As would be expected from the diminished crowd within the room, the talk grew quieter, and words became directed towards a person, rather than to the room the person was sitting in. Laughs became chuckles and agreements became nods. The serving boys came seldom now, but when they did, the owner of the house made rounds with them. When he reached Górin's place, he announced that the kitchen would soon be jarring up the last of their food, and that they should bring out pennies quickly if any last vittles were desired. After that news came, the room only emptied out further, but Górin and his companions didn't quite feel like turning in just yet. The boys went to work at clearing and cleaning the other table, and began work on part of the one the three sat at.

In a short time after, the man returned with two small cuts of bread that he dropped near Górin and Handor's bowls. As he did so, he wiped his hands upon the stained apron about his waist, but did not make to move from the spot. Instead, he looked the three up and down, as if trying to determine their nature and their cause.

“I'm not one who makes habit of coming to my guests while they are among their own company,” he began with a single upturned brow, “but I do happen to know that a good many rangers from abroad have come to Elbregn on the request of Lord Gráðír.”

Górin began to speak, but Handor, inspired by the drink, beat him to it not in speed but in volume. “From the lands near Dormedon and Ekír Nadón, and east of Elbregn. I assume you are aware of the nature of these missions?”

“To a degree,” the landlord said, nodding, “I have the vague knowledge of what the seers and witches mean to do, but it appears that few of the common people know much of anything about the details of this campaign.” He pulled back a chair near the three and sat down in it.

“Rumor in Elbregn is that the seers fear a spreading of the blight,” the landlord went on, lowering his voice enough for the boys cleaning the tables to not overhear. “I see little reason to believe rumors, as the only proof is what drunk men proclaim. Yet, my father always told me that even in delirium, some truth can be found.”

“Spreading?” Dákk asked, raising his brow, “If the blight were to spread, would it not have already climbed over the mountains and into Síarn? Or past the Thaid and into Brassia? Lands where no Stékkr grow?” He meant to drink from his cup, but soon found that it was empty. “I hope it is not too late for a last pour,” he said over to the closest serving boy.

“Goodness, so it is,” the boy said, looking back at the landlord who simply shrugged, “We already put on the stoppers and fitted the bracing, unless you want us to open the cask again?”

“No, keep it shut,” the landlord said, “You all can go home once you’ve finished. Don’t wait on me.”

“If our leave is required, we won’t keep you any longer,” Górin said.

“Ah, that is no matter,” the landlord said, shaking his head, “Actually, if you would care to stay for a little longer, I’d like to learn more of what you know.” He paused and looked down at their cups. “Perhaps a few drops of gin might be a fine end to a meal? As you’ve noticed, I can’t offer you a proper drink, but I do have a jug of gin I can readily open.

There was no further bargaining needed. After a brief time, he returned from the kitchen, one hand holding four cups and the other gripping the handle of a small clay carafe from which thin steam drifted. The rangers gladly accepted their new cups and a small but hot portion of the sweet spirit was poured to each. Though the nights were not cold at this time of year, they were beginning to bring with them the light chills of a later half of the year. Brannaht would mean the beginning of keeping fires alight throughout the night, not merely burning embers. As Górin felt the warmth flow through his chest and back, he thought of the journey ahead, and the many nights beneath the skies of the Silver Hills. Though the time of year did not warrant for bringing extra blankets, he thought of the nights within blighted land and the seeming lack of enough warmth carried within. Even in the warm months, the broken land carried a quiet chill that pickled at the skin and traced at the spirit like a rusted nail. He thought back to when he had come to the Silver Hills before. It wasn't enough to freeze his bones, but many times, despite it being in the middle of Leafsway, he longed for a thicker cloak to sleep beneath. That, of course, was before a Veil had come into play.

Only once before had he ventured deep enough into the Silver Hills where poison was enough to prevent permanent habitation. For two days, he and his ranger squad had made journey through the bleak land, hunting a notorious band of poachers who his corps had finally caught in the act, though they had narrowly failed in capturing. Rather than risk a path to the open roads, the poachers had seemed to consider luck on their side, and instead hoped the rangers would not follow them into the rolling lands, much less another lord's territory. Being so close to the blighted lands, Górin and his companions were equipped to enter when the occasion called for it, but it seemed that the poachers were not. When one is afflicted with poison, even riding becomes a great difficulty. On the morning of the second day, Górin began to shiver in his saddle, though by evening, his shivers were born from the sight ahead. Far in the distance, near where the tracks led, was a dark fog bank. Yet, only the most foolish would think it nothing more than a fog bank. To those who paid attention to the tales rangers told, it was a Veil.

To the squad's relief, the Veil was not moving moving towards them, but from their guess, the poachers had made for the dark fog bank in some foolish attempt to throw the rangers off their trail. The tracks Górin followed showed a transition from horse tracks to bootprints. From steady marching to walking to stumbling to crawling. Each new set of tracks lasted even shorter than before. The poachers themselves were not found together. Some fell sooner, some lasted for a time longer. None were dead, of course, but all were badly afflicted. They choked, they shivered, they heaved, they writhed. None of the horses were found alive. Nor were any found wholly together. Blade slices, teeth bites, bludgeon bruises, lust stains. It wasn't just the horses that bore these marks.

Some perished on the journey back to Dormedon, but the rest needed no tending to by the witches. Upon the return to Dormedon, Lord Moth gave decree for their deaths. It was all the better, Górin supposed. Later on, one of the witches told him that she doubted the poachers would ever breathe or speak normally again had they not been executed. It was during that venture into the more heavily-blighted lands that Górin came to truly appreciate the poultice-soaked rags that the rangers were urged to wear over their nose and mouths while traversing the Plaguelands.

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

Sometimes, he thought back to what he found there. Usually, all he cared to recall was the pale chill at night.

The three drank slowly, for they knew that such gifts were uncommon. Even Handor, who by now was swaying side to side as he spoke, seemed intent on savoring the moment, lest he might later try and fail to recall it. No words were spoken until their cups were nearly empty and even then, there were no requests for a subsequent pour, not even from the merry Handor. The fires of the kitchen were reduced to embers, and all but one lamp of the hall remained lit. The sounds of the streets outside were infrequent and low; an occasional talk between two men or the steady hoof beats of a horse being led to a stable for the night.

“It is odd that so much time has passed before they had thought to make brands from the bark of Stékkr,” Handor said, breaking the silence with many stutters and slurs.

The landlord cleared this throat and adjusted his place in the chair. “No, I have no doubts that they realized such effects long ago. Rather, they likely knew of no such way to go about these proceedings without harming or defiling the Stékkr. Much less poisoning and killing the witches in the process.” He raised both hands above the table as though holding something in his gentle grip. “I’ve not heard much about them, but is there any truth to the claim that the poultices you rangers use to breathe cleanly in the blighted lands contain leaves from the Stékkr?” He raised his hands to his face. "A sort of fragrant mixture soaked into facecloths to repel the miasmic air from your senses?"

“The fallen leaves?” Dákk asked. “That is likely. I’ve never seen the creation such potions myself, but I know that the Stékkr play a role.”

Handor suddenly gave out a slurred laugh. “I nearly thought I was dreaming the first time I heard how it was made. People in the town were convinced a swathing firestorm would burn all of us away for such a blasphemy.”

“That isn’t as much of a bad thing for people to think,” Górin added. “The father-seer of Dormedon reasoned that should such knowledge come to public mind, then people might have fewer hesitations about interacting with the Stékkr for reasons aside from respect or good luck. I was tasked with guarding the Stékkr of Dormedon for a time, actually.”

“How did that go?” the landlord said with a smirk.

Górin looked down at his empty cup. “Only five ever tried to greedily harvest from the trees."

“What did you do to them?” Handor slurred.

“I turned them over to the city guard.”

“What did they do?”

Górin looked at the tilting man with an intense distaste. Handor saw none of it.

“Well?” He asked, not appearing to notice Górin’s annoyed grimace.

The landlord broke in with a forced laugh. “I think we can all imagine what the punishment for harming a Stékkr would be. Back to what I was saying,” he quickly continued, "I was thinking it so odd to hear of the witches going into lands so poisoned that I doubted it was only those poultices which would be brought for protection against the desolation."

Górin gave a dark chuckle though he found it not funny at all. If only he knew, he thought, the poor man. Looking up, he shook his head in response. "They are more effective than you would guess," he said, "Properly made, a tight cloth around the face soaked in well-brewed Stékkr bark can be the difference between a hardly-noticeable headache and vomiting blood while you grow weak and trembling. It's important to know that bodily illness is the least of worries when one is facing the deep blight or a Veil."

“Indeed.” Shadows crossed the landlord’s face. The landlord gave a sigh but said nothing as he turned the empty cup around in his hands. He stared intently at it for several moments, then shook his head. He frequently seemed about to continue, but just as often thought better of it.

“Does all of Elbregn know the same as you?” Handor asked at last.

“Oh, don't put too much faith in what I say,” the landlord laughed, “My words are what remains of the careful trimmings of gossip I've overheard in this house. Isolated tall tale I vaguely consider until given reason to discard it, which usually doesn't take long. It is common words from uncommon folk I hold to my memory. I hear many things, some which may seem true to me but may only be so because I have heard it so often. Do not let me discourage you, my good men, but likewise, it is never an unwise thing to listen to what a barkeep can tell.”

Despite his discouragement in learning few specific details as to what he, Dákk, and Handor were to undergo as part of their journey into the Silver Hills and Kaðrosedd, Górin did not truly feel as though all talk had been a waste, so far. With goodbyes and speculations of their return upon when the morning came, the three rangers departed from the meal house, leaving the landlord to his business. The night air carried with it the cool hints of wind, but not quite a breeze. The sky had become no less enshrouded with cloud than it had been during the day, and a faint smell in the air signaled that rain would soon be on its way. Perhaps not much, but its coming was likely. Had there not been guardsmen passing through the street at the time, bearing lanterns to guide their way, Górin might have stepped right back inside the meal house and politely asked the landlord if they could borrow a lamp for the night. To their fortune, the guardsmen were headed towards the castle and took not issue with the three men walking or staggering along with them.

It was not quite midnight, but it would soon be, by the account of one of the guardsmen. The streets of Elbregn near her center had been largely abandoned aside from stray wanderers, guardsmen concluding their duties for the day, and rangers under the sway of beer and gin. For all of the shadows that flickered throughout the buildings, cast by the lanterns of the guards, Górin felt little threat within them. Danger dwelt within Elbregn just as surely as it dwelt without, but this danger held origin in kinship. Whoever might accost them should they stray too close to a shrouded alleyway, could be persuaded or discouraged. Górin might have no money within his purse, he might be able to outrun the assailant, he might be stopped by an overconfident thief that was actually half of his size. Being robbed was a man-to-man encounter.

The Plaguelands, however, held no such connection. Górin could rage at the blight, he could attempt to outsmart it, he could learn its ways and attempt to overcome it. There was no way around the matter that the blight existed, and no ranger’s power could overturn that danger. The danger of the blight was not one to overcome, but to avoid. Only the magical powers of the witches, foretold by the seers, could bear a hope to reduce the terror of the plague-ridden miasma. How they might do so was not of Górin’s concern. Only that he did all he could to help his witch avoid those perils of the blight so she might safely use her power to do away with that foul marring of Þérge.

He did not exchange many words with Dákk and Handor once the party had made their way to the castle. Being of those who had arrived sooner than he, the two had secured lodging within the barrack houses along with the majority of other rangers. Left to his own once the pair had said their goodnights and the guards had followed through the heavy doors, Górin made the short journey to the boarding house near the castle. As he continued his walking, he wished that he had not stayed at the meal house for so long. Even within the walls of a city such as Elbregn, the world beneath the open sky at night held a calming embrace. One dearly needed in a city.

Elbregn has changed, indeed, he thought, looking back to gaze at the diminishing number of lights in the distance, Too much like Dormedon? No, something more than Dormedon. He recalled once again the sights of the city in prior years. A mass of empty grave markers. Weathered and decayed. Broken and littered. Marking the homes and livelihoods of those that lived so long ago. Rotting and petrified.

A faint wind began to pass through the streets which Górin walked up on his way. He could not see the Stékkr from this deep within the city, but he felt their influence. Their warmth comforted him as he made the final steps to the boarding house.