"Do tell Kendath"

Garthag began as he sat up and stared at Kendath, he wasn`t going to let the ex-Meiltha rest, not especially when he had something to gloat about. The fall of Vyngard could have been just one of many great Kendath`s achievements on the Meiltha side, but no. He had decided to throw it all away, very much like Garthag had decided to settle his personal grudge towards Kalma, the ways were different, but the ending was the same. It seemed only fit that they both, miserable as they were compared to their past selves now traveled along with the most pathetic and yet blessed renegade. Yet it had to be admitted that all of them unbelievable luck and survival skills.

"What made you switch sides? The will of the gods? Merrin? Some personal trauma? Geez, you are a complete idiot for with you the Meiltha could have easily made more progress than this... So what made you throw away the glory, the pride and the rewards of a Meiltha? Why do you suffice to live like this? Why? When with your talent you could have been a high ranking Meiltha, even commander."

Garthag asked and breathing between his teeth as he hid his smile.

_________________

Let him curse my name
On these blood stained pages of misery
Let him call me a tyrant so cruel
Let him curse my name, but remember the truth!

At that Kendath actually chuckled, a harsh bark devoid of real mirth. Commander? Him? He'd have to threaten his officers with poison before they ever promoted him - not that he wanted it. Glory, pride, rewards... Pride had made him barter away his soul. Humiliation had dangled a light at the end of the labyrinth, luring it back.

He regarded Garthag in his peripheral vision and wondered why the mage even cared. Curiousity? Nothing so innocuous, not from Garthag. No, he knew why. If he'd learned anything from the Meiltha, it was that manipulation was an art form and impassivity another. He'd yet to master the former, but the latter came all too easily.

"The will of the gods," he repeated, chuckling again. "You know full well I never believed in the gods, and I'm not sure I do now. What's it to you, anyway?" The dagger twirled faster; his twisted grin broadened. "What's your story? What makes a mage as great as you resort to traveling with soft-hearted Renegades like Mer - like us?"

_________________

Garthag could let out a short burst of laughter as he mentioned that only Merrin would have been short hearted and it was true, no correction of words would change that. Garthag had come to appreciate Kendath`s attitude and skills, he had talent there was no doubt about that yet it was some of the thing Kendath did that never fit Garthag. Garthag spun his wrist around and hmhed.

"I thought my story was clear to you, I want revenge on that filthy lich and the powers he stole from me or what did you expect? Something much grander? World domination? Godhood?"

Garthag suddenly said with a rather surprised and amused tone yet it was clearly pretentious, even a child like just toy with Kendath.

_________________

Let him curse my name
On these blood stained pages of misery
Let him call me a tyrant so cruel
Let him curse my name, but remember the truth!

Kendath was about to point out that he wouldn't put world domination or godhood past the mage standing beside him. He remembered with vivid clarity the ease with which Garthag, in full possession of his powers, had first taken the Star Crystal and puzzled out its potential - a difficult feat for even the highest of Meiltha magic-users.

"You're planning on killing us when you're finished, aren't you." It wasn't a question, but a flat statement. "We're easily manipulated implements for now - two dragonless Dragonriders, one conveniently blessed by the gods. But once you destroy the enemy that so easily destroyed you..." Still maintaining that twisted grin, he snapped his fingers. "One pesky assassin will have... 'evaporated' off the face of this world."

_________________

"Who knows?"

Garthag suddenly said and got up before snapping his wrist around again, then he began snapping his fingers in order from his left hand to the right.

"I might kill you yet who knows Kendath? Why do you think I have placed so much on you two? Because I know even with my powers you could be still considered a threat, not because you ever had dragons or were blessed by the gods. You are so freaking lucky and you don`t lack skills my friend....

You might as well kill me, have you ever thought of that scenario? I mean it doesn`t really matter does it? We must die someday, if we want to remain human, don`t we? You and Merrin die, the gods and the renegades suffer yet another defeat with a victory, I die then your victory will be even more triumphant."

Garthag said and his thoughts at the moment of speaking about humanity were placed on the lich who disgusted Garthag beyond anything. Garthag did admit that he himself was power hungry, but never blinded by it to turn to such a terrible solution to escape death.

_________________

Let him curse my name
On these blood stained pages of misery
Let him call me a tyrant so cruel
Let him curse my name, but remember the truth!

It was a tempting thought, Kendath had to admit. He could draw sword on Garthag now and might even win the battle, though no doubt the mage still had a few tricks up his sleeve. But any day for the rest of their journey... A quick stab in the neck - simple, painless. It would save him the trouble of worrying about treachery or meeting an unfortunate end in sleep. His chances would be dissipated as soon as Garthag regained control his magic. However much skill he had, he could never conquer a Garthag in full power.

As if mirroring his thoughts, the dagger stopped twirling and the grin slipped from his face. "Perhaps I am a soft-hearted Renegade," he said quietly, as much to himself as to anyone who cared to listen. "I couldn't kill you now if I tried. Remember the battles? On more than one occassion, I owe you my life. But chances are I've already repaid that debt." He raised the dagger and moved it down and across, slowly, as though slicing through Garthag's chest.

"Keep your eyes open. Perhaps you'll find my dagger in your back some other day." He shrugged noncommittally and sheathed the blade, then slumped to a sitting position to indicate conversation's end.

_________________

The next day dawned cheerfully sunny, in what seemed an almost betraying manner. Merrin found herself studying the sky at one point, willing even the tiniest wisp of cloud to mar its perfect blueness. She shook the sensation off in disgust but the fact remained that she felt as though nothing had any right to be so - so normal - under the circumstances. She did, however, manage to refrain from gloomily listing in her head what those circumstances were.

Having vacated their temporary night's accommodations - if they could be called such - the threesome arrived back at the inn they were to meet their means of transport at in good time.

And waited. After a good two hours, a wagon driver with a spectacular hangover exited his rooms, squinting and cursing the sun colorfully, and shot his passengers a baleful look. Merrin wished him a tentative good morning and was met with an inarticulate grumble in return.

Indications of the previous night's carousing were in abundance, both in the amount of messily garbed soldiers staggering from place to place and the general air of a day in which nobody really expected to get any work done. Merrin listened anxiously for any other news of the defeated Vryngard, but heard nothing to calm the knot of anxiety in her stomach. All told, she didn't quite relax until they passed out of Eastguard Fortress's eastern gate, despite her silver cloak stowed safely away.

_________________

"'Nother bloody 'alf day to Dort Pagonhelm," the wagon driver was grumbling. He squinted at the cheery road before him and cracked his whip, lashing both draft horses so hard that they nearly ran into trees. Said collision wasn't accomplished, but the wagon did jolt onto the side of the road. The driver, still grumbling incoherently under his breath, didn't seem to notice.

"Oof," Kendath commented, clutching the sides of the wagon for support as it jerked along, half its wheels on the road and the other half on grass. A particularly hard jolt announced to everyone concerned that a wagon wheel had just been caught in mire. The former bit of their trip hadn't been any less bumpier but, watching the rear left wheel and axle simply fall apart in the mud, this mishap had to have hit the all-time low. Shortly after, the rest of the wagon went with it, tilting sideways with another jolt as its rear dropped to the ground. A good number of the weapons supply remained unsold, as, between the drinking and the hangover, the driver had neglected to barter them away. Those bundles of pointy objects now slid across the wagon's tilted bottom with the same effect as a dozen knives sliding down a ramp. Kendath scrambled to get out of their way.

The driver was apoplectic. He whipped his horses again, then attempted to jump down from his seat, in the process landing on his face. Cursing fluently, he slogged through the mire to inspect the damage.

Kendath cast oblique glances at Merrin and Garthag before vaulting over the side of the wagon, careful to land on a patch of dry grass. Working the kinks out of his back from the none too smooth ride, he tramped back onto the road and peered both ways for any forthcoming travelers. No one. The silence was broken by the warbling of birds, the hum of insects in the forest bordering the road, and the monologue of the wagon driver.

"Ye gods, bloody *beep* wagon decide to quit on me again, eh? Well, I'll show you, ye *beep*. No one quits on me, hear? I'll 'ave this one up and workin' in no time, and if you don't, I *beep* well just might - "

"How long?" Kendath shouted over the clamor.

The driver grunted and extracted a hammer with a head as big as his own. "An hour or two a' best. But who knows? Could be a week, mayhap a moon-turn." The man certainly hadn't lost his sense of humor, noted Kendath sourly. And with that lovely hangover, who knows indeed?

_________________

Merrin picked herself up from where she'd landed unceremoniously on the packed dirt, having been caught rather by surprise upon the abrupt downward slant of the wagon bed. One glance at the noisy operation of either fixing or further disassembling the wagon axle and wheel made her quite reluctant to offer aid - not to mention the formidable size of the hammer used in said operation.

She rescued her pack from the perilous heap of pointy objects that still remained in the wagon, and cast another doubtful look at the scene in general. It didn't look promising, especially considering the enormously colorful temper of the hammer-wielding wagon driver. He almost seemed more likely to further entrap himself.

"It might be faster if we walked," she suggested cautiously to Garthag and Kendath, unsure if this might serve to further ignite the driver's temper if he heard.

_________________

"Oof," was all the reply Kendath gave. He eyed the wagon driver as a crow might eye a particularly dead piece of carrion. If someone so much as mentioned that hitching a ride had been his idea...

Boom. And the wagon caught on fire.

Kendath spun around, falchion half out, just as peridot flames leaped high, swallowing the wagon completely. There was an instant of panic - the driver, where was the driver? - and a fumbling for weapons - there had to be a magic-user nearby, objects don't explode on their own unless they belonged to a certain dwarf mage - but then... before he even registered stepping towards the wagon...

The flames were gone. Vanished, as if they had never been, leaving no trace but wisps of smoke, curling above the treetops. The driver, who looked perfectly fine if a little singed, poked out his head and sniffed suspiciously. A bump against the bottom of the wagon must have addled his brains, because his next question didn't sound too bright. "Be what I smell smoke?"

Steel hissing behind him alerted Kendath to just how much trouble they were in. Beginning to understand at last, he slowly turned around. What he saw didn't surprise him. A dozen men, each armed, each with attire that'd seen better days, were fanned out behind them. He looked from one unshaven, scowling face to the next... and concluded that they weren't here for a party.

The leader was a thug of a man, leather jerkin open at the front to display his magnificent physique in all its hairy glory. Swinging his brutal morning star, he swaggered forth. "Me an' m'men," he said, "ain't lookin' fer a fight. We be lookin' for loot." Offering them a pretty view of his crooked teeth, he swung his morning star at the wagonload of weapons, the force of his swing enough to take off another wheel and axle.

Kendath exchanged a surreptitious look with Merrin. He didn't know about her, but at the moment he could seriously do with an anger outlet. These highwaymen would do nicely.

_________________

"Kindly don't do that, please," said Merrin, trotting after the thuggish leader with every appearance of a polite request for him to desist mangling the wagon. He completely ignored her. She repeated herself, this time with the notable punctuation of a slender steel blade at his throat.

"Ye thick-witted, chit?" he grunted, and attempted to flick it aside with the hefty morning star. A deft twirl and a flick of the wrist by Merrin snapped its wooden shaft cleanly in two.

"I never thought so, no," she responded thoughtfully, with admirable calm. "Will you stop disabling our transportation, please?"

Evidently manners carried very little weight with bandits. Merrin danced out of the way as he lunged at her, and cursed the fact that she'd forgotten the wagon full of weapons. The next moment she was very busy with a spear-wielding thug - but skill outmatched pure brawn, and when he did not desist in attempts to run her through she neatly hamstrung him.

"Next, please - " she started to say, but another bandit obliged before she'd quite finished.

_________________

Kendath spared a moment to watch, slightly slack-jawed, as Merrin neatly sent the initial wave of brigands running. Underestimating females was their first error. Underestimating Merrin was their second. He made a mental note not to make the same mistake in his future career.

The pause cost him a whack in the temple that had him toppling back against the wagon. Stars danced against a perfectly sunny day, but he managed a reflexive duck beneath the second blow. His falchion connected with one brigand's abdomen. His knee connected with another's crotch. The latter went reeling backwards, straight into the mire the wagon driver had previously been occupying. Mentioned wagon driver was apparently better at climbing trees than he was at driving wagons.

Kendath jumped onto the wagon - which had in fact lost its second wheel - and almost lost his footing again, as both draft horses were straining at the ends of their tethers. Three brigands, howling and waving blunt cudgels, followed him on. He dove towards the other side of the wagon, hamstringing the nearest adversary as he danced back to his feet. The draft horses, unaccustomed to battle, reared up and gave the wagon a particularly violent lurch that sent all four men off their feet, though one regained them a split second faster than the others. In no mood to equip his foes with more sophisticated weapons than they currently wielded, Kendath seized the opportunity to kick the remaining bundles of weapons to a corner of the wagon.

"'Ey, ugly! Look up!"

He looked - not directly, shifted his head that direction more accurately - but that was all the brigand needed. Next thing he knew, a more unpleasant sight than stars was swimming in his vision. It was mud. He didn't waste time clawing it off his eyes, instead using the brigand's ensuing hoot to guide his dagger. A wet gurgle and a thump satisfied his ears.

Seeing their single adversary blinded piqued the brigands with a morale boost, for all three - plus a few more joining them - rushed Kendath at the same time. Backing against the side of the wagon, he cut his falchion in a wide swath, hoping to keep them at bay. The blade actually scored once, twice. The mud was finally clearing, allowing him to regain his bearings -

Ow. The blunt end of a cudgel rammed into his stomach, knocking the wind out of him. He glimpsed another headed for his knees. He feigned ignorance until the last millisecond, when he flowed aside. The weapon struck him a glancing blow, not enough to knock him down, but he went down anyway, keeping his feet braced under him. Jeering and hooting, the brigands came on as one. But he was already nowhere in sight, having dove through a gap in their ranks and backstabbed the nearest two enemies simultaneously. A single unwounded brigand remained on the wagon. The man darted furtive glances at his injured friends - as well as to a few friends more than injured - emitted a high-pitched squeak, and scrambled off the battlefield.

Kendath cursed and rubbed vigorously at his eyes, which only made them water more. At length he deemed it a futile attempt and leapt back over the side of the wagon, landing next to Merrin, who looked a bit busy. "Mind if I help?" he asked and, without waiting for response, added his falchion to the symphony of metallic clangs.

_________________

Merrin had a split second to assimilate his mud-splattered condition, but little more. Even the effect of pure brawn, when multiplied four or five times, was enough to keep her very busy. From an uneducated onlooker's eyes, the skirmish would have looked startlingly unmatched - five brigands total, and a sixth limping to lend his limited aid, against a slight young woman and an assassin who, despite years of practice, was nowhere near the hulking size of any of his assailants.

Even with their decidedly limited brainpower, the bandits had enough sense to fan out into a rough circle. Merrin found herself back-to-back with a similarly very busy Kendath, sabre dancing in among their heavier weapons like a streak of quicksilver. She was just thinking how unusually lucky it was that non of them had actually managed to score a hit on her yet, when a hefty club smacked heavily into her shins, effectively dumping her onto the ground and inflicting at least two very large bruises in the process.

"Ow!" she had breath to say indignantly, before it was all needed for avoiding her untimely demise. Getting to her feet again proved a difficult task, as did meeting an onslaught of attacks simultaneously. Merrin found herself sporting a slash across her cheekbone - lucky it hadn't been more - and soundly berating herself for ever thinking she'd been lucky to avoid a hit. When a muddy hand hauled her upright she staggered only a moment on bruised shins, leaving enough of a split second to gasp "Thanks" in Kendath's general direction.

Three more bandits, one after the other, went down in quick succession. Merrin wasn't sure if they were actually dead, but as long as they weren't moving she couldn't say she really cared.

_________________

No more enemies left. One of the three brigands on the ground was now attempting to get back up - a move quickly dissuaded by Kendath driving a falchion through the man's gut. He slid his blade out and scanned the vicinity, squinting through the stinging in his eyes. Wait. He thought he heard something behind him -

Splat. A wet clod pelted him squarely in the back of his head, thrown with such force that his neck snapped forward. Well... that put him in a nice foul mood. He whirled around, falchion raised as though to chop someone's head off. "STOP THROWING MUD AT ME!"

The brigand - one that'd escaped his notice, apparently - made a rude gesture with his fingers, then bent to retrieve more mud. At that same instant, arcane syllables rasped, and three successive fireballs contacted him in three different places. A sickening smell of burning flesh undulated from the charred mass that had, in better days, been a brigand of impressive aim. In any case, he wouldn't be aiming any more mud clods.

Kendath nodded his thanks to Garthag. He considered yelling up the treetops to the wagon driver that the coast was clear, then decided against it. The man could spend the rest of his days with the squirrels for all he cared. It wasn't like it made a difference - the wagon, now missing two of its wheels and sporting several cracked planks, was beyond repair no matter how sober the driver could manage to be. Kendath glanced askance at Merrin. He himself had sustained only a few bruises - most dramatic of which protruded on his temple - but he thought he'd seen a rather large thug whack her across the shins. "You all right?"

[hope you dont mind me godmoding Curu]

_________________

Merrin nodded, blinking sweat out of her eyes - and upon touching her cheekbone realized it was blood. "Mostly," she amended, shrugging and sheathing her sabre. Further exploration revealed that it wasn't deep, only bleeding rather profusely. She attempted a wry grin - or the ghost of one - and winced when it hurt.

Actually looking up at Kendath made her really smile, despite the gash. With a start she wondered when the last time was that she had - smiled, or even grinned. In any case, he was almost unrecognizable due to mud coating what seemed the majority of available surfaces. "Are you?"

_________________

Port Dragonhelm hadn't changed much in two thousand years. Granted, the harbor had expanded, clogged itself with piracy and trade. Bulwarks around the harbor and a fortified wall enclosing the wealthier districts had been raised, though the city had sprawled out of its confines like a bloated whale. It remained as it always was and always would be - a conglomerate of cultures, a neutral port where the lowliest pickpocket could walk side-by-side with the highest of Renegade nobles.

Matters weren't as shiny within as they were without, Kendath noticed ten steps into the city, where a dabbling Renegade mage had challenged her Meiltha counterpart to a duel. The ensuing chaos wasn't the best welcome reception. They'd had a long trek before their arrival at nightfall, as the wagon was beyond repair. In the spirit of pack mules, the draft horses had carried as much of the load as possible on their backs. The companions - him, Merrin, Garthag - parted ways with the driver at the gates. If, in the near future, the driver happened to inspect his weapons stock, he would notice a few units unaccounted for. Namely daggers.

Kendath wasn't very happy. He'd just jumped in a lake two hours ago to rid himself of the mud. Now, when his clothes were starting to dry off, the sky decided to drizzle. And brigands weren't the only ones with good aim. Young boys had it too, as testified by the two mud clods already stuck to the side of his face.

A rainy trek down to the warehouses informed them that security had tightened a few knots. The warehouse doors were barred as well as locked, and a watch tower had been erected on both ends of the quay. Unless they managed to kick some beggar out of his hovel, they'd be sleeping an inn tonight. They bypassed The Queen's Bedchamber - and cheerful memories associated - for an inn a couple of blocks down, directly facing the harbor, where Kendath hoped the innkeeper might have some knowledge of incoming ships.

Evidently he was correct. "Aye, used t'be a ship cap'n meself, in m'day," the innkeeper offered, nodding sagely. He was middle-aged, with auburn hair and beard streaked with gray. Unmindful of her dripping wet state, he tipped his tricorne at Merrin as he would to any noblewoman and blinked off a speck of dust in his eye. Or it could have been a gallant wink. Kendath wouldn't know the difference. Leaning against the bar, the innkeeper scratched his beard and continued, "Still sail when the winds strike me a'right. Be them blow fair on the morrow, missy, mayhap I'll take ye for a jaunt on m'two-master, how's that?"

_________________