Narach woke and sprang up suddenly. Finally returning to his senses, his haste cast away all traces of drowsiness in a single moment as he observed his surroundings. To his confusion, neither the Ghlaírí nor Rhíad were anywhere to be found. Actually, neither was the throne of bones nor the fire nor the bed of vines. Looking around, he found himself in a strange part of the cave which seemed to have reached a dead end. Up above, an opening in the tunnel not far above his head revealed a clear night sky, with the pale light of the moon and stars floating down onto him.
Once fully awake, the second thing that the young soldier noticed was a grating itch that tickled at his face. Scratching helped only little, but unlike the usual burns or scrapes, it didn’t make the itching any worse either. The irritating sensation seemed placed in irregular patches, and despite his efforts, Narach couldn’t help but think of the sight of the Ghlaírí's palm and fingers descending upon him.
Standing, Narach tried to look down the length of dark tunnel, but the moonlight did not reach so far. Nor could he hear anything at all, besides the faint rustling of trees from out of the opening. With a puzzled expression, examined the grassy floor as much as he could in the dim light. He couldn’t be certain of it, but to his best recollection, this did seem to be the tunnel just inside the maw of the cave. With a sudden uneasy thought, he wondered if any trouble had come to the company outside, for if he had been brought from the chamber of the Ghlaírí and dropped at the entrance of the cave, then surely someone would have noticed him laying there.
It didn’t take long for Narach to pull himself out of the pit, though his tunic had become horribly filthy in the process. Looking with narrow eyes in the dim light, he found that he was indeed within that same glade he had come to, some time before. The black ring of trees rose high against a starry sky, and from what he could see of the matted and dead ground, the company had left little of their things behind, aside from the remains of the fire.
Narach went to call out for anyone he knew in the squads, but caught himself just as he realized just how little he desired to make himself known in such a place at such a time. He wished that there was some kind of way to discern what had occurred here that resulted in the q departure or disappearance of so many when it had been he who had been left behind, but apart from venturing back into the cave, nothing came to him. True, he knew not if Rhíad had been set free, but he doubted that the company would have left if such a thing were the case.
His pondering of the situation was cut short as a particularly annoying pang of itching in his face suddenly seized his focus. Scratching at the irksome spot on his cheek, Narach felt the weights of dread sink back into his belly as he remembered his task. Three days…, he thought, and as though the idea had not truly occurred to him before that moment, a wave of panic surged through his body and mind.
Although it was a cloudless night, and Narach could see the old men in the sky clearly enough to gain a sense of direction, it still took him more than one circling of the glade’s border to feel certain enough that he was about to head off in the correct direction. Only rarely did the moonlight reach through to the forest floor in such a degree that he could see the tracks of the company. Regardless of the risk of heading off in the wrong direction, Narach trusted the old men and took off at as fast a walk as he could manage while not stumbling blindly in the shadows.
It was akin to a small miracle, Narach thought, that he eventually made his way out of the forest without tripping and breaking something. Actually making it out at all was a surprise in and off itself to the young soldier. The moon had gone low on the sky by then, and some of it's light no longer offered as much aid, but the way forward was clear enough now that the trees and shrubs no longer hindered his path.
To his satisfaction, after only about three or miles, a light in the eastern sky became noticeable enough to draw his attention. While the light of the approaching dawn made determining his path simpler by a vast degree, it also revealed the great distance that the company had over him. As far as he could see, no trace of the company could be seen, aside from the bend grass of their path.
All while Narach walked, he wondered at what point they could have left the glade. Had Rhíad been returned at the same time as he? He doubted such a possibility, for he certainly would have been noticed. Perhaps the company had not seen him in the shadows, and decided to return to Dórai before the night grew too late. A strange possibility, but a possibility nonetheless.
His curiosity was partially absolved when, about five miles out from Dórai, he suddenly found himself in the remnants of a campsite. The doused ashes in a fire circle had mostly cooled, but sifting his hand through, Narach felt a tiny bit of heat still hid within. By his best estimate, it must have been half a day ago that the makers of the campsite had stopped to rest. Though his weary feet pointedly reminded him of the fine idea to stop for a little while, Narach strode onward as the morning light beamed through the dewy land. A short wait was a short wait, and three days was still three days.
As far as Narach could tell, there was no real change that seemed apparent in the town of Dórai as he caught sight of the collection of walls and buildings in the distance. No echoing cheers, no smoke of bonfires, no crowds gathered outside the walls. The same was largely true for the farmlands he passed through. The nearest homes would have been to much of a divergence from his path, but those who were at their duties seemed not to think much of the lone soldier passing through to the town. At the most, some waved at him for a moment before going back to their business. Narach wondered if he might have been approached had he not been wearing the colors of Creich's men, dirty and disheveled as they might have become in the past night.
Regardless of the thought of the farmers, when a patrol of the town spotted him walking along the final roads to Dórai, there was not even the slightest bend in his path towards him. The light man upon the speckled horse might as well have been seeking him out, for even when he stopped Narach at a distance of perhaps a thousand feet, he changed his course in the span of a single breath. He didn't rush towards him, but the quick trot was more than enough to signal to Narach that ignoring the patrol would not be appreciated.
“Light upon you,” he said as he brought his steed to a stop. The way in which he greeted Narach did not sound inviting, but rather formal, if anything. While nearing the young man, his face wrinkled and his nephew furrowed as though he knew not what to make of the sight.
“To you as well,” Narach returned, “I was part of Creich's campaign to retrieve Rhíad from the Ghlaírí, but I got separated from them. They've come back, yes?”
The patrol looked over him once again. “They have,” he paused as he looked upwards towards his memory, “Are you...Anách? From Nían's squad?”
“Narach,” he corrected, “And I am. Am I expected?”
“Well, that isn't quite it,” the short man said, shifting in the saddle. “When Creich and his men returned last night, the news was that captain Rómeas had been attacked, and a skirmisher named Narach had been killed. To be honest, everyone is surprised that the casualties were so few. Some even made wagers if the numbers that would return.”
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“And Rhíad?” Narach asked.
“She's safe.”
Narach needed little more news that he cared to hear, and few more things were said between the two before he gave his farewells and hurried on into the boundaries of the town. Although the guards at the gate were more intent on getting clear answers out of him, Narach managed to persuade the pair to let him make his way inside so that he might deliver the secret and urgent message from the Ghlaírí to chief Creich. Even though he was not entirely far from the truth, Narach felt it safest that he let as few ears hear the details of his predicament as could be managed.
By the time he had made it to the middle of the city proper, the day had well and truly begun for most of Dórai, as herds of people made their ways along the roads. To his wonder, he saw not even one of those that he had made up the company with. Even with his eyes actively seeking out a familiar face, he only saw those other faces of the town. It seemed that more than a few had heard of his apparent demise, and those that knew him pointed in surprise and exchange a few words with their companions. At that point, Narach wasn’t certain whether or not it was the awkward stares in his direction that made his face burn in embarrassment, or simply the same irritation he had suffered from since his awakening.
It didn't take long for Narach to make it to the doors of the chieftain's hall, though he had been stopped more than once by a perplexed parent of one of his fellow skirmishers. A polite dismissal was fortunately all it had taken, but from their words, it seemed that the younger of the company had been the source of the more grim interpretations of what doom came to Narach. Everything from a hundred wild bats emerging to devour a sacrifice to the young soldier carrying Rhíad or of the cave with his eyes torn out before expiring at the exit. All the proper details could be settled later, Narach figured. In the meantime, the actual issues could be dealt with. Hastily, he walked towards the doors and waved at the two guards who stood outside. Unfortunately, that haste was suddenly stopped right in it's tracks as the guards made no motion to step aside.
“I certainly didn't expect to see you,” one said.
“I was,” Narach paused as he wondered if an honest answer would be required for entry, “Delayed. I would have come back with the company, but I had been knocked out and had to make the return journey myself.”
“'Knocked out,' he says,” the other guard said with a jesting grin, “We heard that you had died.”
Narach gave a deep sigh. “Who told you this, in any case? Hasn't the lady Rhíad given an account of what happened?”
At this, the guards' smiles fell as a wide-eyed curiosity replaced them. “She went right to her chambers as soon as the company returned. I heard the details of the campaign from Creich himself. What did you see?” The first asked.
“All in good time,” Narach nervously said. “Now, I'm in something of a hurry, actually. I've a message for the chieftain from the Ghlaírí, as well as some information that it's he in his best interest to know. I can explain it to you after Creich has heard my piece.”
“All in good time,” the first guard replied. “The company did not arrive at Dórai until nearly dawn, and Creich hardly took the breaths to explain things before he went off to sleep. If you wake him, it will be upon our heads that the blame will fall.”
Asleep, of course! Narach said to himself, scolding his mind that hadn’t considered the situation for even a moment. All while quickly making his way back across the lands, his thoughts had been preoccupied with what he would say to the chieftain. The idea had been that he would rush into the halls to find chief Creich sitting in his grand chair with Rhíad safely beside him, and recount what he had experienced to the chief who would then agree to relinquish the rod of Siólla do Braoíl as a requested payment for his daughter’s safe return. That had been the idea, at least.
To Narach’s annoyance, neither guard offered to let him into the halls to deliver a message, neither offered a time clearer than “sometime later today” when Narach asked when Creich would be awake, and neither seemed to think it rude to make jests at the expense of the young skirmisher who they had thought to be dead only a little while ago. He was reluctant to go into full detail as to the weight of his situation with the guards, but at the same time, he doubted that even going into the more uncomfortable of details would not sway them. Considering an alternative, Narach found he was even more reluctant to venture on to his captain’s home and wake him. Though he had no doubt that Nían could demand an audience with Creich to which the guards would have no choice but to comply, he likewise considered the image of himself flagrantly rushing into the cave. Such an act was a thing of an untrained and uncouth militia from a swamp tribe, not a skirmisher of Dórai’s warriors, much less that of one under Nían's command.
When Narach stepped away from the doors of the chieftain’s home, it was not until he had reached the conjoining street that he came to find some directions as to where he would then go. To get so close to his destination only to be turned away was a sore blow to his spirits, but not an altogether disheartening one. After all, it was not as though he had nothing else to take care of until sometime later that day. As he strode down along the street back to his home, he wondered at what his parents might say or do to him, now that the common belief was that he had been killed by the Ghlaírí. Guilt nudged at him, but haste for a goal in a limited time had been of a greater concern, at least as he had made his way up to the halls of the chieftain.
The thought had occurred to him, of course. As he had paced quickly towards Creich’s halls, hints of guilt poked at his thoughts. His mission was important, certainly, but to whatever degree it measured, nothing was so great that it would banish the thought of his parents shaking in shock at the belief of his death. At one point, he had even stopped in his tracks to change direction to his home, but the knowledge that he would likely be kept there for a considerable length of time was just enough to sway him back to his original destination.
If Narach had been able to approach the home peacefully, he might have remained outside the door for some time, whether by his intention or fear of how he might explain himself. As it was, however, no such thing happened, for as he turned to the street upon which his home stood, he saw both his mother and father sitting upon the crates outside the door. Both looked about the street anxiously, as though expecting some overdue visitor.
His mother held her face in nervousness, and his father held his mother. It seemed that the guard had sent him home for the day after the ill news of their son had come, for it was normally a day in which he would stand a past at the southern gates.
His father, still in his guardsman's mail, was the first to spot Narach, and upon it, he called out the boy's name. Immediately after, he mother turned to look. No tears wet her face, but the look in her eyes might outdo one who had been awake for three days. That, of course, was only for a moment. When she seemed to accept that her eyes had not decided her, she began to weep as she rushed forth to grab hold of Narach.
“The sun has moved much since we received word of your unexpected return,” she cried as Narach struggled for breath beneath her embrace, “I was so worried. Where did you go?”
“I needed to speak with the chief,” he finally managed to say. By now, his father had reached the place where they stood some distance away from the house.
“What news? Why did you not come to us, Narach?” The heavy man said. In that moment, Narach feared that his bones might be crushed if his father made to embrace the two. The thick, wild dark hair and brows to match were the bulk of what he received from his father, while none of the bulk or brawn came down. To his thanks, the boar-like man seemed content for the present to stand by.
“It's what the Ghlaírí told me,” Narach began, “I have to get Creich to-”
“The Ghlaírí! Ohh!” his mother cried out, “Speak not of such a dreadful creature. Not now. You're here now.”
Narach was about to make a retort, but thought better than to disrupt her. “In any case,” he carefully said, “I'm certain that the chief would wish to have a report. Or at least Nían would.”
“All in good time, all in good time,” his father added, nodding. “You must have been walking all night? Come inside, and we’ll get you something to nourish you back. The chief can wait.”