepidation, so she leaned heavily on the offered arm. "Bloodthorn?" she asked.
"The brigand king who invaded your home," Grant explained carefully, as if to a slow child. "The one who killed your father."
Ambria recalled the bandit in question- the clear leader of the group, with shaggy blood red beard and wild eyes. The great sword he'd wielded had been the one to cleave Lord Falorn's head from his shoulders in one swift blow. On his armored chest , the bandit king had worn a symbol - a bloody red fist with a black rose wound around it, the sharp thorns penetrating the hand. "I remember..."
"He's been sweeping down the coast," Avon said. "I recall father speaking of it..."
"And now he's got a castle," Grant said. They began their trek again. Somewhere overhead, the shriek of a night bird pierced the heavy air.
"Our castle," Ambria said.
"Your castle," Avon corrected.
"His castle now," Grant finished. "The man with the army owns the land."
"But it's our home," Ambria protested. The thought of those rough men violating their living space, riffling through their possessions was unbearable.
"Not anymore," Grant said, firm though not unkind. "From Ferris perhaps we are best off traveling by ship, to some further destination." The bandits would not stop at the castle walls. Grant knew from experience how they would spill over to the town, and spread like plague boils from there.
"I have no money for passage," Ambria said. There'd hardly been time for her to do more than don her armor and rush into the fray.
"I've nothing to speak of," Avon said, though he carried two full packs. Nothing with which to barter passage was a more accurate assessment.
"Leave it to me," Grant said. "I'll find a way - even if we have to stow aboard."
Ambria's scandalized look was lost to the darkness of the night as they pressed on. The thinning of the trees meant that they were nearing civilization again.
"If you were in my father's employ," Ambria asked, "How was it that I never saw you?"
"How many of your guard did you ever really see?" Grant asked.
"There were many men throughout the castle," Ambria protested. "I saw hundreds of guardsmen on a near daily basis."
"Name five," Grant said, a faint irritation in his voice.
"I'm in no mood to play guessing games with you," she snapped. Five names did not come to mind, but surely under better circumstances, she would have known...
"You can't, can you?"
Avon laughed. "I can."
"I didn't ask you," Grant said, turning to stare pointedly at the woman on his arm.
"I don't see the point..."
"No, I can't imagine that you do," Grant said, and lapsed back into silence.
The first colors of dawn were beginning to break through the horizon, silhouetting the faint outline of Ferris town. They had run near out of trees, with the mulchy underbelly of the forest starting to give way to the grassland that surrounded Ferris. Grant stopped walking, and surveyed the brother and sister appraisingly. Avon had poor posture and a habit of avoiding his eyes - things that would work in his favor, given the circumstances. Ambria, on the other hand...
"Slouch a bit," he told her. "Tuck your hair further under your hood, so none of it can be seen. Look down, and speak little."
Weary from her soul to her bones, Ambria did not fight his instruction. She cast her eyes down, and drew her hood so that her face was all but obscured in its shadow.
"Follow me," Grant said, and began to walk towards town. Ambria followed, her eyes downcast, her spirits low. Each lost in thoughts of what Ferris might hold, they traveled silently down the hill neither noticing that Avon had disappeared from sight.