They camped in a small dell, well concealed by a thick growth of bracken. The wind died, and the night was not so cold. They were all still exhausted and looking forward to a good sleep. Unfortunately, they were not destined to enjoy the restful night they longed for.
Sometime before moonrise, the entire camp was aroused by hideous screaming. Everyone assumed Cob was again in the grip of night terrors, but this time it was Bart. He screeched and shrieked, wholly consumed by a dreadful dream and unresponsive to their attempts to wake him, at least until Drax emptied a water bag over his head. Even when restored to consciousness, Bart continued to be wracked by intense shuddering. When the others returned to their beds, he sat wrapped in a cloak, silent, befuddled.
When his fear at last abated and all seemed to be back to normal, the knight returned to his blankets, desperate for the rest he so badly needed. But no sooner had he fallen into slumber than his soul was again torn by harrowing visions. His gasping sobs woke the entire camp, and Drax was once more forced to employ a water bag.
Bart sat up for the rest of the night, while the others returned to their blankets to garner whatever sleep they could find.
In the morning, Sarah approached Thurmond as he was tightening the cinch strap of his saddle. She gave him a quizzical look.
“It seems the Tongue of Dreadful Dreams was taken from my pannier last night. Do you have any notion as to who might have done it?”
The young man’s eyes widened in surprise.
“Really? I have no idea. Why would anyone want to steal something so revolting?”
“Maybe to hide beneath Sir Bartholomew’s blankets.”
Thurmond gave a slight shrug and a not-so-innocent smile.
“Not a bad idea, now that you mention it. Your brother is such a bloody bunghole—he deserves some torment. Don’t you think?”
“No doubt, but just make sure that the Essence of Unendurable Stench remains where it is. Understood?”
“Not really. Why are you telling me this?”
Another day’s ride brought them to the Psiss Marches. Though they remained unmolested by ghouls, vampyres, or wraiths, the passage was difficult. The air was bad, and several men developed a wheezing cough. A pack-horse bearing much of their provender floundered in a bog and was lost.
The nights were again the worst. It was difficult to find dry ground, and there always seemed to be a malevolent presence lingering just beyond their range of vision. The last stale loaves of fisherman bread grew green with mold, and their supply of salt fish was almost exhausted.
During these dismal days, Drax renewed his friendship with Cob. The two could often be seen riding together, engaged in quiet conversation. Most everyone assumed that Cob was again providing spiritual guidance to the formerly wayward scout.
Thurmond, however, observed these conversations with the darkest suspicions. Cob’s religious fanaticism was well seasoned with madness. He was capable of anything if he believed it was the will of God. Wat and Tuck had promised to keep him out of trouble, but could they prevent his falling under the influence of that perfidious mercenary?
Drax might claim to be a changed man, to have renounced the treachery of his earlier life, but Thurmond did not believe it. It was just another ploy to regain their ill-deserved trust so he could betray them for his own gain. He should have been slain back at the beginning of their journey.
Thurmond wondered what Cob and Drax could be discussing at such great lengths. Not religion, surely. They occasionally broke out in peals of laughter. Certainly, the devout Cob would find nothing humorous in the workings of God. What was really going on between them? What were they plotting? Whatever it was, they needed watching.
By the time the party reached firm ground, everyone was filthy, hungry, and worn thin. But now the ride became more pleasant. The grey marshland and stinking bogs gave way to grassy hillsides and evergreens. Wildflowers sprinkled the meadows, and birds made melody all through the night.
They made better time through the open, gentle countryside. Though they kept a wary eye, no horse-riding savages came pounding over the horizon, no flesh-rending demons came screaming out of the night. Indeed, their only significant problem was an unfortunate encounter with a flock of carnivorous sheep.
Accordingly, the Adventurers’ mood began to lighten. Sarah stopped wearing her helmet and let her long brown hair cascade across her shoulders. The mercenaries sang their nasty songs as they rode at the rear of the party. Even the horses seemed happier, putting a bit more prance in their step.
Only Torgul remained glum. He had been out of sorts since he lost his axe and cropped his beard with his scramasax. His comrades at first attempted to make light of his plight, but his anguish was too genuine, too profound.
Finally, Thurmond could stand it no longer. He reined his horse next to Torgul’s, and blurted out what was on his mind.
“Hey, Torgul—you’ve been in an ill-humor for days now. I’ve watched you pulling on your beard like you’re trying to stretch it longer. Come on! We all ran away in that hellish tunnel, even Roscoe. We had no chance against that magic. You’re not disgraced, and your beard will grow back. Let it go!”
Torgul grumbled something that sounded like mmdrrfkrr. Encouraged by even this sullen response, Thurmond endeavored to keep the conversation going.
“What did you say? That was the dwarfish tongue, wasn’t it? What did it mean?”
“It means I just want to be let be. I don’t feel like havin’ a chat right now.”
But the young man was determined to draw his friend from his funk.
“Nay, that’s not what it meant. What does it really mean?”
Torgul threw him a weary look.
“If you gotta know, it was a dwarven curse word.”
This excited Thurmond. Exotic curse words were always intriguing.
“Meaning what? I’ve hardly ever heard you speak dwarven. You have to tell me what you said.”
“It doesn’t translate well.”
“Tell me anyway.”
Torgul shrugged in resignation—there would be no escape from his friend’s nonsensical questions.
“It means three hundred hairy bears.”
Thurmond started to laugh.
“Three hundred hairy bears? That’s what dwarves say when they stub their toes?”
“Sometimes.”
That line of conversation exhausted, Thurmond tried a different tack.
“You never say much about your home or family, Torgul. Why is that?”
“Some things is better left unsaid.”
“Do you ever miss them?”
“Not much, but sometimes I do miss good, solid dwarven food. Stuff that really gives your jaws a workout. Human food is too easy, and it’s got too much flavor.”
“Your mother is a good cook?”
Torgul stiffened and his eyes grew grim.
“We’ll not be discussin’ her or any member of my family, understand? There’s too much hard feelin’ between me and them.”
Knowing he had blundered, Thurmond made a quick verbal retreat.
“My apologies, Torgul, I meant no offense.”
After a few moments of silence, he attempted to renew their conversation.
“I know you come from Spear Mountain, but you’ve never said where that is exactly.”
Still annoyed by the reference to his family, Torgul was in no mood for further chatter. His reply was gruff.
“Nor will I ever. You’re my sworn comrade, you’ve saved my skin just as I’ve saved yours, but no human—not you nor Roscoe nor nobody—can ever learn the whereabouts of my homeland.”
Thurmond was shocked by the vehemence of his friend’s words.
“Why is that?”
“Us dwarves learned centuries ago that our survival depends on keepin’ apart from humans.”
The young man was confused.
“But you’re not like that. You live with us.”
“That’s my problem. I’m different.”
With that, Torgul urged his mount forward, ending the discourse. Thurmond heard him mutter one final word.
“Mmdrrfkrr.”
Frustrated and a little hurt, Thurmond reined back next to Sarah, who had been observing their exchange. She, too, was concerned about Torgul’s state of mind.
“How’s he doing?”
Thurmond cast his eyes skyward as if seeking divine intervention.
“Grumpy.”
She nodded.
“I guess a human can never comprehend the relationship of a dwarf to his beard.”
They rode along, enjoying the warm afternoon sun. After so many days of danger and discomfort, it was good to relax a bit and engage in conversation. Thurmond grew thoughtful.
“I woke up for a while last night. While I was lying there trying to go back to sleep, I had the strangest idea.”
Sarah’s response was playful.
“An idea? Really? You? First time for everything, I guess.”
She expected some witty repost, but the young man grew serious.
“It seems like things are changing around us.”
“Changing how? And even if they are, what’s so strange about it?”
“I guess...I mean… things aren’t like they used to be.”
“What does that mean? Do you think the sky is turning green?”
“When I was growing up, I was always told that the world is like it is because that’s how it has to be, so nothing can ever really change.”
“You’re confusing me, Thurmond. What are you saying?”
“Well, here we are—a runaway apprentice, a girl, a dwarf, and an old fruit vendor—we’re riding halfway across the world, fighting monsters, and trying to save our city from a demon. Doesn’t that seem wrong?”
“Wrong how?”
“You know the old stories. It’s a job some great hero should be doing. Or some powerful noble. Or at least some valiant knight. It shouldn’t be up to us to do these things. Something is different when important quests are left to people like us.”
He paused, trying to formulate his thoughts.
“Things aren’t like they were. I think the world is changing. Maybe the way people see things is changing.”
“I dunno, Thurmond. I think maybe the real change has been in you. You grew up believing all those old legends, but they were never true.”
Thurmond let his thoughts wander for a while, and then recalled another question he had been meaning to address.
“Hey, Sarah, it must have been a shock to you to find out Bart was alive. I mean, we thought he’d been killed by the goblins. How do you feel about that?”
“How do you think I feel? He’s a selfish, mean-tempered, ill-mannered bully. But he’s still my half-brother, and we grew up in the same household, so my feelings are complicated. I despise him, but I still don’t wish him dead.”
“That’s not what I meant. He’s alive, and that changes everything for you. You were in line to inherit your father’s estate, maybe even his titles. But now that he’s back, everything goes to him.”
This was true. Sarah’s father, Lord Percy Staynes, was a nobleman of considerable wealth. Although Sarah was the illegitimate issue of his dalliance with his chamber maid, Lord Percy formally recognized her as his daughter. With Bart dead, it was conceivable that she could fall heir to his name and property. With Bart alive, she would get nothing.
Sarah cocked her head to one side.
“It’s funny, you know—when I met you two years ago, I really loved the thought of being Lady Sarah. I grew up not knowing who I was. I wasn’t a servant, but I was certainly not one of the family. I needed something definite.”
“From what you’ve told me, you were treated far better than Lord Percy treated Bart.”
“That’s true. I guess I was kind of pampered. But still, I never felt like I belonged anywhere. Having a title would have given me a definite place in the world.”
This was a sensitive topic. Sarah’s craving for social position had at one point come close to destroying their friendship with Roscoe. Thurmond knew he had to tread lightly.
“But you seemed to have changed.”
“I guess I have. I always assumed that once I knew my place in things, I’d know what I should be doing, that I wouldn’t always be struggling to figure things out. Well, being accepted as an Adventurer gave me that place, but I’m still often confused.”
“I dunno, Sarah, it seems to me like you can figure things pretty good.”
“Well, how about your own life? You really wanted a black hat. Now that you’ve got it, do you have all the answers?”
“I never looked at it quite that way. I see what you mean, though. I always thought I’d feel a lot more confident, that I’d know how to handle problems. But I still have to rely on Roscoe to make most of the decisions.”
“That’s exactly what I’m talking about. Being an Adventurer or a noble doesn’t make you any smarter or wiser or braver. You’re still just yourself underneath.”
“You don’t care about being Lady Sarah anymore?”
“Not so much. Do you still like being an Adventurer?”
“I do, but it’s a lot different than I expected.”
Sarah reached over and punched him in the arm. The links of his mailshirt hurt her knuckles.
“We better stick close together, Thurmond. It’s going to take us a long time to get smarter and wiser and braver.”