Nathye was thankful the path from the monastery was downhill. He had been up all day riding hard, then climbed up the mountain on foot carrying his father. He had to deal with that horrible creature, what the dead acolyte had called the harbinger of the dead, and had to make hard choices. Leadership choices.

He lifted his feet just high enough to take the next step. His hands were by his side, dangling where the body’s motion took them. His mind wandered, lost in that delirium of exhaustion.

The men will see that he will be a great duke. He was a great duke. He will lead them to glory and renown. All he had to do now was find the one acolyte who got away, who had been like a thorn in his side, who had made him, forced him, to kill one of his own man. Well, the man will repay with his life, and the other acolytes had already bore some of that cost.

Lowering his foot down a deeper stone step on the path, he almost stumbled. The shock woke him up, eyes focusing, as he grabbed the nearby rock wall, body swinging to meet the rock face. One of the guards behind him grabbed him by the tunic, saving him from smacking face-first into the wall.

“Your Grace, are you alright?”

Straightening, now awake, he said, “I am. Thank you.” He continued walking, watching where he was going more carefully.

He needed to find out what that cursed word was. His father would not have tried to tell him with his last dying sentence about that word if it were not important. How had his house got involved in such a thing? What kind of magic had his father had, and why had Nathye never seen him use it?

He kept trudging alone, stepping down the incline. His shoes dragged along some of the steps, and his knees hurt from the constant need to stop himself from rolling down.

Nathye cursed the path from the monastery for being downhill.

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His head was down on his chin, eyes droopy with fatigue. His mind had drifted to imaginings of what he would do once he was a famous general, conqueror, leader of men. A shout of “Ser Dafeld!” snapped him awake to find he was drifting off the path again just in time to catch himself from falling to his death. The other men were not doing much better, the line strung out before and after him, all exhausted from the long day and night.

“Ser Dafeld! Your Grace!” came the shout again.

The person was below him. Nathye looked over the ledge and saw the man they had left behind, the one who had twisted his ankle on the way up the mountain. He had been sitting on a rock by the path and was now standing, waving to them. Nathye had forgotten the man was there.

With renewed energy, Nathye made his way to the man as a few of the others collected around him. They must have been telling him what had happened above since they quieted when Nathye approached. Nathye had no time for them.

“You,” said Nathye, “had anyone passed here since we left you?”

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“No, Your Grace. You’re the first I’ve seen. Your Grace, you are covered in blood. Should I prepare for enemies?”

Nathye bristled at the temerity of the man, ignoring the question.

“Have you been awake the entire time?”

“No, Your Grace. I slept a part of the night.”

So, Nathye could not be sure if the cursed acolyte had passed by or not. The duplicitous man could have slipped by, leaving the guard asleep and none the wiser about his passing.

Nathye looked at the men. They were tired, but he would need to send some of them back up.

“Could you climb up to the monastery?” he asked the man.

“If you so order it, Your Grace. It would be slow, but I would do it.”

“Very well. You”—he pointed at one of the other men—“go back up with him. The two of you will search the monastery again. It is possible that acolyte, Roge, is still there. If he is, find him and bring him down to us.”

“Ah…yes, Your Grace,” said the second man.

Good, they were learning to follow his directions.

The two began their climb back up, the one with the twisted ankle leaning on the other, tired man, for support. Nathye did not spare them more mind. They had swords and could take care of one acolyte if they encountered him.

Looking out at the vista before him, he could see far into the distance. The plains opened up, vegetation a welcome change from the barrenness of the mountain. He could see some pilgrims making their way towards the mountain. They were far away, on foot, probably a day’s walk at least.

Pointing himself back down the mountain, he resumed his descent, the rest of his dwindling men following.

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It was a few hours more before they reached the bottom of the trail. The horses neighed in greeting, recognizing their riders, though they shied away from the blood on Nathye. He would need to get a horse trained for battle, one that would suit his temperament better.

The guard greeted them, but he also had not seen anyone come down from the monastery. They were all exhausted at this point, and Nathye drank some water from the water skin on his horse, then lay down on the ground by a tree and closed his eyes. He heard Ser Dafeld start to organize a guard rotation, but after the first few words, blackness took him.

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He woke a few hours later with a hand shaking him. His mouth was dry, his tongue felt like sand had coated it. His back now felt the stones of the ground that before he had not even registered. Opening his eyes, he saw Ser Dafeld crouched above him.

“Your Grace, we need to leave.”

The sun was still up in the sky, the sliver moon already visible above the horizon. It was late afternoon.

Sitting up, he cleared his eyes, forcing spit into his mouth to wet his tongue. Looking at Ser Dafeld’s serious face he asked, “Have we found him?”

“No, Your Grace. The men we sent up have not returned yet.”

“Then we cannot leave.”

“We saw pilgrims approaching from multiple directions when we were coming down the mountain, Your Grace. We cannot be here when they arrive. If they see us, they will know who had killed the acolytes. That will bring the fall of your house as sure as the other reason.”

Grimacing, Nathye stood up, brushing away the dirt and grass that had stuck to his clothes as he slept.

“You know why we cannot let this go,” Nathye said.

“We have men up there. They will find him. We can circle back and return once we have had time to clean up, approach as if we have just arrived.”

“And if he escapes?”

“He is a single acolyte. Even if he slips our men, the pilgrims will see him and tell us where he went. We will find him, Your Grace. We can then blame him for the murders. We will be righteous in hunting him.”

Nathye nodded at this. He hoped the man would be up in the monastery still, but if he escaped, that would not be a bad thing.

“Very well,” he said. “We cannot leave any horses behind.”

“That will not be necessary,” said the castellan. “We will be back soon enough.”

The retinue, now devoid of the dead duke’s body, the dead guard, and two who were up in the mountain, mounted their horses and rode away.