Figo approached the campsite and placed an armful of branches on the fire they had set up to keep Gabriel warm. Once the flames were fed, he knelt at his captain’s feet and appraised the man. Gabriel was propped up against a bundle of, pretty much anything, actually. Figo and Lydia agreed that it was unwise to let the man sleep following a head injury, so they built him a makeshift ‘chair’ from debris around the battle site. Thus, Gabriel watched, tired, pained and slightly above the normal level of surly, as the others flitted about their various tasks. He monitored them magnanimously from a throne of boots, belt packs and breeches, resplendent in his technicolour bruising.

“You look better with each passing minute!” Figo said.

Gabriel stared at the archer.

“That swelling has gone down considerably,” Figo said.

Gabriel stared at the archer.

“All things considered, you really are very lucky,” Figo said through a strained smile.

Gabriel took a deep breath, and stared at the archer.

“Don’t worry about it, Figo,” Vish comforted, “I’m not a healer but,” Vish inspected Gabriel’s bandaged head, who tried to swat him away, “yep, it’s as I feared. I’m afraid the blow has severely damaged his sense of humour.”

Gabriel glared at the mind-mapper. The glaring caused him to wince. The wincing caused him to wince. It was a vicious cycle.

“At least the odds of brain damage are really small!” Vish waited a moment for a reaction but received none, “I mean, they are reeeally small… Because your brain is really sma-ah forget it. I honestly always thought a smack around the head would do you some good, but this is just sad.”

“He cheered up yet?” Lydia asked as she returned to the group, having moved the last of the corpses to a safe distance from their camp, where the wild animals, and worse, could feast in privacy.

After weighing up the pros and cons of speaking when every muscular twitch sent lances of agony across his skull, Gabriel gritted his teeth in preparation for a tirade, “Now listen h-”

The ‘here’ was swallowed along with a mouthful of soup, as Bling took the brief window of opportunity to cram a spoon into Gabriel’s mouth. Actually, most of the contents of the spoon end up on Gabriel’s chin, but Bling was no less enthusiastic. Figo had charged Natasha with the exceptionally important task of making sure that her brother had plenty of food and water. This resonated with Natasha. When it came to protecting Gabriel, something always managed to get through, despite her lapses. Natasha fully acknowledged the gravity of the task, and made an unspoken oath to fulfill her duty with the utmost diligence and zeal. Her brother needed food and water, and he was going to have it, even if she had to drown him.

Gabriel sighed, “Natash-”

Water.

He spluttered and coughed, “You don’t have to-”

Soup.

Gabriel coughed a few carrots back into his hand.

So it continued.

“You know,” Vish considered, “I don’t think we should ever tell her to stop.”

Figo gave Vish a berating look and turned to the redhead, “You’re doing wonderfully Natasha, but perhaps only feed him every few minutes, or when it looks like he is especially thirsty or hungry. He doesn’t appear to have a concussion, so it’s okay to listen to him. I’m sure he’ll tell us what he wants.”

Natasha tried to follow the gist of what Figo said, but multi-tasking wasn’t her strong suit. She looked between the four of them, apprehensive and confused. For a moment she appeared a scared little girl, anxiety visibly eating away at her.

“You’re doing great, Bling,” Vish said slowly and loudly.

She beamed in response, and returned her full attention to Gabriel.

“Don’t talk down to-” Gabriel began, but halted when his sister hooked a spoon towards his flapping mouth, poised to strike.

“And just like that, I do believe everyone is happy,” Vish smiled smugly.

They stayed awake the few hours until morning, sifting through the equipment they had pilfered and generally coming down from their adrenaline fueled evening. At first Gabriel thought they were staying awake out of solidarity, or perhaps to monitor his condition, but Vish dispelled these delusions with frequent complaints about Gabriel’s groans and occasional bouts of feverish murmuring.

When morning came, Lydia and Figo followed the bandit trail back to their camp. They did not have to go far. The bandits appeared to be wanderers, or perhaps a detachment from a larger group. Rather than tents, supplies and firepits, they found soiled bedding and minimal rations. It may not have been the giant haul the mercenaries had been hoping for, but it was more than adequate. Vish actually came close to tears when the hunter and warrior returned with an actual, honest to gods bedroll. Even the minuscule tin pots, that doubled up as both bowl and cup, were a thoroughly welcomed sight, considering how little they had left Gladstone with.

Besides the cooking and camping essentials, they had stripped enough weapons and armour from the corpses to thoroughly outfit their small group, and there were even a few coins to be scrounged as well. Perhaps out of pity, Lydia actually allowed them to keep some of the money this time.

When they made to set out after breakfast, they looked like an entirely different set of people. They were borderline formidable.

Lydia had procured a mace for herself, in case of emergencies, which she fastened to her belt via an iron hoop. Vish took the vicious-looking curved knife, and a small dagger for more mundane tasks. He even broke his normal rule about religiously avoiding menial carrying, and loaded up a backpack with extra blankets and stockings. Figo managed to salvage close to thirty arrows, and a number of daggers. Bling, whether out of desire or revenge, decided to take the short swords her opponent had slashed at her with. Gabriel, despite meek protestations, got politely and unanimously ignored when he asked for a share of the weapons.

Anything deemed non-essential was bundled up and split among them, to be sold when they reached town.

Fed, and somewhat refreshed, the group set out on the road once again. They marched with a spring in their step. They were well stocked, high spirited, and their mouths shared, and ears received, words of pride and encouragement.

That was when they realised they had left Gabriel, and quickly doubled back.

Still kind of fed, and close enough to refreshed, the group set out on the road once again… again. They marched with a bit of a spring in their step. They were well stocked, okay-ish spirited, and their mouths shared, and ears received, well, complaints for the most part. Still, they were on their way again.

After a morning and half an afternoon of taking it in turns to prop Gabriel up under each shoulder, the rest of the team decided that this put them in dangerously close proximity to his tirelessly whining tongue, and fashioned him a litter which could be dragged behind at a suitable, but still vaguely respectable, distance. Out of a mixed sense of guilt and duty, Figo attempted to shoulder the near literal dead weight of his friend for almost an entire day. He eventually relented and allowed Lydia and Natasha to help, and prudently stood by as Lydia beat the minimum requirement for humane assistance out of Vish.

The journey to Ponbus lasted almost three days. It took them close to a full day longer than it should have, with Gabriel in the state he was. There were suspicions that he might be milking it a little, but everyone, save Vish, held their tongue and decided to grin and bear it.

Unsurprisingly, the sight of Ponbus was exceptionally well received.

Ponbus was a peculiarity as far as settlements went. The through traffic was immense, and yet Ponbus itself somehow managed to remain a one-horse town. Actually, it was closer to a one-person town; the population of horses was actually pretty high.

Jandrir was north of and upriver from Ponbus, close to the Iron Mountains (the last bastion of pure-bred elves on the continent, if their propaganda was to be believed). Jandrir bit nicely towards the center of the continent, making it an extremely affluent trading town. With the roads from the rest of the Kaden Circle, Gara, Faiser and Jorna feeding into Jandrir from the West, and the roads from Dbhorin, Sallus, the Impere lands and the Divided Realms webbing towards Jandrir from the East, the Southern river route to the coastal and island nations was by far the least profitable. For some reason, the largely self-sufficient Southern lands just simply had not developed the lust for luxuries rife elsewhere on the continent. Still, trade was trade, and if there was money to be made then some arsehole from Jandrir was going to figure out how to get the most out of it. When it came to the Southern trade route, the Jandriran arsehole in question had been Abel Pontius, and his money-making solution came in the form of his pet project, Ponbus.

Abel Pontius figured out, with the help of a highly educated team of accountants, that ships were pretty expensive. Furthermore, ocean-faring vessels tended to be a little large for rivers, even rivers of such immense size as the Malin. Sure, he could station his ships elsewhere, but owning and maintaining ships when you lived a week’s ride from the coast was just not nearly as fun as advertised. His solution? Let someone else pay for the ships, and instead snap up every horse in a planet sized radius. From there, have a ‘pony patrol’ tow goods along the river on cheap, sketchy, flat-bottomed barges. No fancy sail ships and yachts. No costly clippers and caravels. Just a good, honest, hard-working army of horses and peasants running up and down the bank of the river, day and night, until something unpleasant kills them.

It was this living legacy that the mercenaries were greeted by as they surveyed Ponbus.

On the far side of the river, and a little further up, were piers and warehouses. Here tradeables were loaded onto foreign vessels, ready to make for the sea or the coast. On the nearside, imported goods were collected and piled upon rafts and barges, where they were then dragged by teams of sturdy looking pack horses all the way along the river to Jandrir. It was because of the utilitarian nature of the place that Ponbus had such a small population; traders, pursers and guards all lived in Jandrir. Only the grooms and porters really felt the need to stay. They made the place their own, almost as an extension of the wharves and jetties. There was little enough to entice respectable folk to the place. Sure, there were the barebones of a town here, with a few houses, shops and one or two pubs, but Ponbus was, in essence, half dockyard, half ranch, all horse shit.

“Lovely,” Gabriel declared when someone finally had the foresight to face him the right way.

“All in favour of dropping this one off first?” Lydia said, tipping her head to indicate Gabriel.

Bling and Figo both nodded enthusiastically.

“Wait, let me consult Rodney!” Vish insisted, “Yeah, he’s cool with it.”

Gabriel sighed, “Fine, just put me somewhere quiet.”

Lydia and Bling went to sell the weapons they had gathered, Vish was instructed to negotiate passage to Jandrir, and Figo went to purchase medicinal herbs. This left Gabriel sandwiched between several sweat-soaked porters at the surprisingly named, Hose and Barge, fighting for elbow room and trying to watch four travel bags at once. It was noon, and the morning shift of dock workers had just swapped out for the afternoon shift. To celebrate the end of a hard morning’s work, the porters decided to hit the pub and congregate, near enough, on Gabriel’s lap.

The dock workers were actually quite amicable, and had tried to include Gabriel in their festivities at first. However, when he explained that he had recently received a head injury and would really rather everyone just kept quiet, if they would be ever so kind, they promptly decided he was a boring tosser, and went about telling their raucous stories despite, or maybe to spite, the injured quasi-mercenary.

Gabriel tried to blot out the invasive and offensive sound of people having a good deal more fun than him, but it was to no avail. Ignoring his complaints, they droned on and on about quirky sailors they’d met, fancy goods they’d spied in the crates they were unloading, the quality and quantity of prostitutes at the Jandrir pier, and there was even some croaky old goat singing a ditty about Ruby, and wars long gone by.

“Hang on a moment,” Gabriel thought aloud.

His ears twitched as he tried to relocate the sound. Yes, Gabriel hadn’t imagined it. Someone was singing about the Ruby conquests. It was an ancient ballad, one he’d heard long ago, but the details now escaped him. Given their recent run-in with Tulcetar, Gabriel figured a refresher wouldn’t go amiss. He pulled his fists from his eyes, momentarily blinded as motes crackled across his vision, and tried to scan the pub for the owner of that gods awful voice.

“… born of the aether, bolder than most…”

Behind him? No. Left?

“… from coast to coast. He warred and he scorched…”

Left, yes, but moving.

“… worlds were torched. This child of the never…”

Gabriel got shakily to his feet and sought anyone moving in the crowd.

“… before time was made. He was always alone…”

There. A withered old man was patting men gregariously on the shoulder as he passed from table to table.

“… from the aether, he poured them in stone…”

Hoisting himself off of the bench, using the protesting men on either side for support, Gabriel disentangled himself from the table and limped as quickly as his injured leg allowed towards the warbling patron.

“… friends and soldiers, like him - some real gems - he sculpted and crafted dragonborn men…”

The old man was moving away.

“Excuse me. Sorry. Pardon me,” Gabriel spouted as he slid and squeezed through the crowd, “Sorry. Apologies. Would you be so kind as to bugger off?”

“… his commanders and generals assembled at last…”

“Seriously, please, I need to hear this, I. Oh, for goodness sake. You there, old man!”

The man briefly turned towards Gabriel, but quickly dismissed the phantom voice and resumed his rounds.

“… tremendous blast…”

He was getting further away, Gabriel realised in despair.

Gabriel decided to try a different tactic. The barkeep was making rounds, and crossed Gabriel’s path with an empty tray, on his way back to the bar from one of the long tables. Gabriel elbowed the bearded man to get his attention, a little harder than he meant to.

“You there, um, my good man,” Gabriel chucked a pair of silvers onto the barman’s tray, and was met with a raised eyebrow, “Can you clear me a path to that old geezer over there? The one that’s been strangling out an offensive attempt at a song,” he smirked congenially.

The barkeep scooped up the coins and folded his arms over his chest, “You’re the sod who was shouting bloody murder in my pub. What do you want with our minstrel?”

“Your minstrel? Gods, really? I mean, the song he’s singing, I want to hear it,” Gabriel faltered, “It’s, just, ever so good.”

The bearded barkeep stroked his black beard with his free hand, “Might be that I’m also in the mood for a song or two, if I don’t have to worry so much about my paying customers,” he extended the platter once more.

Gabriel pursed his lips, but he’d made the decision long before he thought about it. He deposited two more silvers on the plate, looked up at the barkeep hopefully, sighed, and then deposited two more.

Once again, the bartender slid the coins off the tray and folded his arms.

For a moment, Gabriel was afraid that was all the bartender was going to do, but finally he opened his mouth and his lungs and bellowed out over the crowd.

“Listen up, river rats, I’ve got a hankering for a little music, so keep it down. All of you!” the crowd went obediently quiet at the barkeep’s behest. When the ambient noise had been downgraded from din to murmur, the bartender addressed the minstrel, “Morcombe, what you singing there?”

At the sound of his name the old man looked up and blinked, “Oh, The Eve of the Obsidian Wars, if it pleases.”

“Grand, take it from the top, will you,” the barman said. Then, with a wiggle of his nose like he had caught a whiff of something foul, the bartender gave Gabriel a last glance, and went on his way.

Gabriel stepped into the channel the bartender created and edged closer to the minstrel, who had found himself a little space and was readying to perform.

“Hang on, hang on,” a voice called from the crowd, “we had Obsidian Wars already. Sing us a different one, Morcombe.”

“No!” Gabriel squeaked, finally attracting some attention, “I mean, I really want to hear that one.”

A ropey man with a shaved head stood up nearby. It was clear that he had been the speaker, and even clearer that he was used to getting his way.

“Tough shit, city boy,” he snarled, “Morcombe, sing Delilah’s Daisies.”

“Oh, come on! Are you really going to have him sing a children’s lullaby just to spite me?”

There were a few sharp intakes of breath.

Gabriel noted the shocked expressions and recognized this as a good time to back pedal, “Oh, you mean Delilah’s Daisies? I thought you meant, um, err. Oh, screw it. Here, I can pay! Obsidian Wars, Morcombe, thank you kindly,” Gabriel threw a handful of random coins at the minstrel’s feet. His heart lurched when he spotted a shimmer of gold in amongst the pile.

Morcombe’s eyebrows were levitating above his head.

“Fucking spoilt brat, coming in here and throwing his money around like he owns the place,” the lithe porter spat.

“I am clearly older than you.”

The porter ignored him, “If that’s the way it’s going to be, so be it. Our coin is just as good as yours,” the man threw in a few coins of his own. Actually, he threw in a good deal fewer, but the effect was no less dramatic.

Morcombe’s eyeballs hit the floor seconds before his hands did. The old minstrel scrabbled for the coins shamelessly. It seemed pretty clear to Gabriel that this was not a man used to having money thrown at him to sing.

“Seriously? What was that, a handful of coppers? Gods, here!” Gabriel said as he, perhaps a little caught up in the moment, threw another batch of coins into the kitty.

The porter was breathing as hard as a set of bellows now.

“Boys, Coin!” he ordered.

The young men at his table fished around in their pockets and pouches and found a smattering of coins to rain down on the stooping minstrel.

“Really mature! Honestly. You know what, fine, fine. I can double, no, triple that petty offering of, of… Oh,” Gabriel chased phantom coins around his purse, “It appears I, uh, hmm. Can I just get a few of those back?”

Gabriel crouched next to the minstrel and tried to retrieve some of the proffered coins.

A boot came down on the gold he was reaching for.

Gabriel’s gaze followed the shabby boot up passed a nobbled knee, beyond a sturdy torso, to a toothless smile.

“I think it’s time you left, city boy.”