RP Session 2: "To the Mattresses"

Riding hard down the main street of Bardenhold, Lancaelad guided the nine riders to the northern gate - they knew that the southern at least lay in the hands of their enemies, and also that their pursuers were stretched thin across the town so it stood to reason that the north had been left undisturbed, and with the horses stored to the south scattered the gate itself would be the last obstacle to flight.

It was the work of moments before they reigned in before a sleepy night guard with a lantern hanging from his pike, silver whiskers and his kettle helm pushed back so far as to be merely decorative. Bardenhold's curfew kept visitors out and not in outside daylight hours, but even so it was only their urgent insistence that there were enemies in the walls that hurried the man to lifting the bar and opening the gate. Dubious given no one appeared on the road after them, he grudgingly banged on the door of the small barracks that flanked the gate and roused a couple of his fellows, one of whom he commanded on to the manse to raise an alarm.

By the time the horses rode out they could only imagine that the mercenaries that dogged them were just discovering that they had no mounts, and hopefully that would be the end of Bardenhold's troubles.

Hopefully.

Wasting no time they put to the highway and rode through the night until they reached the northernmost border of Abbadiel. Here at the crest of a wooded hill they paused to settle their nerves, look back for pursuers and tend to Aeric. Corson fed another of his enchanted berries to the scholar, but he'd once again lapsed into unconsciousness and the prognosis looked grim under the care they could afford him on the road. A temple on the road was out of the question - it was too obvious - and it waseventually decided that Breuddwyd would guide Aeric to the elves of the Erebannien and rejoin them once a healer had been found.

There was scant time for farewells, and before the grey of dawn showed Breuddwyd and Aeric were gone.

With their task in mind, the remaining companions pressed north, but much had changed. Whatever veil of banality the Baroness had hoped they might maintain was a false hope and they were woefully unprepared to face strong opposition. Thankfully this land held many friends, and with the Bjording's hunting lodge little more than a half day north and the Lord and Lady of Edlin certainly at their woodland residence it seemed prudent to pay a visit to Tovrunn's Anuirean guardians for aid, and to get word back to Proudglaive.

Though they rode through the day keeping to the back roads as much as possible, it was still late in the afternoon before their tired mounts rounded a familiar corner and Tovrunn could see the gravel path, choked with fallen leaves and winding into the sun-dappled wood through a veil of cricket song. Here and there the sound of deer, unseen beyond the trees. Eventually they rounded the last bend to reveal a tall house built on an island in the centre of a mirror-surfaced lake, nestled in the woods.



Just off the path ahead a pair of riders watched as a hunting hound raced into the undergrowth. Even at a distance Tovrunn recognised her Roesonian hosts, and she felt suddenly self-conscious of the bloodied and exhausted state of her company. Still, the Bjordings had always been a rustic folk by the standards of Anuire and the urgency of their mission denied them the nicities of a courtly visit.

The pair of riders turned their steeds as they were hailed. Despite a generation's dilution, Sven Bjording was still the fierce, pale-eyed warrior his ancestors had been. His golden braids and deeply lined features at odds with the soft red-dun leathers of countryside finery. His wife Mathilde by contrast could not have been more Anuirean, her auburn curls touched by premature grey and her tasteful grey skirts arranged side-saddle, but she wheeled her mount with every ounce the mastery of her husband.

"Tovrunn, and Ser Noelon?" called the Lady of Edlin, confusioncolouring concern in her tone "but I thought you were to be abroad on an errand for the realm."

"Is that blood on your surcoat lad?" added Sven. Even at this distance Lancaelad realised he must look a ruin. Corson yet more so.

The Bjordings looked between one another in silent conference, then back to the seven bedraggled riders. "I can't promise the safety of our house, we have only the household guard-" Lord Bjording began "-but I can extend its hospitality for as long as you need it." The words were undoubtedly his own, but they felt somehow ancient and ceremonial.

"Come now, let's get you all inside and cleaned up" added Lady Mathilde, ushering them toward the overgrown lodge. "And you'd best tell the guard what's at your back."

At the end of the trestle in the hunting lodge's modest great hall the Lord slammed a heavy fist on the arm of his chair. "I knew we should not have allowed a charge of ours to get mixed up in such things!" he growled, his face like a brewing storm. "Peace my love" chided his wife "the name Auðunardottir carries with it no plea for protection. She was sent here to learn the ways of Anuire, and the intrigues of our courts are at the heart of that."

Sven calmed, but seemed little at ease. "The garrison are to the west and north, there is present cause to fear for both borders. I have only house guard, but if you have use for them they are at your call. As to armed men? Marching rank and file under banner would certainly raise eyebrows, but mercenaries travel in small parties, and no doubt these and more can smell gold in Medoere. Fifty or so warriors in small cohorts? They could march to the gates of the City of Anuire without challenge if they raised no banner."

"Whispers are not something to which your ears are attuned husband" Mathilde said, placing her hand on her lord's forearm before turning back to Tovrunn. "Perhaps Rikke has heard word?"

Sven Bjornding watched Corson go with a furrowed brow. "The Green? I've not heard anyone talk like that in some years." Shaking off his reverie he continued. "Of course Rikke's here - you didn't think we'd leave her to the jackals at court did you?" "Or them to her" murmured Mathilde under her breath. "No doubt she's still out riding - you chanced upon us just before a hunt, and the rest had gone ahead."

"As to Diemed-" the lord took a savage bite of his meat as if he could tear a bite from the Duke of Diemed "-something's riled them up. We expect them to march on Braeme come spring unless something can dissuade them. The worst of it is that they make no secret of massing their troops, as if conquest's inevitable. Ghoere is Ghoere - if Gavin Tael sees a hint of our reinforcing Medoere he'll be looking for opportunity. On the one hand that ties young Marlae's hands, but on the other Medoere's fall would be far more than an injustice."

Looking at Tovrunn he shook his head. "I'm sorry child, I don't mean to make you think you've come to a land of savages. Of course were the worst to happen even the Iron Guard would see you returned to your home."

"If you'd as soon keep a low profile I might have a solution for some added protection though. There's a fellow we've used a few times staying with us. He might be persuaded to bolster your number, and he'll be able to get a boat should you need it. Perhaps the Gods meant it?"

Still not sure if he was frustrated more with himself or Lancaelad, though in truth the man was insufferable at times, Corson marched out of the overgrown lodge's doors and onto the broad bridge that led back to the woods. The lack of guards was troubling, but at least the surrounding woodlands offered places to bolt. At worst the Elvenmeres were mere hours away and those swamplands were unkind to strangers.

Even if their pursuers had the numbers to scour the countryside, would they directly assault a noble's estate? No. If these mercenaries knew where they were then they'd be setting up an ambush on the roads. They'd kept a low profile so far. More likely they were watching border crossings by now.

Spotting a young chamber maid Corson made a brief enquiry, but the girl explained that the household had only arrived some four days prior, and only the huntmaster and her hound trainers stayed on a permanent basis. With Delaen Gap only an hour or so away folk were common enough, and poachers weren't unheard-of, but she knew little else.

"I think you overestimate our numbers son. We'd be stretched thin on either front, but both? Roesone needs a strong ally to make Tael think twice. Then we'll be free to reinforce Medoere." The Lord of Edlin seemed glad to have someone to speak of strategy with.

Mathilde meanwhile took up the thread with Tovrunn. "Yes, Master Rhoderick seems a fine fellow. He's a friend of Lady Tiesera - we've half the court here for the week - but he is a member of a militant order devoted to Nesire, and so naturally they travel the coasts. Should you need aid I'm sure he would step in."

"Gorgon's teeth boy, you want Ogre?" Bjornding blustered for a moment before he looked at Tovrunn and gave a snort. "Oh... very well. For the realm. But I'm trusting you with some of the greatest prizes in my possession young Noelon. If you don't take proper care I'll have words with your father, mark me. I will arrange for the grooms to saddle him for you, but don't ride him lame. I might have need for a warhorse before too long, and Ogre's the very beast I'd trust my life to."

The chambermaid gave a nervous shrug, a guest of her master's asking after her treatment must have seemed a sure trap. "They took me in afore I was a maiden and trusted their finery to me" she replied wide-eyed. "Tis a life far better than one spent wed to a pig farmer to be certain. I've meals in me belly, a roof over my head, linens on me mattress and the society of all manner of fine and gracious folk." Looking about nervously she bobbed a curtsey and blurted "with your leave m'ud" before scurrying away towards the kitchens.

The day's hunting had been a pleasant enough diversion, pretext though it was to discussions of a far less leisurely nature, and the fiery young Rjurik girl who was the Lord of Edlin's charge had even brought down a big brown boar. Evidently you could take the girl from the highlands, but not the highlands from the girl.

When the Lord and Lady had failed to join them Rhoderick had briefly worried that one of the looming conflicts smouldering on Roesone's borders had burst to full-fledged flame, but plucking at her dulcimer Tiesera looked the picture of disregard. It was true that he'd managed to travel the Medoere-Diemed border unaccosted as little as a week ago, and battle lines looked anything but ready to march. But that was all the more reason for concern. Appearances were, after all, not to be trusted.

Still, of anyone in the nation the Tiesera would know if there were cause for worry. Officially the court herald, she made it her business to stay well informed and Rhoderick more than suspected that she did so for reasons more serious than a need for musical inspiration.

As they made their return the weather had soured and the party had picked up to a canter lest the darkening sky overtake them. By the time they reached the stables the Nesirite was ready to forsake horses for good. No ship had ever shaken a man about so savagely, or by so unforgiving a part of the anatomy as the animal he'd been given.

---

Corson had no desire to return to the dining hall, but nor did he know the lodge or its grounds, or where they would be staying. At a loss he remembered the saddlebags Tovrunn had taken from the Brecht mercenary's rooms in Bardenhold - like as not they were still in the stables with their animals. They'd glanced inside on the journey here, but the personal effects of a man who made his life on the road demanded closer scrutiny than a ride through the night allowed. Perhaps now was the moment to try and learn something about their enemy.

Making his way back to the stables, the squire made enquiries with a groom and was quickly shown to their horses. He found the saddlebags sitting alongside the crossbow (and recalled Breuddyyd's parting words - "There's a dweomer about that") and emptied their contents onto a bench then began the task of organising their contents. There were the obligatory supplies for living on the road - a pot, flint and tinder, knife and spoon, a bedroll slung beneath one bag, a short length of rope, an equally gaudy change of clothes, a few books of history and poetry in a mix of Anuirean and Low Brecht, a trader's map of southern Anuire tucked into a small almanac. More unnusual were the set of manacles tucked at the bottom of one bag, and what appeared to be a particularly ancient scalp.

Amongst the books were a sheaf of waxsealed parchments, and closer inspection revealed these to be orders describing travelling to Abbadiel with a contingent of no less than a hundred men divided into cohorts of no more than a dozen. They were ordered to take into custody any Anuireans debarking from the Golden Prowl and deliver them, or failing that to establish a perimeter to prevent their escape. Other orders described taking up a watch in Bardenhold, and a message in a hurried hand described their party as "two knights,
one sun-dark and the other fair; a Rjurik woman with pale hair and face markings; a sidhe with a hound; a Roesonian nobleman, young and of uncanny presence; and a Khinasi half-caste of middle years." They ordered that all be taken with no special mention made of Salien. They also made no directive of where they should be taken, suggesting that this was something known to the reader.

The whole bundle bore the same seal - an ornate device that appeared to be the head of a hare or rabbit.

As he finished reading Corson heard the clatter of hooves, and voices approaching the stable from outside, and saw the grooms hurry to straighten their livery and meet the riders.

The problem with Diemed was that it was inconsistent. Since their decisive defeat at Moonstrike Keep near to a decade past the Duke Heril Diem had kept a civil boarder, albeit one bearing countless ugly scars to Diemed's pride. Now the time was ill for warfare, and if he planned a spring campaign then showing his hand so early was foolhardy. Diemed was much depleted, and not the military giant it had once been. No, there was some provocateur still hiding in the shadows here, repeating the facts all but solidified that in Erron's mind.

Lost in thought he'd fallen behind the returning hunting party, and only the distant sound of Tiesera's languid song brough Erron to a trot and out of the trees. Roesone's herald smiled as he emerged, noting the furrowed brow. "When there's a missing piece to a puzzle you do well to find it before worrying over where it fits" she chirped, seemingly reading the young Anuirean's mind. "I saw a stranger leave the stables. Quite the blush of sun on him, and Rhoderick right on his heels. I think we might do well to make our presence known."

With new allies in their cause and a missive to draft to the Seneschal, Tovrunn and Lancaelad set about describing the events of the past few days from their orders to travel south and meet with a foreigner on behalf of an undisclosed ally, to the ambush at Abbadiel, their flight through the Erebennien and the night-time escape from Bardenhold. Corson added details he'd gleaned from the Brecht mercenary's orders, and the Royal Herald at least had every semblance of surprise that their errand had been anything beyond menial. She could offer no word of why a feared assassin and the might of a mid-sized mercenary company might be arrayed against them, nor what Salien's import might be to anyone with the means to muster such opposition.

For his part the Suirien simply listened, seemingly placated by Lan's oath though he scoffed more than once during their speculation.

With their predicament thoroughly revisited, conversation turned to the morrow. Clearly the path through Ghoere or Diemed would be more complex than they'd assumed if some hidden pursuer meant to dog them. Both Baron Tael and Duke Diem had the means to be behind their pursuit, and neither were friend to Roesone, which made the casual sojourn they had been meant to pretend risky.

Ideas were thrown about: Circuitous routes designed to evade and confuse pursuers, or direct ones that pressed their current advantage with speed; an armed escort under the black hart banner, or peasant's clothes with Salien buried deep in a hayrick; riding to Aerenwe to entreat the High-Mage Aelies for aid, or Braeme to ask the wizard Hermedhie the same.

Rikke and the Bjorndings had retired and the candles had been replaced before a plan began to emerge.

Their strategy set, the Roesonians and their new companions went to make their respective preparations for an early start, leaving behind them a missive to Proudglaive and instructions for a party of eight closely resembling that which had fled Bardenhold to be assembled and instructed to ride north for a day. Servants delivered drab hunting attire to Corson, Lancaelad, Tovrunn and Adalric while their own hunting garb would more than suffice for Rhoderick and Erron. To a casual or distant observer at least the ruse would be hard to pierce.

The next morning dawned clear, and their horses were saddled and bags packed before the sun touched the earth. The phantom shadows of trees picked out in frost pointed west like skeletal fingers reaching across the forest floor outside the hunting lodge.

A final inspection of the decoys (a few guards and servants seeming most confused at the situation) was promising if imperfect. The false Salien in particular lacked the original's three decades of Khinasi sun, but there could be no doing better overnight. If they charged out of what little fog could be mustered at a gallop then pursuers would have to make chase rather than ask questions. Would their ruse buy them the whole day or just a few hours? That was impossible to say.

Ready to ride now there were nine: Lancaelad atop his newly borrowed and glowering warhorse Ogre, Tovrunn now astride a dappled mare with a spring in its step, Salien and Corson each with one of the roans common to the stable riding close, and each in the rough garb one might expect from a huntsman or tracker riding out to prepare the day's activities. Erron kept to the gentle Medoerian liver-chestnut he'd ridden down the Diem border, and Rhoderick to a young grey stallion who raked the dust irritably and pricked his ears at every sound. Their attire from the day prior, with no time for laundering, certainly did not speak of nobility though it might with the proper care. Finally Geremie sat atop a portly grey pony that pulled a wagon just large enough for Paidrig, Mhairie and a few supplies should they need to camp in the wilds (a prospect that even Tovrunn hadn't faced in a number of years). Three more horses and a pack mule would only have made their party larger, and with a skilled guide a light wagon should still make it through the swamps.

Despite the crisp stillness of the morning there was an air of tension that it seemed even the animals could feel. A feeling that at any moment some unseen watcher might raise an alarm, and once more there would be blood on their hands and the cries of battle.

With farewells said in the privacy of the house, there was nothing else for it. The time had come.

With little reason to tarry and the day brightening by the minute the leader of the decoys gave the word, and as the mists that still clung to the forest floor were redoubled by the secrets Nesire gave her faithful (alongside a faint scent of the sea) and surged up around the doors to the stables the riders broke out at a canter that quickly grew to a gallop. By the time they reached the road that led through the wood and back to the highway and vanished from sight they were kicking up great clouds of dust.

For a few long, breathless moments more they could hear the hammering of hooves resounding through the woods, before those too faded.

It was impossible to know if some unseen pursuer had taken the bait or waited still, impossible to know if there even was a pursuer, and that made it hard to wait in hiding within the stable. Hard not to put their heel to their own mounts. Were anyone still watching though a party riding off in another direction so soon would arouse too many questions.

Finally though, as the fog both miraculous and mundane began to thin and the sun began to peek over the treeline it was time. With painful slowness the party rode out of the stable and assembled, checking their tack and making idle conversation before riding west. Would they look like nothing more than a party of trackers out to find quarry for the nobles? A group of nine would be unusual for such a trip, but if it were worthy of remark then that would come after their ruse had been found out and by then their tracks should, Gods willing, be swallowed by the marsh.

---

It was less than an hour down well-rode hunting tracks before the Lord of Edlin's hunting grounds opened up into the bleak and sunken Elvenmeres. Standing on the edge of the fens, it was easy for each Roesonian to believe, if only for a moment, the stories of ghosts lying unseen just below the stagnant waters and waiting to pull in the unwary traveller. The cacophonous cries of a thousand birds waking - rail and wren and heron and more - almost sounded like the screams of dead armies who Daen Roesone left in this shallow grave.

Of course those were stories. While the unquiet dead were no doubt fact, no army of the fallen had ever marched from the Elvenmeres, and outside the Eve of the Dead there would be nothing to fear from spirits in this place. More perilous were surely the quicksand, the hidden deadfalls, the sinkholes and the serpents that made their homes here.

Looking out over some of the few true wilds she had seen since her arrival in Anuire, something stirred in Tovrunn. Even though these trackless and secret fens were a necessary risk, for the young Rjurik there was a little of home to the wintery quagmire.

A trap then? Yes, these marshes were no mere hardship, nor even an unexpected and likely unguarded route. No, Skalvaar knew better that a marsh was a snare left for a pursuer. And suddenly Tovrunn knew that her task wasn't to find the safest path through these wetlands and walk it unseen, but to leave a trail that braved the most perilous parts of the Elvenmeres that her wildcraft could tame. Cruel lands did not protect, but their cruelty was itself a tool.

As the day wore on Tovrunn plunged the party into the shadowed and silent parts of the bog. First edging around the uncannily sheer edge of a dripping and cavernous sinkhole, cautioning everyone to draw just close enough to the spongy and crumbling edge that an incautious tracker might find his doom. Then they wove a serpentine route through ankle deep, murky water around the patches of sucking mud that would only draw any who stubbornly rode a straight path inexorably into the embrace of the marsh.

Finally as the splendour of Avanalaigh crested the sky the party came to the edge of a broad, flat area of flooded ground. Here the stagnant waters took on a reddish hue, and rusty and pitted swords a decade past their days as weapons stuck from the side of a low midden - or perhaps a bier. An old battlefield, likely long forgotten, stretching across what might in the times before Deismaar have been a lake before the fall of a mountain awoke the land.

It would take hours to go around, and hours might mean that a pursuer who had realised their ruse and divined their destination might have time to get ahead of them around the marsh. It seemed unlikely, but they had invested much in the scant lead they had. Of course superstition held that crossing an old battlefield that was last marched by the boots of the ancient dead might be an equally poor idea.

Would it be haste at the risk of the ire of the dead, or was here the place to spend what little advantage they could be certain of?

With a confidence his compatriots didn't necessarily share Lancaelad took the lead as they descended into the battlefield. If men had fought here once at least the earth could be trusted, and though the ground was slick with mud the frequent tufts of hardy grass held firm. By the time Rhoderick had finished his benediction the column of riders was some way ahead and he had to trot to keep up, careful to keep to the shallow double trench of the cart's trail.

The muted light of the early spring did little for the place, making the colours seem washed out and the edges of the blades of grass misty and indistinct but it was the silence that was most uncanny and it unconsciously instilled in the Roesonians a reverent quiet of their own as they rode on.

After perhaps a half hour spent travelling in a blessedly straight line Corson noticed that Adalric was gradually slowing until his gentle-eyed roan felt at liberty to stop for the occasional bite of tussock, her rider far away in thought and slack at the reins. Finally the Suirienean stopped altogether, allowing the watchful vanguard to pass by, and swung from his saddle with a squelch.

Perhaps an hour or two later they left the battlefield, and all that stood between leaving the marsh far behind them and their horses once again treading dry land was the aptly named Black River that marked the border with capitol province of Caercas. The river's fat banks and spiderweb promontories were partially responsible for the Elvenmeres, but the river itself was not so restive as the marsh and it flowed dark and fast and deep. They would need a ford shallow enough for the horses and wagon if they were to make it across.

Blessedly at least there was no sign of scouts on the far bank, but nor was there civilisation for leagues thanks to the haunted reputation of the swamps. Still, a barge was not out of the question if they took the time to look. Peat farmers and cloth bleachers would both come to the marsh when the weather was clement and they would hardly swim the swift waters of the Black River.

Finding a good place to ford could be treacherous, especially when a river was deep enough to earn the name Black River. Where the waters shallowed they would invariably be swift - dangerously so - and so a fork or islet surrounded by boggy ground to slow the river would be their best hope. How to find one though? Corson could almost hear Taethan's voice, dark and rich like soil, but the words...

It had been many long years since those rivercraft lessons, but it was on the banks of Roesone's rivers that those lessons came, and that eventually proved the simplest solution: the land became hilly further north, so to find lowlands travelling south was wiser.

Sure enough, after another half hour following the riverbank south the ground once again became spongy and wet, and soon a fork around a small copse of ashen birch presented itself. The near side of the Black River had formed a sluggish bulge that, though five feet or so deep, would be an easy crossing. Beyond that on the far side of the fork the rushing of water and foamy surface suggested rocks, which would be hazardous but also their best chance.

Pausing to unload the cart's contents onto the horses so as to take advantage of the small vehicle's buoyancy the Roesonians considered the next steps.

The crossing proved deceptively difficult, and only Corson truly gave the seemingly placid river the respect it deserved. Rhoderick took the lead afoot and near half way the sucking mud of the riverbed claimed the seasoned sailor's boot. He could have taken to the water like a fish were his foot free, but instead the cold water rose above his mouth before a prayer to Nesire and a firm grip on his mount's reigns freed him. Tovrunn found crossing mounted on an unfamiliar animal equally challenging, but she still reached the bank of the small wooded islet only a few steps behind Rhoderick.

Corson followed, his horse picking a measured and careful path that looked as effortless as any road, and then came Lancaelad leading Salien behind atop the massive charger Ogre. As comfortable in the saddle as afoot, the knight looped Salien's reigns around his right arm and steered Ogre with his thighs with haughty confidence. Once they reached the far bank however Adalric's horse, spooked by the river, raced ahead of Ogre to reach the shore and passed on the left. Lan let go the reigns a moment too late, and he twisted head over heels and pitched backwards into the mud landing dangerously close to the hooves of Erron's mount.

The wagon came last, Paidrig swimming across with a length of rope clutched between his teeth and Mhairie guiding the vehicle while Geremie came last atop the mule, whispering in the animal's ear to calm it.

With all nine now at the centre of the river they pushed through the few feet of growth that held the islet in place and lay eyes upon the next leg of their crossing.

The second half of the river was narrower but far swifter, and though it was impossible to say how deep it could not be deeper than the lazy fork. Rhoderick had to admit that the squire Corson had made fast work of finding a good spot.

The opposite bank rose into the low rolling hills the characterised Caercas, beyond which lay the Harviel highroad that would be their last dance with civilization before an overland ride through fields on the way to Erron's contact and a short ferry to Medoere. As Rhoderick's eye wandered he spotted a figure atop a horse sitting on one of those hills. They were low down on the wooded islet and would likely remain hidden at this distance, but nine riders fording the river would be impossible to miss.

The question was whether this was a scout from the party the others claimed to be pursued by, or just some horseman about his own business. It wasn't inconceivable that some traveller might stop to take in the view, but this far from the road? And without troubling to dismount? It was at least unusual if not suspicious.

Reasoning boldness to be the best course with stealth near impossible, Rhoderick and Corson made a swift crossing and found the river powerful but no deeper than chest-height. When Lan went to follow however Ogre stopped at the water's edge and as Lan tried to coax the massive charger forward Ogre craned his thickly-muscled neck forward and began to graze on a tuft of thick grass. Lan knew horses, and this act of blatant disrespect was no mere accident - a good warhorse was a spirited animal, and this one had seen an opening and was testing him.

Tovrunn knew the grim-faced animal well enough - he was Lord Bjording's pride and joy - but she'd never had cause to call on Erik to hear it's voice. She'd also seen her betrothed handle horses, and it was unusual for him to struggle quite so much.

Ogre side-eyed her and whickered, stomping a single massive hoof. "Man is foolish. Don't trust his soft feet. He is not rider" he responded emphatically. "Need strong rider. Hard feet."

The big beast paused for a moment as if weighing whether to fling its rider into the river, but instead Ogre raised his head and ploughed into the river like a well-muscled warship towards the bank where Corson waited.

A few yards away Rhoderick made his way toward the figure atop the hill as if he were on a highstreet. Those of the blood had the uncanny ability to seem like they had a right to be wherever they were and for all the world this was Rhoderick's stretch of pasture and it was the rider on the horizon who had to answer for their presence. The distance made it hard to tell if he'd been noticed, or if his companions on the river had been, but if this were an agent of one of their pursuers the the lean-featured preacher's description was far from any that this Prince of Rabbits was seeking.

As the rest of their party forded Rhoderick closed the distance between the river and the lone figure. Forcing a casual pace, he was about half way by the time the wagon began its crossing and it was apparent that the mounted figure had at least noticed him by then. Just as he was beginning to make out details - a slight build bulked out by a satchel or bundle of some kind, the outlines and colours of crude farmer's garb, a heavy-built horse whose back sagged with age and a leather coif.

Looking down the steep hillside at Rhoderick the figure raised a hand and then four sharp peels like shrill birdsong rang out across the valley. Two short, then one long, and one that rose in pitch at the last. There was a pause then the pattern repeated and the figure lowered its hand. Moments passed and then the shrill sound was mirrored from somewhere some distance to the north.

Making their way along the southern bank and towards the steep rise of the hillside the bulk of the Roesonians tried to keep a low profile. A few small copses of trees offered some cover, but a brisk pace seemed more prudent than any attempt at stealth. Distance alone would give them an advantage if they needed to run - especially given the answering shrill had come from the north.

Rhoderick meanwhile heard cantering hooves coming up behind him, and turning in the saddle saw Erron join. Slowing to allow his companion the time to catch up (and continue the pretence of nonchalance) the pair closed the distance to the figure on the hill together.

Reaching the grassy ridge line the militant Nesirite glanced down to his left and saw that the line of steep hills commanded an impressive view of the familiar Blackriver highroad, surrounded by flocks of sheep grazing on the western hillside. Was the figure watching the road then? Or the river?

Closing the distance the pair could make out more of the stranger. The woman looked to be in her middle years and was indeed dressed in the rugged common garb of local peasants, but over her roughspun tunic she wore a sleeveless leather brigantine, her bundle was a brace of pelts and a short bow and quiver hung from her saddle's horn.

The rider shook the brace of pelts at Rhoderick's entreaty. "Kind enough" she replied "that the farmers'll be buying the drinks tonight. You lot come out the east - ye've not been about in the swamp have ye? There's deads walking about in there an'all."

"A merchant through the Elvenmere? Well now ain't I heard it all" the woman replied with a laugh. "This? This's my little birdsong. See, the rabbits they dig burrers in the hillside and the sheep, they catch a hoof in the burrows 'an break a leg. So the farmer, he pays a price for every pelt. I sit up here where the view's good, and when one one pops ups its fuzzy little head I play a call like this-" she raised a hand to her mouth, palm flat toward her chin, and another different tune rang out "-an' tell my friend down in the valley where I see it."

Another call in reply came, and for a moment Rhoderick thought it closer though he couldn't see this friend anywhere just yet. It was true that had he just heard the whistle on the wind he'd've thought it nothing more than a bird.

"But tell me merchant's guard, if you feared you might be waylaid why come all the way up here to see me aye? Don't so cordial a visit just slow your man up?"

"That'd all depend which way yer bound" the woman replied casually, looking out across the valley as she toyed with the handle of a skinning knife at her belt. "Coming out of the marsh you must be bound west, and with a merchant in tow I'd wager Proudglaive, right?"