Chapter Nineteen – The Road Goes On

Tara remained by the fire for some time, watching the embers burn to ash and die. The clouds above were paling with dawn when she heard footfalls approaching.

“Maker’s mercy, Tara.” Elita didn’t wait for Wenrik to help her from her pony. The little gnome was at Tara’s side in an instant. “We were worried that the grimps had caught you. Are you alright?”

Tara nodded. She was grateful for the gnome’s concern. Her limbs felt stiff as she forced herself to her feet.

“I’m fine,” she said. “I—oh, it’s nothing. Are you okay?”

Elita nodded vigorously. “We would have been completely overrun by those monsters, if a dragon hadn’t taken care of them. I honestly thought for a moment that the beast was after us! I never saw a dragon so big and vicious. Scared me half to death.” The gnome’s chuckle was dry with relief.

“When your horse bolted, we tried to find you.” Wenrik looked tired, his loose gray hair wilder than usual. The Borzerk warrior’s dangerous red eyes still gleamed with wolf-like intensity. “There were too many of the grimps. They cut us off. Then the dragon came and we thought it was all over.”

“A fitting end to a foolhardy misadventure,” grumbled Horon, sitting down by the ashes of Tara’s fire. “I see you had a chance to make yourself comfortable at least. Now at last, can we go back to Regan and forget about this Wanderer’s Bane? As you can see, the path is much too dangerous. Never mind the cave itself.”

Tara squinted upward. As the sun rose over the hills, she could see green patches of moss and thin grass between the rocks. This region of Allerion was not the most hospitable. Nonetheless, she took secret pleasure in watching the light warm over the rugged horizon. She had seen this sunrise so often in her game. Sometimes, she had just liked to stand and watch until the blues warmed to pink and gold.

Now she was seeing that sun with her own eyes, and it was more incredible than she could have imagined. The light chased some of the frozen stiffness out of her bones and made the memory of the previous night less harsh, but more sad.

“Are you really alright?” pressed Elita. The gnome placed her little hand gently on Tara’s arm.

It was no use pretending. All the same, Tara didn’t want to explain. “It was a shock, that’s all,” she said. “The grimps. Everything. I’ve had visions of all this before, of course. But it’s so different when you’re really here. The terrible things are much more terrible. And the good things…” Her voice slightly trailed.

“They don’t become terrible too, I hope,” murmured Elita.

Tara managed to smile. “You guys are more wonderful than you are in any dream,” she said. “Even if I wake up and this is nothing but a nightmare, it’s worth it to be with you a little while longer.”

Horon grunted. “You speak like a madwoman,” he said. “Wake up? Nightmare? You might as well get used to the idea that this is life, Tara MacQueen. There are good sides and bad sides to everything. We fight, we endure. We face it together or alone. Either way, we meet our road with courage.”

“I guess that means you’re coming with us to Wanderer’s Bane,” said Tara with a mischievous look.

The Fenman gestured dismissively. “You don’t seriously intend for us to continue, do you?”

Tara nodded. “As a matter of fact, I’m more determined than ever to rescue Berga’s husband and the rest of the necromancer’s prisoners,” she said. “I need to see something go right for a change.”

“For a change?” Horon was openly astonished. “What are you talking about? Isn’t it enough that you took down Ikor the Skorge and survived an attack of grimps? Now you want to face a necromancer and his cursed slaves?”

“Come, Horon,” said Wenrik easily. “We’ve faced far worse in our day. What’s a necromancer to an old warrior like you?”

“More than enough,” huffed the Fenman. “Wenrik, reason with her. She doesn’t even have a horse anymore. The road is long, impractical—”

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

“We can share a horse, if you’re willing,” said Wenrik to Tara. “Yours has probably made his way back to Regan by now. He looked like a sturdy animal, but I see I misjudged his spirit.”

“You never were a good judge of animals,” complained Horon.

“But I know you quite well,” grinned the Borzerk. “And I know you can’t resist another challenge. Stop complaining, Horon. You sound like an old troll who sat on a beehive.”

“Gah!” Horon rose to his feet impatiently. “If I can’t change your mind either, so be it. No doubt this ‘Hero of Allerion’ knows what she’s doing.”

Seeing the slight wince on Tara’s face, Elita intervened. “I’m sure she does, Horon. Wenrik is right, we've been in far more dangerous situation. Stop fussing. The sooner we reach this cave and finish with the necromancer, the sooner we’ll have silver in our pockets, warm beds, and hot meals again. How does that sound?”

“Like something worth fighting for,” said the Fenman.

Their humor cheered Tara. Even in the game, these three characters had always been dependable from the beginning. She hadn’t lied when she said their friendship made everything else worthwhile. But she still couldn’t quite forget the disappoint of Acalon’s departure.

I said too much, she thought to herself. I was too open where I should have held back, or tried to speak to him in a way he could understand. If I were in his place, I probably would have been afraid, too. What was I thinking?

Still, she didn’t regret what she had done. She had acted in the way she believed Acalon deserved, honest and open. If he was unwilling to accept that, so be it. Tara could respect that as familiar as this world seemed, there was much that deviated from memory. Perhaps Acalon, too, was not the man she had imagined.

“What do you say to breakfast, Tara MacQueen?” asked Wenrik. “Elita is always careful to bring provisions for the journey. How does hard bread, beef strips, and beer sound?”

“Like a king’s feast,” Horon replied, not waiting for Tara to answer. “Give me the flask.”

Tara took her slice of bread. It must have tasted wonderful when it was fresh from the baker’s in Regan, because it wasn’t bad even now. It was a little dry, and she would have liked to wash it down with something easier on her throat than beer.

Wenrik gave a short bark of laughter at her discomfort. “You should have seen me the first time I had a taste of Yhendorn’s brew. That old gnome can make a bracing drink like no one else I know. It truly is a gift.”

Tara thumped her chest. “Maybe it’s an acquired taste.”

“Believe me, you’ll learn to appreciate it,” said the Borzerk.

***

After a few more miles on horseback, Tara could see what he meant. The beer did have a fortifying effect on her stamina, even though it impaired her senses. She was glad she hadn’t had too much. Yhendorn’s brew, Wenrik had called it. She vaguely remembered a drink by that name.

Name

Effect

Yhendorn Conall’s Beer

* + 5 Stamina

* - 5 Strength

I guess there are pros and cons to everything, Tara mused.

She was actually grateful to be riding behind Wenrik. The Borzerk was a skilled rider, handling his horse with patient control, and it was nice to let her poor hands rest. Tara was worried she had already eaten more bitter grass than she should have.

“How much farther to Wanderer’s Bane, do you think?” she asked Wenrik’s back.

“In a hurry, are you?” he asked. “Be patient, hero. In this line of business, impatience is the first step towards disaster.”

“We learned that the hard way,” Horon agreed, “when you just had to ring that cursed bell before our guide had a chance to finish explaining it.”

“How was I supposed to know it was cursed?” snorted the Borzerk. “That gnome took so long to explain anything. And before the bell, everything else was perfectly harmless.”

Elita nudged her pony forward. “Tell us about the necromancer, Tara,” she said. “What is he? Human? Elf?”

“He is a dark elf,” said Tara. “His name is Narion Nightsong. His story, as I remember, is sad. He was once a bard of unusual skill, a singer with a voice beautiful enough to charm even the birds out of the trees. But during his wanderings, he discovered a camp of travelers who had been slaughtered by bandits. His grief for them made him determined to discover the secret of life and bind it to his gift of song, if he could.”

Horon heaved a sigh. “Why is it always poets who cause the most trouble for the rest of us?”

Tara’s reply was interrupted by a sound as far from musical as she could imagine. It was a cry of pure, unadulterated terror.

“Help! Oh, help! Maker’s mercy, and all the winged emissaries of the seven heavens hear me! Help!”

The companions reined their horses to an uneasy halt.

“What is it?” asked Horon. “A trap?”

“That’s likely in these parts,” agreed Wenrik. “Thieves aren’t above appealing to others’ kindness to earn themselves a few coin.”

Tara was scandalized. “But what if someone is really in danger?”

“Then, poor devil,” said Horon, “they’ll probably be dead long before we can reach them.”

“We have to try,” Tara protested. “I’m not going anywhere unless we see what’s happening. We’ll be careful—but we can’t just leave!”

As if to make her point, the cries doubled in their panicked appeal. Tara could see that Wenrik and Horon were beginning to lean towards her decision despite themselves, and Elita had already urged her pony ahead.

Horon couldn’t resist a final grumble.

“She’s determined to get us all killed,” he said. “This so-called Hero of Allerion.”