The circled wagons seemed guarded well, no doubt for fear of bandits or worse prowling the road, given license to attack travelers by the war. Normal patrols were fewer and further between with the intense need for soldiers felt by Talin. Still, they had little to fear from a lone woman—hopefully that was all they would see. She had checked her reflection in a pond on the way. The pallor of death left her once nut-brown skin light enough to almost seem Talinese proper, if tinged with grey. Her dark hair was windswept, but no longer held clotted blood that might hint at her death.

"Hold! Who goes there?" a man's voice called out, his accent unmistakably Yssan. He was a long ways from home, probably either a trader or a trader's mercenary guard.

She sucked in a deep breath and cleared her throat, trying to speak with less of a rasp. Not sounding like a newly arisen undead creature was preferable, if possible. "A friend," she called, voice cracking on the words. She sucked in a deep breath and wetted her lips as best she was able. "Please."

It probably screamed trap, some woman here to lure them away from safety. Hopefully their compassion would outweigh their caution.

A man hopped down from a wagon, approaching carefully when he saw her weapons. She kept her hands away from them, held up over her head. If he decided to attack, she could easily draw her blade.

He relaxed ever so slightly when he saw that she was alone. The moonlight only made her seem paler, dark circles ringing her eyes like bruises. "God's breath," he said, concern creasing his bearded face. "You look like you've been through hell and back."

She tried to wet her lips again, barely succeeding at allowing speech. "I mean no harm," she said, voice weak and rasping as sandpaper over stone.

"Come in," he said, gesturing to the wagon circle. "We'll get some warmth and food in you."

"Thank you," she said. It was good to know that not all the world was Ghyslain Roche. She studied his eyes all the same, but there was no trace of malice there.

"I'm Beran," he said with unmistakable gentleness. "What's your name?"

Her name was lost to her, like the rest of her memories. All she could see, all she could hear, smell, taste as she gazed into her past was the horror of Dalle. Still, she needed something that she could tell them. She'd heard tales of revenants in the ancient days. They took names that reflected what they'd been through. She would take hers from the emotion she wanted so desperately but could no longer feel. "Sorrow," she said in her broken voice.

Beran put a hand on her shoulder. "I'm sorry," he said. "You must have lost greatly to wear such a name."

A woman was waiting by the fire, dark-haired and dark-eyed. She looked more from the High Kingdom than Yssa, swarthy and dressed in lighter fabric except for a wrap around her shoulders to keep some of the chill at bay. She lingered close to the fire for its warmth. "Beran, what on earth are you—" She halted at the sight of Beran's guest. "Oh gods."

Beran smiled, but not with humor. "Draha, she needs to warm up, and maybe some medicine," he said, glancing at the blood on Sorrow's armor. "I don't know where she came from, but it seems bad."

"Dalle," Sorrow said. "I am everything left."

"What happened?" Draha asked, but the quiver in her voice betrayed that she feared the answer.

Sorrow's lip curled as she thought of the men responsible, the leader that had commanded the torment of the souls who called Dalle home. "The Genevais," she rasped. "Shrike."

That name was enough to chill the blood of those who heard it, even strangers to Talin. The man's infamy stretched far and wide. They did not come more brutal. "I'm so sorry," Draha said. She gestured to a seat by the fire. "Please, rest. I'll get you something to eat and look at your wounds."

"They are just scratches," Sorrow said. She knew full well that even those had healed already. Her ribs didn't even ache where the man had plunged the knife between them to kill her. She felt no pain at all, only the cold of death that permeated every fiber of her being.

"You must be quite the warrior," Beran said, taking a seat beside her at the fire, though at a respectful distance. "You are welcome to travel with us. We go to Astarac."

A Genevais city: that suited her perfectly. Traveling as part of a group would reduce the number of bandits she needed to deal with. Shrike's men were still a threat, but she was not about to let them harm anyone else. Even the thought made frozen hatred flare in her heart. "I thank you for the kindness," she mumbled. "I can be an extra guard."

"I will not turn down a helping hand, but first let's be sure you are well enough," Beran said, offering a smile.

Draha returned with a bundle of herbs and a wineskin. "Safer than water on the road," she promised, handing the skin to Sorrow.

Sorrow could not bring herself to smile at the woman. It was as if her face had forgotten how. Instead, she dipped her head into a grateful nod and drank. The wine had no taste, no refreshing quality. She might as well have been drinking bland water, but it freed her voice to sound more alive, less rasping. "Thank you," she said, voice stronger.

Draha went to tend Sorrow's wounds where the armor was damaged, but found none. "You are favored well by the gods," she said, impressed. "I've never met a warrior who could guard against blows like that."

"Purpose takes one far," Sorrow said.

Beran chuckled at that. "Remind me not to get on your bad side," he joked. He stirred the pot over the fire. "Let's get some food in you. I've got a spare bedroll too."

Sorrow hesitated. She wasn't hungry at all. It was a sustenance she didn't need to sustain her twisted approximation of life. Still, refusing would probably draw more questions than she wanted to answer. Then again, she had an excuse that would work just fine. "I...I hunger not," she whispered. "Not after...everything..."

Beran's expression sobered at that. "Forgive me," he said quietly. "I was not thinking."

"I take no offense," Sorrow said, to reassure the man. "It has just been difficult."

"At least get some sleep," Draha said gently. "We're moving first thing in the morning tomorrow. We've a long way to go before we reach Astarac."

Sorrow nodded. She wasn't concerned with being stabbed in the dark. She moved to the bedroll offered, taking off her boots so she wouldn't get dirt in the blankets. It was comfortable enough on the hard ground. She had spent most of her life at war, so sleeping on the road was just part of life.

Sleep did not come, no matter how many times she closed her eyes. Visions of Dalle flashed across her vision behind her eyelids. Eventually she settled for listening to Beran and Draha.

"...I've heard of Shrike," Draha said with a shudder in her body and her voice. "The stories from the border...they are terrible."

"She said she was the only survivor," Beran murmured. "I cannot imagine."

Draha was quiet for a long moment before speaking again. "There was something dark in her voice when she spoke his name."

"I cannot blame her for hating something so evil," the Yssan man said. He glanced towards Sorrow, something she almost didn't catch through mostly closed eyes. "Better that she feel safe with us. Perhaps that will give her a chance to heal."

"We'll have to talk to the others in the morning," Draha said. "Cathasach said he wanted no more hangers on."

"If she's as good with those weapons as she moves, she'll hardly count as some waif," Beran pointed out. "We need more protection with the road as it is. There'll be a rearguard if the Genevais made it this far. They're no better than bandits when their food or purses run low."

"Fair," Draha agreed. "I just worry about anyone who's been through so much."

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

"Me too," Beran agreed gruffly. "Get some sleep. We'll need our strength to quarrel with Cathasach in the morning."

The two went to bed, leaving Sorrow to toss and turn in her bedroll. Another cruelty of the divine: rest was denied her. She would have kept moving through the night towards Shrike, but it made more sense to travel with the caravan. They would undoubtedly draw the attention of soldiers, as Beran had observed. Butchering Shrike's men would be a fine practice for killing him.

Dawn came early this time of year, at least. She levered herself up in the bedroll as the bustle of activity slowly spread through the little camp. It wouldn't be long before someone noted her presence and potentially objected to it. Sorrow spotted Draha cooking away and approached, since Beran was nowhere to be seen and they were the only two friendly faces. "Can I assist?" she asked. The roughness to her voice had mostly subsided, leaving her with only a hint of rasp.

Draha looked up with a start, a smile forming on her face. "I think I have it under control," she said lightly. "Beran went gathering wood with Cathasach. You might go see if they need help."

Sorrow bowed her head. "Which way?" she asked, even though when she stopped and caught scent of the breeze, she smelled the cedar-scented lye soap she'd caught on the man the night before.

"Due east, unless they've wandered," Draha said. There was a tinge of worry on her face for a moment before she reassured herself. "They're smart lads, they ought to be fine."

The revenant nodded. She stopped long enough to grab her bow and arrows, belting the quiver at her waist along with the broad-bladed falchion. It felt unwieldy compared to her sword, but that ancient blade had danced as if light as a feather in her hands. The idea of it at Shrike's side stirred at her rage, so she did her best to put it out of her mind as she tracked the two men that had left camp. She followed the senses honed by death, their smell lingering in her nose.

A familiar smell caught her: oiled leather and steel. Soldiers.

Beyond her control, a horrible hunger for destruction raged in her chest. She didn't just want them slain: she wanted them ripped apart, made to suffer, destroyed in all senses of the word. She slid an arrow out of her quiver, readying it as she came around the bend with a predator's graceful quiet.

Six men in red and black surrounded Beran and an unfamiliar older man, the jeering laughs altogether too familiar. "Take them to their wagons," one said, tone almost friendly. The grin he sported was anything but. "I'm sure we can get a better deal for their goods."

Beran spat blood, his lip split from a punch to the face by a gauntleted hand. "You'd better stay away from them," he growled.

The soldier leaned in. "Or you'll what?" he said, earning laughs from his fellows.

Sorrow drew her bow back into a perfect archer's stance. No need for breath meant nothing gave her arm or hands a tremble. She took careful aim at the man in Beran's face, sighting not his ribs, but his head. His kettle helmet was tipped back, worn around his neck, with the aventail beneath worn sloppily, pulled down.

His mistake.

Sorrow loosed the arrow with the strength of the undead in her rippling muscles, hatred burning in her veins like the coldest of ice. The arrow hit the man in the side of the head with such force that he toppled, bodkin tip embedded in the far side of his skull. His fellows let out a shout, pivoting towards her.

Beran took his opportunity, grabbing his axe from the twitching fingers of the fallen man and swinging as hard as he could at another. The soldier in the face, every bit as lethal with all that force as the arrow.

Sorrow knew the weak spots of armor well. She fired shot after shot as they charged her, then dropped her bow the minute they were too close. Three had fallen by the time they reached her.

She punched the first one in the side of the jaw, sending him crashing down to the ground, stunned. He would be up again in a moment, but it bought her enough time to draw the falchion and turn her attention to the other. She recoiled like a snake when he slashed at her face, barely bringing her own blade up in time. The heavier falchion did an excellent job at stopping the blow.

However, her hopes of using technique to best her opponent were crushed by the unwieldy nature of her blade. The falchion was designed for the unschooled to hack apart foes rather than deftly slaying them. It had a sharp tip, but not one ideal for stabbing. Sorrow knew how to compensate after a lifetime spent at war or training for war. She hacked into her foe savagely, breaking bone with every blow. It was far more gruesome than anything she had done in life.

Her blows followed him to the ground, ending only when his cries ceased. Then she looked to the other, practically paralyzed in terror even though he had leveled his sword at her to keep her at bay.

Sorrow kicked his hand with ferocity, sending the blade flying. She put her boot on his chest. "Where is Roche?" she hissed, grinding her heel into his sternum. Her face was no longer the calm, reserved mask it had been at the camp. It burned with a hatred and a hunger beyond the comprehension of mortals.

"I don't know!" he blurted out in a cry of pain.

Beran approached with the other man on his heels. "Sorrow, it's alright. He lost. You can let him go," he said, trying to calm the fury in front of him even though it made him quake. Something about the woman's rage hit the most primal part of his brain and body, demanding he flee from the predator in front of him. He barely resisted the urge.

"Where he can prey on others?" Sorrow said, lip curling with contempt.

"I won't, I swear it!" the soldier cried out.

"Your promises are worth less than the dust you lie in," she said, bringing the falchion down in a wicked arc that separated the man's head from his shoulders.

"Aye, the lass has a point," the older man said bluntly, ignoring Beran's shock. He studied the woman in front of him. "No insult, but who'n the hell are ye?"

She cleared her throat, the last of the rage receding now that the enemies were all dead. "My name is Sorrow," she said. "Draha and Beran offered me refuge last night."

"Ye can certes acquit yerself in a tough spot," the older man said. He held out a hand to Sorrow to shake her unbloodied one. "Cathasach the Maimed."

The hand he held out was barely a hand, twisted and scarred. That seemed to be true of everything up his arm. Even his shoulder didn't look right, damaged in the socket. With a name like that, Sorrow doubted it was accidental. Nor was the brand on his cheek a mistake: a T for thief. Someone had scarred a line across it, no doubt a sign of turning over a new leaf in life.

She shook his hand without hesitation.

"Best get some heat in ye, gel," Cathasach said as he let go of her hand. "That's quite a chill ye've got. Ye don't look too good either."

"I take it that means I am welcome in your camp?" she said dryly.

"Ye did us a hell of'n favor, charging in like that. Few folk would have taken that risk these days," Cathasach said. He gave her a grim smile. "I don't make it a habit of turning away any friendly face. 'Sides, ye fight like a demon."

Beran seemed to finally regain himself, wrenching his gaze away from the man without a head. "Was that necessary?"

"He wore Shrike's colors," Sorrow said, the hate rising like bile in her throat again. "They are a breed that feed off the misery they inflict. He picks the most sadistic for even his foot-soldiers. Their pleas disguise the laughter of jackals."

Beran hesitated for a long moment, studying her face. She relaxed slightly, letting her expression return to its somber neutrality. They were dead, that was all that mattered.

Cathasach placed a hand on Beran's back. "Let's get the wood and hoof it back, in case there be more about."

As the men gathered their dropped firewood, Sorrow did her best to retrieve the arrows she had used. Impact broke some arrows, but she recovered two still in good enough condition to be useful. The sickening sound of bone and flesh giving way as she eased them loose was fortunately out of Beran's hearing. She wiped them on the bodies they had come from before tucking them into the quiver again.

Together, the three set off back for the camp which was mercifully undisturbed. Draha met them at the edge of the circle, brow knitting in concern when she saw the blood on Sorrow and Beran. "What happened?" she asked.

"There were soldiers," Beran said quietly.

Draha seemed to understand that his tone meant there were no longer soldiers. She stepped in to look at Beran's lip. "That must have hurt," she said. She cupped her hand over the injury and whispered something under her breath. When she moved her hand away, the wound had disappeared without a trace.

"You have magic," Sorrow observed, glance flicking to Beran instinctively. She had no recall of Yssans or their view on such things, but she looked all the same.

"Hedge witchery," Draha explained. "I've barely got enough of a spark to light a candle."

Beran shifted slightly from foot to foot. "I don't mind it. Not all Yssans break out the pyre for a witch."

Draha smiled faintly. "The opposite, in your case."

"Someone tried to burn you," Sorrow said. She couldn't quite make it a question. Part of her tried to imagine what that felt like, but her anger prevented it. She hated thinking of someone trying to inflict such a horror on anyone as caring as Draha. Her hands tightened into fists at the thought.

"Aye," Cathasach said firmly. "And we gave 'em a right beating for it. 'T'ain't right, the purgings."

"Good," Sorrow said in approval. She looked down at her clothing, smeared in blood. Her sleeves were bad. She hadn't stopped to put on her armor, which would have shown the mess less. "This might offend."

Draha winced slightly. "Fair. You're about my size, let me get you some fresh clothes. No need to upset anyone." She disappeared back into the circle of wagons.

Sorrow waited outside the wagons patiently with Beran, who would need a clean shirt too. Cathasach studied the revenant carefully, eyes curious. "So what's yer story, lass?"

"The town I was to defend Shrike attacked," she said, tone flat and dead. "I am all that remains."

Cathasach grimaced. "That's a hard 'un." He kept up his study of her face. "Talinese then, or a mercenary?"

"I don't know," Sorrow said blandly.

Beran and Cathasach both looked at her with concern at that. "Ye don't recall or ye don't want to say?" Cathasach said.

"All I remember is the attack. Everything else is smoke."

Beran's expression softened sympathetically. "I'm sorry," he said gently, to offer comfort or reassurance. "Sometimes things are so horrible..."

She knew the truth: the gods had stripped her of anything that might impede vengeance. Her memories would have distracted her from what was necessary. Punishment and function bound into one. The loss didn't bother her any more than the inability to weep. She noticed both, but ultimately inconsequential in the face of her task.

"Something like that," she murmured, looking over at both men. "As long as I am with your caravan, I will fight to defend it, but in Astarac, I must go my own way. There is something unfinished."

Beran nodded and stepped away as Draha returned with clothing for him. Cathasach studied Sorrow instead. "Revenge is a dangerous master."

She looked at him with hollow eyes, only the spark of a fire as deep as a mountain's heart burning in them. "A punishment that I am to bear for the rest of my days."

Cathasach looked away. "A'right lass," he said. That look spoke volumes more than even her words. "'Til Astarac, ye're with us."