Chương 15: The Bogge-Rider: Chapter Six

Their destination was a silent, hour-long torchlit ride away in the dim moonlight cast along the cobblestone path westward, though it seemed much longer with everyone on edge, peering across the fields and straining their ears for any sign of the rider. Farmer's Circle, as it turned out, was a sort of waystation - a meeting place for the farmers in Twin Lamp's far-flung fields to stop before town to exchange tools, trade supplies, and advertise for help.

It was little more than a series of rough-hewn wooden stalls, protected from the weather by thick, untreated timber logs holding up thatched hay roofs, some benches and tables, and a few pits surrounded by stone for warming fires. The one actual building it did boast was an inn, of fine construction, too - dark timber reinforcing white clay brick, with a red-shingled roof that reminded Martimeos a bit of the homes he had seen in Silverfish.

A sign painted with simple, blocky letters in black scrawl identified it simply as "Redd's Last Stop Before Town", though, Kells said, the original owner Redd had died generations ago. The other odd feature present at the circle was the totem next to the inn - a statue carved from the wood of a thick tree, perhaps eight feet tall, of Father Woed. Martimeos found this a bit unusual.

He was no student of the gods, but he was familiar with Woed - he was a farmer's god, more a god of tools and stubborness than he was of growth. Woed was thin and lanky for a god, knobbly bone and lean muscle, leaning on a pitchfork, his garb no more than simple peasant's clothing and large miuck-covered boots, an old sheepherding dog named Winston his eternal companion.

His thin line of a mouth, beneath a long, winding beard and a wide-brimmed hat woven from grass meant to block the sun looked down on them as they passed. by the statue. Martimeos had heard it said before that farmers chose Woed to worship because it practically meant they were worshipping themselves.

But the statue seemed unusual because, in his experience, Woed was not a god of statues and temples - he was a god farmers gave a silent thanks to at the end of the day, one they acknowledged but never bothered to spend all that much effort worshipping - this statue was the first depiction of Woed he had seen outside of drawings in books.

All the stalls of the Circle, now, were barren - the fire pits black and dead - and after they had left their horses in the humble stables on offer, which still thankfully had hay and water for the beasts - they discovered that even the inn was empty now, too, as they pushed open the creaking door, only to be greeted by empty shelves, tables and chairs, and a red clay floor so thick with dust that their steps left tracks in it.

Ever-cautious, Roark first ordered Kells and Nielson to do a sweep through the building to ensure they were truly alone. They were - every room empty, though the beds still had sheets, it did not look as if any of them had been used since the inn was abandoned. They did find, though, that the innkeep had left behind thick, white candles, out of consideration for any on the road who might take refuge there - though it looked as if, so far, none of these had been touched either.

They split up to claim their rooms, carrying lit candles in brass candleholders; the inn was large enough that each of them could claim their own. Martimeos chose a room by the end of the hallway, with a window facing outward towards the western road - though not for this reason, but rather because this room contained a small desk.

Tossing his pack upon the bed, he claimed more candles, lining them around the desk, and brought out Zeke's book of sigils to lay it open, as Flit fluttered from his shoulder to nestle in the rafters of the room. He thought he might have finally wrested a secret from the complicated book - not a full sigil itself; but rather the beginnings of a spell, though he had not yet had the opportunity to truly practice it.

He pulled a simple wooden chair up to the desk, its legs scraping against the floorboards, to study the text. He had, already, spent the ride over considering what the talking head might have spoken of - coming to the conclusion that he had very little idea, other than the suspicion that this was perhaps some Outsider they dealt with - and now he wanted something graspable that he could sink his thoughts into.

Before he began reading though, he glanced out the window, then stared for a moment as he noticed it had begun to gently snow, the night full of glimmering, drifting flakes dancing downwards in the light of the moon, eerily beautiful. As he was staring, he heard the door open behind him. He turned to see Elyse entering his room, her face lit by a flickering candle but still mostly hidden in shadow, her eyes unreadable, twin reflections of the flame. Good; he had been wanting to ask her something.

"Ah, hello, Elyse," he said.

"I was about to settle into some sigil study, if you'd like to join." Elyse made a noncommital noise, simply sitting on the edge of his bed; he wasn't sure what to make of that, so he simply barreled on.

"Though I was curious, and meant to ask once I had the chance - just where have you seen a talking he-" Elyse interrupted him with a low, raspy laugh.

"As I thought," she murmured. When Martimeos stared curiously at her, she said softly, "I... please, 'tis a bad memory. I would rather not speak of it now. I would like something to take my mind off it, rather." Martimeos regarded her for a moment, lifting a candle to light the room and get a better look at the witch. She had been strangely silent and demure since seeing the head, and she looked it now - her eyes downcast, her shoulders slumped, one hand fiddling nervously with a tress of her long black hair.

"Alright, I suppose," he said after a moment.

"We can stick with sigils for now, if you like. There are chairs in other rooms you can grab."

"I think my mind is too weary for sigils at this moment," she murmured, still fiddling with her hair.

"I know. Why do I not relieve you of your ignorance of familiars?" She tried to give him a mischievous grin; it looked a bit forced. She patted the bed next to where she was sitting. Martimeos gave a small hmmph - he had been looking forward to spending a night buried in the book. But he closed it, and crossed the room to join her, whistling for Flit to perch on his hand as he did. As he settled down next to her, Elyse looked as if she was contemplating how to begin.

"Why don't we start," she said, "With you telling me how Flit became your familiar." Martimeos looked at the small bird, preening itself on his hand, hopping cheerfully up his arm, cocking his head this way and that.

"Well," he said, "There was an older boy in my village, a hunter, who taught me bird-speech. I had a knack for it, I suppose. I would go into the woods and speak with the birds for hours. They are strange little creatures; I had thought they might speak mostly of food and mating, but they spend more time in idle chatter than even people do.

'Twas one winter that I met Flit, who bargained with me to let him make his nest in the warmth of my room rather than in the frost of the outdoors, in exchange for what he assured me would be fine treasures plucked from the field." He gave Flit a wry look.

"I was young enough to believe him; he delivered mostly shiny pebbles. But when he learned I could practice the Art he declared himself my familiar; apparently 'tis a great honor among birdkind. And we've been together since." He glanced up at Elyse, who was giving him a look of consternation.

"What?"

"Is that it?" she asked.

"You... just met, and then he said he was your familiar, and.... that's it?"

"Well... yes." Martimeos frowned. He had never given too much thought to it - wizards had familiars, and that was it. He had never read anywhere that it was supposed to be some sort of special process - more interested in spells and sigils than exactly why those who practiced the Art had animal companions. He had assumed it was something about the Art that drew nature to those who practiced it.

"Why? How did it happen for you?" Elyse was quiet for a moment.

"I was taught," she began, "That familiars are the boon companion of those who practice the Art; a twin of your soul in nature's grace. Very special indeed. I... I was very lonely, before I had Cecil. Ever since I had first begun practicing the art, I felt an ache, like for a dear friend I had not seen in many years - though I barely knew what a friend even was. I... dreamed of him, for almost a year, before he appeared. In my dreams, he would be by my side, always in my shadow...

and when I woke I missed him so much it hurt. Until one day... I found him in my swamp, as a kitten, alone without a mother - he leapt into my arms, mewing, like he had already known me for so long. I think he dreamed of me too, even before he was born. I was so happy to finally meet him I thought my heart would burst." She gave a faint smile at the memory - it had been one of the happier days of her life, perhaps the happiest.

She remembered being a young girl, laughing and crying tears of joy as Cecil, almost the size of a housecat even as a kitten, nestled in her arms and purred for the first time. Flit and Martim exchanged skeptical looks. The little cardinal chirped that he had to see Martim's face every day, and that was already almost too much; to dream of him would be a burden indeed. Martim laughed, then shrugged at Elyse.

"Well.... that certainly wasn't the experience either Flit or I had. Perhaps birds are different?" Elyse gave them both a considering look, narrowing her eyes.

"No, no. You have a bond; I am sure of it. He was drawn to you for a reason." She snapped her fingers.

"I know. My bond with Cecil.... sometimes I can feel his thoughts, and he mine. Supposedly, with enough practice, you can even see through your familiar's eyes."

"Oh! That sounds useful," Martim said, brightening.

"It is the way Cecil and I communicate sometimes. Well, communicate beyond me scratching his belly and simple commands. I am certain he understands my speech well enough to listen to what I tell him to do, but he cannot speak it himself, and I do not know his tongue either, except to know the sounds he makes when happy or hungry..." She contemplated the two of them for a moment, resting her chin on her hand.

"Perhaps it is because you actually know his speech. You can communicate with him directly - you never needed to learn to feel him through your bond." Martimeos frowned - he didn't like that. It was as if his knowledge was actually a disadvantage.

"But if I had never learned bird-speech, I would have never met Flit in the first place," he muttered.

"The Art works in strange ways," Elyse shrugged.

"Why don't the both of you try keeping your mouths shut? Keep silent, close your eyes, and see if you can... sense him." Martimeos and Flit exchanged another look; Flit flickered his crest, and Martim shrugged. He closed his eyes, stilling his mind of all other thoughts, keeping it blank and empty. The room was quiet, and incredibly still; all he could hear was the sound of Elyse's breathing, and even that faded away. And in the stillness, the darkness, after minutes of nothing.... he thought he felt...

the faintest of flickers, of something quick, sharp and nimble, something that bounced and danced in sharp bursts - for the briefest of moments - and then it was gone. He opened his eyes. Flit looked back at him, his eyes dark beads, his feathers puffed out. Then he twitched and preened himself.

"I thought.... perhaps for a moment, I felt..." Martimeos shook his head.

"I don't know. It might have been my imagination." Elyse shook her head.

"No, no - do not doubt, it is there. Try it again!" They spent the next few hours practicing, over and over, Martimeos closing his eyes, and always he thought he could feel something in his mind, the faintest of tickles in the back of his head - but never very long; for a few seconds at most before it slipped away from him.

Flit, for his part, did not seem to be taking the whole thing very seriously; though Elyse could not say whether or not the familiar had to go through the same practice the wizard did - perhaps once the bond was forged and strengthened from the wizard's end, the familiar could simply use it themselves? Either way, getting Flit to close his eyes and meditate was certainly a lost cause.

Elyse brought Cecil in, to try and show him, holding the cat purring in her lap, but all the little cardinal seemeed to want to do was nest down his his soft fur and go to sleep. Still, they kept trying; Elyse demonstrating for Martimeos as well, reaching out to her familiar's mind, which she could hold on to for quite some time, feeling his thoughts, though a cat's thoughts were very odd things indeed; Cecil's thoughts felt warm and familiar but many times she did not know what they meant.

She could tell simple things - that he thought Martim smelled nice, or that he would like to hunt, or have his ears scratched - but there were other thoughts her familiar had, strange thoughts that felt... the best way she could think of it was that they felt sideways.

He would think of a room; and then of a place that wasn't there - walking into the corner where the walls met - squeezing his way through some place that felt hidden and close, though comfortable - and then somehow think he was in an entirely different room. He had one thought that she could have sworn was of him walking on the moon, talking to other cats, many hundreds of them - very strange thoughts.

They continued like this until they grew weary, but both were too caught up in the testing to noitce how much time had past, lost together in exploring the Art. Lost, that is, until a distant screech echoed across the night, faintly. The unmistakable howl of the rider's horse. Martim's eyelids, which had begun to feel heavy and droop, shot open at the sound.

He looked toward the window, and cursed with a sudden realization - those candles he set on his desk to study would be like a beacon in the night to any who happened to look toward the inn. With a wave of his hand, they flickered out, leaving thin trendrils of smoke wafting through the air. Flit gave a shrill tweet and flew up again into the rafters to hide, while Cecil, who had been purring contentedly, shot awake, his ears flat against his head, hissing.

"Damn this thing!" Elyse cursed, sitting bolt upright.

"Can a single night not pass where it does not haunt us?" Martimeos leapt to a window as another screech echoed out across the night, peering outside to see if he could spot it riding across the fields, which had collected a thin blanket of snow glowing dimly beneath the moonlight. He could hear Roark and his soldiers stirring in their rooms, hear a muttered curse from Kells as they either woke or reacted to the screeches themselves. He could see nothing in that vast expanse of whiteness, though.

Shortly their came a knock at their door, which opened without waiting for a reply. Roark stood behind it, his face made even more gruesome by the shadows, and Nielson by his shoulder, who gave a frown at seeing Elyse in Martim's room. Martimeos almost wanted to slap the boy - there were more important things to think about right now than whatever petty, childish jealousy he might be feeling for his fool, love-at-first-sight, moonstruck infatuation with Elyse - but he kept his mouth shut.

"Good, you've got your candles out," Roark said quietly.

"I wasn't able to spot him from my room. Have you seen anything?"

"Not a thing," Martimeos replied, stepping away from the window - his face lit by moonlight wouldn't stick out nearly as much as candles would, but it still might be spotted from a distance.

"I cannot tell from the cries if he is too distant to see. I thought you said this rider normally moved on, not lingering in one place for too long?"

"He does," Roark growled.

"Which means we either happen to, by chance, be moving along his path - or he's haunting us on purpose." He shook his head, running a hand through his fine silver hair.

"Damn the rest of the patrol route. I've seen more sign of the rider on this one than on my last five. Tomorrow we head straight back to town. We are of no use to anyone dead." They set up a guard, identifying which of the inn's rooms would give them view of all angles of approach and clearing them out, so that whoever was on guard shift would be able to split their time between them and keep an eye on the road and the surrounding farmlands.

All the while, they strained their ears, listening not only for a screech, but the sound of galloping hooves - that screech could probably be heard for miles, but hooves would mean the rider was very close. They considered moving furniture to bar the door, just in case, but in the end decided against it - it would have taken from them hours of precious sleep, and from what they had seen at the Hendrickson farm, breaking through furniture would not have delayed this rider very long, anyway.

They grew a little less anxious as they made their plans, and an hour passed without them hearing another call of the rider's horse, or the sound of hooves. Perhaps, they thought, that would be all they heard of him tonight - just a cry from him, in the distance, and nothing more. Martimeos offered to take a shift of the guard himself, but Roark told him that between himself, Kells, and Nielson, they should be able to handle it - and Martim, tired and exhausted, did not insist.

If Roark was offering him more time for sleep, he was going to take it. Elyse had not even bothered to offer herself - and in fact shot Martim a dirty look when he had; if they wanted him to take a shift they might expect her to do so as well - and gave an audible sigh of relief when Roark had refused. Stolen novel; please report. Kells drew the straw for the first watch; the rest of them split up to their rooms for the night, anxiety battling with exhaustion as they made their way to their beds.

Martimeos passed him on his way back to his room, the soldier standing by a hallway window with his spear, moonlight reflecting off his pale face and burnished breastplate, his expression as if carved from stone. Martimeos felt sorry for him - it was freezing in the inn, and they dared not light a fire, though all things considered it looked as if Kells handled the cold well - he gave no sign he felt it. Martimeos, on the other hand, whispered a word to his black fur cloak to warm it.

By the time he got to his room, the warmth of his cloak and the exhaustion of the few days had made his eyelids begin to droop, and he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep the moment he laid upon his bed, before he could even take off his boots. The night remained blissfully quiet - there was not a sign of the rider, not screech, not galloping hooves, no sign of his black silhouette riding across farmlands that they could see. But still, it was not nearly as much sleep as Martimeos might have liked.

Roark woke them at dawn's first light, when the red sun had just barely begun to peek over the horizon, casting a pink glow over the snow-blanketed fields surrounding them. They gathered, rubbing the sleep out of their eyes - except for Roark, who had taken the last watch before dawn - in the inn's common room, yawning and staggering, shivering in the cold dawn.

"Eat a good breakfast now," Roark told them quietly, as he strapped on his breastplate, which he had burnished during his watch.

"Once we are on the horses, we are not stopping until we reach Twin Lamps. Not for a break, not for food, nothing. If we take no breaks and keep up a good pace, we should reach it mid-afternoon." The soldiers ate rations of bread and dried beef, and Martimeos shared with them his rations from Silverfish - after this, he thought, he might have a week's worth left still for him and Elyse.

Their breakfast was quiet and hushed - little conversation other than Kells, more cheerfully than anyone actually felt, commenting on how good the fish tasted, despite being dried and salted and preserved. But the silence was shattered when Kells left the table to prepare the horses. The moment he opened the door, he gave a shout of alarm, startled so badly that he dropped his spear with a clatter.

"Black and bloody hells," he cursed, his grey eyes wide with fear, running his hands through his short dark hair.

"Black and bloody blazing hells!"

"What is it, boy?" Roark snapped, leaping to his feet, his hand going straight to the hatchet at his belt. Kells merely waved out the entrance of the inn, still shaking too badly to even pick up his spear. They crowded around it, and what they saw chilled them to the bone. There, in front of the inn, in the fresh blanket of snow covering the cobblestone path. Hoofprints. Hoofprints of a gigantic horse. Tinged pink, here and there, as if the hooves themselves had been dripping blood.

They continued in front of the inn, passing not five feet from it, and then some thirty feet away veered off into the fields surrounding it, disappearing off into the distance." How!" Roark roared. He stepped out into the snow, glaring at the hoofprints, as if their very existence offended him.

"How! I heard nothing on my watch - saw nothing - did you?"

"No, sir," Nielson quickly replied, standing straight to attention. His eyes widened as he looked at Roark's rage, almost as much as they did for the hoofprints.

"I swear, I did not see a thing during my watch."

"Cap'n, to be honest with you, I barely slept a wink last night," Kells said, finally recovering enough of his nerve to grip his spear again. He appeared in the doorway, staring sullenly at the prints.

"Look at the stride of them - the rider was at a full gallop as he passed. I would have heard that no matter when it happened. I should have.""'Twas a silent night, last night," Martimeos said quietly.

"I think even asleep, we would have been woken by the sound of that beast as it galloped past."

"So what happened?" Roark snapped, kneeling down to examine the prints. Wind had scoured the snow, making it difficult to tell precisely when they were made.

"How did we all miss this beast passing by so close?" Silence answered him.

"There are some things," Elyse said finally, "That can hide themselves well from sight and hearing, if they so wish." Roark rose to his feet, staring at her.

"Get the horses," he said, Kells and Nielson jumping at his command.

"We're leaving. Now." They left the inn used and uncleaned, leaving half-melted candles where they lay and bedsheets tangled - Roark had originally planned to tidy up out of courtesy before they left, but now he dared not spend even a second longer here than they had to. The horses, as Kells and Nielson retrieved them, were thankfully fine, if a little nervous - he had been half-worried they would have found them slaughtered in their stables.

As Elyse coaxed Cecil into the small sling Nielson had made for the cat hanging from the saddle of his horse, Martimeos whispered to Flit to follow them in the sky above, but remain always well within sight. He did not know in what manner the rider had hidden himself and his mount - but at the very least, he had still left hoofprints.

Even if nothing else, even if he somehow were able to make himself entirely invisible and inaudible, Flit ought to be able to spot those hoofprints appearing in the fresh, unmarked snow that surrounded them. They set off again down the western path, Elyse riding sidesaddle with Nielson, while Martimeos rode backwards with Kells, his back to the soldier's, keeping an eye on the road behind them.

The path was entirely covered in snow, and might have been a bit difficult to see, if not for the low stone walls and gnarled trees that occasionally lined it, marking it off from the fields. The sky was overcast, a dull slate gray that the sun could not be seen behind, and as they made their way forward, brief flurries of snow occasionally drifted down, though never snowfall heavy enough to add appreciably to what was already on the ground.

The world seemed muffled beneath that white, even the sound of their horse's hooves deadened a bit. Roark kept them at a brisk pace, a faster trot than usual, but never at a sprint - he wanted to travel fast, true, but save the horse's strength for if they truly needed it. They listened, nervously, constantly scanning about the fields for any sign of - well, anyone - and Roark and Martimeos kept their crossbows loaded and ready, while Kells and Nielson kept their spear and halberd on-hand.

At least, Martimeos thought, the rider would be easy to spot - if he were visible - black against all that snow. And he thought it might be. The rider, after all, had never seemed to make any attempt to hide itself before. Perhaps it took effort on its part to remain hidden, however it did so - or some limitation, something that explained that why it had hidden last night but not the other times they had seen it. But if this were the case...

he liked even less the idea that it had known to hide itself as it passed by the inn. That it had, perhaps, known they were there, and decided instead to pursue some other prey. Long hours of travel, without any sign of the rider, began to calm their nerves a bit. Martimeos would be glad, after this journey, to be in the safety of a town. Twin Lamps, Kells told him as they rode, was well-defended, stone-walled and ringed by watchtowers, a relic of the time it had spent as the Witch-Queen's southernmost outpost.

"Though 'tis funny," he laughed, "All that fortification, and war never truly touched us. But the rider never draws too near to town." Their hearts grew lighter; Roark called back to them that they should soon see the watchtowers of Twin Lamps in the distance - that they were almost to town. They began to feel like they had made it to freedom, finally safe from the danger and the horrors they had seen along the road.

And that's when Flit, overhead, began to tweet and chirp madly, diving down to Martimeos, calling out his warning, telling them to look north and beware. To their right, to the north, was farmland dominated by a low, rolling hill. And at the crest of this hill appeared the rider. From this distance, he was little more than an ominous black silhouette against the gray sky, though Martimeos could make out the long, curved horns of his strange cattle-skull helmet. Deathly silent, no screeches from his massive horse.

He merely watched, clearly aware of them, clearly keeping pace with them along the top of the hill. They watched this for only a moment.

"Ride," snapped Roark.

"As hard as you can, 'til you reach the town walls. RIDE!" And with a snap of his reins, he broke his horse into a sprint. Fear gripped them; Kells and Nielson followed suit, pushing their horses as fast as they could go, thundering down the path, their hooves kicking up snow. The rider broke his horse into a sprint as well, riding parrallel to them, easily keeping pace at a distance, black cloak fluttering in the wind behind him, but making no move to approach them.

Roark was far in the lead, keeping his eye half on the rider and half on the path; while Nielson and Elyse took the middle, and Kells and Martimeos brought up the rear, Flit soaring far ahead of them. And then disaster struck. Cecil's makeshift sling on the side of Nielson's horse had never been secured well enough to withstand the heavy motion of a sprinting horse; it rocked back and forth with every stride wildly as they galloped.

Elyse, though frightened by the ground racing beneath them nearly as much as she was the rider, was trying to reach down to secure it, as Cecil, wide-eyed and frightened, meowed and hissed in fear as he swung against the horse's side. But she was not quick enough; a knot in the sling loosened, and Cecil went tumbling into the snow with frightening force, landing with a pained yowl as the horses raced past. And seeing this, the dark rider changed his route, heading straight for where her familiar had landed."

Cecil!" Elyse screamed, and Nielson in concern reined in his horse, breaking the sprint; as soon as it had slowed enough she leapt from the saddle and tumbled into the road herself, her normal fear of dismounting abandoning her, running towards her familiar, who was giving pained cries and trying to walk, but limping, keeping his rear right leg off the ground as he cried. And that was when the awful, screeching cries of the rider's horse shattered the sky.

He turned down the hill and charged now, towards Elyse, moving with terrible speed, drawing a hooked blade from his belt and raising it high as he came racing down like deadly shadow. It all happened in moments, there was barely any time to react. Kells and Martimeos had nearly caught up to Elyse and Nielson now, and Roark had turned around at the sound of the screech. Elyse lay in the snow, huddled protectively over her injured familiar, wide-eyed and frozen with fear at the approaching rider.

And Nielson - Nielson, despite the terror he felt, maneuvered his horse between her and the rider, lifting up his halberd to defend against the charge. Kells saw what was going to happen before it happened, even as he raced forward, spear lowered in a charge, he knew he could do nothing, that he would not ride quick enough to make a difference.

"Oh, Nielson," he muttered, "You poor fool." A black flash of screeching terror and thundering hooves, the rider bore down on them. Elyse closed her eyes - there was the sound of splintering wood as a feeling of dread and terorr washed over her, and the hooves of the rider's beast struck mere feet away - and then they moved away once more, carried by the momentum of the charge. She opened her eyes and looked up.

Nielson was still mounted on the horse above her, but his halberd's shaft had been shattered in the middle; he gripped one half awkwardly in each hand. And his head was gone. It rolled down the road behind them, dirty blond hair fluttering in the wind, staining the snow red. The rider was pulling his steed around now, trying to turn its weight to set up a second charge, now perhaps one hundred feet to the south, on the other side of the road.

Martimeos could see him more clearly now - he looked much as he did on their way into Silverfish, a cattle-skull helm with black ribbon tied to its horns, streaming in the wind, that chittered and clacked on its own, gleaming yellow eyes set into its sockets, a long black cloak descending from the back of it, the rider raising a hooked sword that now dripped with Nielson's blood. His horse snorted as he brought it around, revealing slavering fangs.

Roark was here now, having ridden back, at almost the same time both he and Martimeos let loose at the rider with their crossbows. Roark's bolt struck the rider square in the chest - but it was almost as if it could not find purchase, simply glancing off.

Martim's bolt, on the other hand, went wide off the mark - he had been aiming for the rider's chest as well - but struck the rider's black steed square in the ribs, where there, at least, it sank home; the beast gave an awful screech of pain and the rider struggled to keep it in control, buying them some time at least before the next charge.

Martimeos leapt down from Kell's horse after he fired, running towards Elyse, where she stayed wide-eyed in the snow, staring at Nielson's bloody head in shock, trying to rise to her feet with Cecil in her arms, as Roark cursed and reloaded his crossbow. Martim raced past her for now, though, going instead to the horse that Nielson's body now laid slumped over upon, struggling to tug the corpse from its saddle.

By the time he had managed to throw the corpse to the snow, though - praying as he did that it would not begin to move - the rider had brought its mount under control, teeth chattering and clattering, and bore down upon them in another charge, raising its bloody blade high above its head, calling out in a guttural, brutal tongue as its horse snorted and screeched. Roark fired another bolt at the charging rider, trying to break its charge, but missed.

Martimeos drew his sword and stood in the path of its charge grimly, hoping that he was nimble enough to leap out of the way. He concentrated, with the Art, desperately trying to concentrate to light the edge of the rider's cloak aflame, knowing that he did not have enough time. Elyse looked to see Martim standing between her and the charging rider, and her heart sang with fear. Fool man - she did not want another fool man getting beheaded on her behalf - damn Nielson!

She had told him to protect himself, she had never asked for his life! She had the Art, she had her ward - there had been no need for him to die! Damn him! And now Martim, stubborn idiot wizard, was practically begging to lose his head as well! With a shout she stretched forth her hand, and conjured a glamour - the only thing she could think to do - a burst of flame before the eyes of the rider's horse, to try to scare it off its path. But something strange happened.

Martim, concentrating on trying to light the rider's cloak, saw Elyse's glamour. But what's more - he felt it. Felt it, as if it were true flame - though it was nothing but illusion - felt its hunger, its strength. And, with the rider bearing down upon them, those gleaming yellow eyes piercing him, dread and terror seizing him, knowing that it would be upon him in moments - he did all he could think to do. He clapped.

And the lingering flames of Elyse's glamour in the air roared with strength, and the rider's mount reared, screeching in pain, as if it could feel the flames searing its flesh. The rider howled in its strange tongue, its charge broken, trying to bring its mount to bear. Martimeos took the moment to bodily lift Elyse - good thing she was so small; even carrying Cecil he could lift her to his shoulder, and he was not particularly strong - and place her on Nielson's horse.

He looked back at the rider, to see if it was recovering, only to see, a moment later, brave Kells slam into it, charging, burying his spear in the belly of the rider's mount nearly up to his shoulder. With a shout he danced his horse back, narrowly avoiding losing his own head as the rider's blade hummed through the air after him.

Martimeos leapt into the saddle of Nielson's horse, taking the reins, as Roark fired another bolt from his crossbow, this time striking the horse square in its head - which certainly would have killed a normal horse, but this black steed only gave a long, alien bellow of pain. The captain gave one last look at Nielson's body, lying in the snow, his expression grim and wrathful.

"Ride," he snarled to them, as Kells approached, "Ride for your sorry lives." They broke their horses into a sprint once more, leaving Nielson's corpse behind in the snow, and as soon as they did the rider recovered as well, regaining control of his mount, and pursued them. They were close, now, though - they could just see, on either side of the road, the faint outline of stone watchtowers stacked high, with signal fires sending black smoke into the sky.

Martimeos brought up the rear, the two soldiers more used to handling their horses able to push them a little faster, and glanced back and forth from the road ahead to the rider pursuing them. Despite the spear in its belly and the bolt in its head, that black steed could still run fast - it even seemed to be gaining on them - he thought for certain they would be doomed if it had not been injured.

The rider leaned into his pursuit, snarling and roaring in that rough tongue, black cloak fluttering out behind him like wretched wings, the gleaming yellow eyes in his cattle-skull helm boring into Martimeos, and though the snow-covered fills blurred past them the rider drew closer, and closer, his steed calling out a vengeful, ear-shattering roar, and dread filled both Martimeos and Elyse as they thought they would not be fast enough to escape, close enough that they could hear the chattering of its cattle-skull teeth- Until it stopped, suddenly, reining in its horse, disappearing quickly behind them as they continued to sprint ahead at full speed, its cries echoing and growing faint as it stared after them, before turning around and racing back eastward.

Martim looked forward. The gray stone watchtowers were close enough now to make out the soldiers atop them, pointing out down the road; some of them with longbows let loose a few arrows after the retreating rider, though they fell far short. Beyond that, carved from the same stone, was a high wall with a black iron gate set into it, high enough so that only a few snow-covered roofs of buildings of the town within peeked above it, smoke curling from chimneys into the sky to be quickly whipped away in the wind.

A large flag streamed above the gate set into the wall; two black suns set in an orange background. They had made it to Twin Lamps.