"You're looking good, sir!"

Taelsin ignored Donal's unspoken question, sweeping maps and various detritus off the large table at the centre of what passed for his command tent. Between them, they then lifted Daine's bloody and battered form and laid her flat upon it.

"What happened to her?" Taelsin asked, motioning for his guards to fetch jugs of water to clean the Templar Ascendant's wounds.

"Oh, you know. Same old, same old. Nightmarish villain, last desperate stand with the world's fate on the line, shadowy power beyond all mortal ken. Nothing especially exciting. Trust me," Donal said, playing up for his small audience of spearmen, "if you live as long as me, it turns out there is relatively little new under the sun. But speaking of exciting and unexpected developments, has someone been working out?"

"Not now!" the newly evolved Wandering Steward snapped, moving out of the way as one of the camp's healers arrived.

She looked first to Donal and then to Taelsin, confusion all over her face, before slowly approaching the still form of Daine. "I . . . I dunno what ye want from me 'ere, sirs. There ain't nuthin' I can do for the lady that 'er Class won' do for 'er a hundredfold better."

Donal put an arm around the old woman's shoulders and squeezed her tightly, ignoring her astonished expression at the unexpected and fairly unwelcome contact. "No, none of that self-effacement, my good woman. From what I hear, you are quite the miracle worker with herbs and . . . suchlike. Please take a look and see what you think."

Hesitatingly, the healer dipped a linen cloth in one of the jugs of water that had been brought forth and wiped at the myriad of cuts that covered Daine's face. She gasped and looked up with shock at Donal. "She bain't healin'!"

Donal grimaced. "No. No, she isn't. Damn it. I hoped I was mistaken. Okay, so time to earn our corn. Tell me, what herbs would you use for someone who presented with haemophilia?"

The woman shook her head. "I dunno what that is, sir."

Donal clicked his fingers, trying to summon the word he sought. "Idiosyncrasia haemorrhagica? No? Hereditary haemorrhagic diathesis? Come on, you must know what I mean?"

The healer's eyes opened wide, turning to Taelsin for help. "I don't know what he's talking about, my lord!"

"The Bleeding Disease, good woman. He's asking what herb you would use if you were treating someone with the Bleeding Disease?"

The woman's weathered face creased in thought. "I ain't seen no one with that in years, an' even then, it were tricky work." She shook her head, clearly at a loss. "I ain't got anything with me that would help."

"Assume, my good lady, that I can . . . locate any resources you may require. Tell me what you would need, and be quick about it!"

Ignoring Donal's tone, the healer looked over Daine's injuries, running her hand over wounds that continued to leak blood. In just the time the Templar Ascendant had been lying on Taelsin's table, a dark red pool had formed beneath her.

Frustrated, Donal was about to ask again, but she silenced him by turning back to him and counting off on her fingers. "If I were back at me own cottage, I'd be reachin' for skullcap root, black cohosh, an' a bit o' cat's claw to try an' stop the bleedin'. But there's summat nasty in them cuts, so I'd also want feverfew, flax seed, an' willow bark for the infection that's like to come. Ginger an' garlic wouldn' hurt, neither. Bromelain, if I could get me hands on it."

"Done and done. Go prepare everything else you need to care for her, and I'll have it ready for you when you return."

The healer looked between Donal and Taelsin, unsure whether to believe him. "Chop chop, good woman. I'm channelling my own life force into her to keep her alive, and that pool, whilst deep, is not bottomless."

"Go with her," Taelsin said to his guard, "in case she needs help carrying anything."

The moment they were alone, Donal visibly wilted and sagged to the floor, all the colour leaving his face. Taelsin quickly knelt at his side. "Donal, what's wrong?"

"Ah, nothing a good night's sleep will not solve. This Class is useless at channelling mana, so I have had to brute-force things a little. How is she?"

Taelsin looked at the unconscious woman, trying to dampen his shock and fear at seeing the formidable warrior laid low. "She's still alive. I do not think there is much more positive to say. What attacked her?"

"I fear that may be a long story, my lord and one that we will want others to hear. Let us help the healer stabilize her, and then we can talk."

Taelsin nodded at that and then stood to collect a jug of water for Donal to drink. "Although," the Frontiersman said, eyes twinkling with some of his customary mischief, "we've probably got time to discuss which god you blagged into evolving your Class. You're leaking mana all over the place, by the way."

Taelsin was spared giving an immediate answer by the appearance of a very confused quartermaster carrying armfuls of herbs, which had suddenly materialized on the back of one of the wagons.

*

"Wandering Steward," Donal had whistled several hours later, "now there's a double-edged blade if ever I heard one."

Through the diligent work of the healer, although she had not yet returned to consciousness, the worst of Daine's wounds had stopped bleeding.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

"I'm worried 'bout infection, but that's gonna be a problem for another day. She won't die in the night, I can promise 'ee that. What happens in the days to come, though? That's in the hands o' the goddess."

"You have my thanks, Mistress . . . "

"Ain't no mistress, sir. They calls me Wynna. An' I don't need no thanks. Can I use what the strange one got me on the other sick an' wounded?"

Taelsin did his best not to smile at Donal being referred to as 'the strange one' and singularly failed. "You can, Mistress Wynna. And we will find other ways to express our thanks."

Donal swept forward to take the woman's hand in his, and planted several kisses upon it. The healer had left them then, muttering darkly about the bizarre ways of odd old men.

Any mirth in the room, though, had fled when Donal outlined what they had seen in the camp of the mountain men.

"A Skuggaseiðr?" Souit said, disbelief in his voice. "You would have to believe a monster from childhood legend attacked you."

"Not at all, my good General. Perhaps you misheard. I said we were accosted by the MyrkrÞræll of a Skuggaseiðr. Had we tangled with the master rather than the servant, I would not be here to tell the tale. It was only that we took a newly risen fiend by surprise that we could despatch it and, even then, at the cost of significant injury to the Lady Darkhelm."

All eyes turned to the bloodstain in the middle of the command tent, Daine having been moved to the camp's makeshift medical tent.

"A MyrkrÞræll?" Degralk asked. "I don't recognize the word."

"A Dark Slave." Donal translated. "A piece of shadow ripped from the heart of darkness itself and given possession of a human soul. The Skuggaseiðr had left it behind to sow chaos in its wake."

"But the mountain men?" Kettle asked. "You say it took them with it when it went?"

"It did indeed. And they were not from the same group that had attacked us earlier in the day. I think we must assume we will encounter other warbands as we journey through the Bloodspires."

"And Skuggaseiðr? And MyrkrÞræll? Will we have to contend with those too?" There was a mocking quality to Souit's question, but Taelsin saw the deep worry in his eyes.

"We would be wise to prepare for that eventuality. Which, with our greatest martial asset off the board, leads me back to the question of Mayor Elm's new Class. Although, we should call you Steward Elm from now on, eh?"

"Taelsin will be fine," the young man growled. "And I've already told you as much about it as I know."

Degralk's eyes flashed with amusement. "I must say, it is quite an education travelling with you Westerners. Why, before our acquaintance, I had assumed a man's Class was the solid centre of his world. But it seems we can change it as often as we change our shoes. At least to follow your example, sirs."

"Hardly, sir," Donal said, a slightly grumpy tone coming to his voice. "My ability to move between Classes is quite unique and the result of hundreds of years of work and study. Whatever deal -" Donal put a considerable sneer on the word - "Steward Elm has entered into for the price of a good singsong with some mountain sprite or another can hardly be seen to compare."

"Be that as it may," Souit said, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the bloodstained table, "it does not change our predicament. From your explanation, Mayor . . . Steward . . . Taelsin, it sounds like you have access to Skills that will buff our party?"

"Donal?" Taelsin indicated his friend should answer for him.

"All rather archaic, of course, but I have heard of them," Donal said sniffily. " was a favourite of one of those interminably dull Paladin Classes from the North. They all died, of course. Probably of earnestness. When cast, our lovely Steward will be able to create an aura with a 30-foot radius that grants all allies within it a 15% boost to all resistances (physical, magical, and mental) for half a bell. I assume, with prolonged use, that will be level up - both in terms of distance and time. I imagine it will also enhance critical hit chances and provide a steady regeneration of health and mana for all allies, too."

All heads in the tent nodded appreciatively. Something like that could be the difference between success and failure in a close battle. Souit and Degralk were concerned about engaging an enemy without Daine's Skill active, but what Donal had just described would somewhat mitigate that loss.

"And ?" Souit asked.

"It is less useful on the battlefield," Donal said, "but it will see plenty of usage when we are on the march. From what I've read, it should increase allies' stamina and endurance by 25% for a quarter of a bell. Likewise, we can expect a reduction in the effects of fatigue and negative status effects by 20% during this period, and—if we're lucky—it should restore a portion of allies' health and mana immediately upon activation."

"You mentioned it as a double-edged blade earlier. What did you mean by that, sir?" Degralk's sharp eyes were watching Donal carefully.

Donal glanced at Taelsin, silently questioning if he wanted him to answer.

Taelsin shrugged. "I do not think it wise for us to have secrets."

Donal cracked his knuckles and leaned back in his chair, legs swinging as he did so. "The debuff," he said, voice laced with dissatisfaction. "All the sources I have been able to consult agree on this. The Wandering Steward Class gains strength and resilience from its displacement, but this very nature also leaves the Class holder vulnerable to feelings of rootlessness and detachment. The lack of a permanent home or anchor point can lead to significant emotional and mental strain, making it difficult for the Steward to maintain their resolve over prolonged periods without a clear purpose or direction." Donal paused.

"Go on," Taelsin said with a grimace.

"You can expect to feel increased fatigue. You will require more rest and recovery time, and prolonged periods of activity will lead to severe exhaustion and decreased effectiveness of your Skills. Likewise, your natural defences are weakened by having no set sense of 'home', resulting in a 20% decrease in resistance to physical and magical attacks, making you far more vulnerable than you were as a Mayor. However, the final issue is potentially more significant."

"I am not appreciating your sense of drama here, sir!"

"Well, bully for you. I have to take my fun where I can get it. A Wandering Steward's power is tied closely to the presence and well-being of their followers. If those you identify with are scattered, demoralized, or significantly harmed, your Skills will be correspondingly weakened. Indeed, a significant loss of followers or a severe drop in morale would cripple you. It may even kill you."

"A double-edged blade, indeed," Souit said.

The small group sat in silence for a few moments before Taelsin spoke. "I cannot speak for the intentions of Skuggaseiðr, nor MyrkrÞræll, nor feral mountain men. They are horrors from myth, and their presence here suggests the hands of the gods are still at play in the West. Should, as I suspect, on her recovery, the Lady Darkhelm wishes to confront the evil we have found in the mountains, I will give you leave to support her in that endeavour, Donal." That earned a slight nod from the Frontiersman. "But for the rest of us, I cannot continue to put my people in harm's way. With all speed, we will make it through the Bloodspires to a place where they will be safe. I do not intend to 'wander' for a moment more than necessary."

"And should the 'horrors from myth' not accept you want no part in their games?" Donal asked, only half in jest.

There was a pause, and then a look of cold fury flashed across Taelsin's face. When he spoke, none present were left in doubt of his words' sincerity. "Then we will make them regret that choice."