XII. Clarissa’s Ransom

“Would you slow down? I can’t keep your pace without tripping over roots and—!” The woman let out a shriek as a root snagged her foot and nearly toppled her.

“For Dawn’s sake, woman! Shut the hell up already!” Her male companion barked in irritation.

The Wraith Wood was an ancient forest from the time of the collapse, a maze of gnarled trees with sagging branches laden with great mossy beards. The sky was invisible beneath the thick canopy and gave a sense of late evening even at midday. The forest floor was carpeted with dead and rotting tree trunks, ivy, and ferns. The thick roots jutted out of the ground like limbs, poised to trip the unsuspecting traveler, wrapping themselves around the boulders and stones of a long-lost city that littered the uneven ground. There was no clear route through the forest; one just tried to maintain a straight line through the tangled wood and hoped to reach the other side.

The woman paused to put her dirty silk slipper back on her battered feet while the man continued without her. She hopped after him as she tried to put her slipper back on and tripped over a log with a startled yelp. Still, the man continued on, ignoring her dilemma.

“Ransom! Wait!” She commanded between whimpers as she struggled to her feet.

Her gown, once elegant in shades of violet and pink, hung close to accentuate her curves; was now tattered and stained from their journey through the woods. Her hair was a bright pink and done in loose curls and spiraling pigtails, adorned with multi-colored ribbons, many of which had since fallen free. Ransom had no doubt that she was following some new fad of Duvachellé high society. In her right hand was a scepter mounted with a bright blue jewel. She had the haughty air of a socialite, despite being a lowly nun in The Order, with the wide hips and full bust of a common woman. Sister Clarissa was not quite the pious, quiet nun he had expected when he took the job. What he expected was some silent sister in need of a bodyguard to wherever she was going. What he got was an obnoxious prima donna with dreams of the aristocracy.

Ransom sighed and produced a hand-rolled cigarette from his pocket as he sat upon a decaying log. He searched his leather vest for a means to light it as the woman continued to struggle with her slippers.

His shoulder length silver hair was greasy from weeks in the forest, his gambeson was flat black, torn and soiled from years of use. His eyes were the color of smoke and his skin was so pale as to nearly be translucent, a common trait in the Morlocks of Ithania and Thiudoricus.

He unslung and unrolled his cloak, which had served as a rucksack, and searched for a match with mounting frustrations. Aside from the dwindling supplies, there was no way to light a fire. He struck his boot on a root and he swore aloud. Their time in the wood was trying to say the least, between the indecipherable labyrinth and the shadows that one could not so easily dismiss as tricks of the mind, it was a wonder he had not snapped long ago. He had heard tales of the Wraith Wood but never put much stock into it; and if he made it out alive he would not be returning.

Beneath the roots and ferns were fragments of the crumbled stone known as tarmac. The ruins of an ancient city lay scattered around them, swallowed up by the forest shortly after the collapse. He briefly considered checking to see if they held anything worth looting, but dismissed the thought upon remembering that there was no guarantee that he would get out alive with his haul.

He turned back to the makeshift ruck and his fire dilemma. Clarissa wiped the remains of the mascara from her eyes off on her torn glove, revealing her big light brown eyes, bloodshot and tired, unobstructed. Her makeup had run a long time ago, and stained her face with black smears under the eyes. She wiped the last of the rouge from her flushed cheeks with her shawl before looking up to scowl at Ransom for staring.

“You wouldn’t know how to make fire with that thing would ya?” Ransom finally asked in desperation.

“Members of The Order are not permitted to practice the ‘Asketillian’ forms of sorcery,” she said matter-of-factly.

Ransom wiped his brow with his shirtsleeve. “Do you, or don’t you? By the Light, I swear…”

She marched over and nearly tripped over a root in the process. “I’ve told you before; don’t use such language in my presence! It’s not only crude and offensive, but blasphemous as well!”

Ransom smiled for the first time in weeks as he found a solitary match in a pouch on his hip. Lighting his cigarette, he happily exhaled a great cloud of grey smoke, tingling as if it were his first hit ever. More appropriately, his last, given their current situation. He gazed off into the wall of gnarled trees and wished he had never taken this job. The flier made it seem easy enough: “Escort Nun to Nassica.” With the armies of Xanavene fast approaching, there were plenty of other contracts for him to take up. There was a war going on; he could have just as easily hired his services out to any nation in Runandia or Briternica.

Clarissa snatched his cigarette and took two hits, holding it daintily between her once manicured fingers as she spoke. “So how much further?”

Ransom groaned; this was the twentieth time she had asked that day, and Dawn knew how many times throughout the entirety of the trip.

“Clarissa, I’ve said it once. I’ve said it twice. I’ve said it ten fucking thousand times! We are lost, have been lost for nearly a fortnight and so shall we remain for as long as you insist upon asking me how much fucking further we have to go!” Ransom reached for his cigarette, but she held it out of reach.

“I did not say ‘fucking,’ Ransom. Don’t start putting words in my mouth, that’ll be slander, and I’ll not be slanderized.” She took a long hit before Ransom could snatch half a cigarette from her glossed lips.

“Why the hell do you need to go to Nassica anyway?” Ransom looked at his cigarette with disappointment before taking a hit.

“Because the Steward of Duvachellé, Duke Laelianus, being the brilliant man that he is, has surmised that the fiend Osric seeks to open the Black Gate at Therion. I am to warn them of this threat. He received word from his spies in Catharone that a certain object was taken from the temple in Alighieri at the start of the war. It was simple for him to analyze the fiend’s marching route and come to that conclusion.”

It was obvious that the woman was playing parrot to someone else’s words. Ransom wondered if this Duke thought she was as annoying as he did. He probably kept her around for a good fuck. Light knows she would be utterly incompetent as a nun. She knew little to nothing about The Order and its mission in Silex.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” She demanded, covering her chest. “I suggest you dismiss any and all such thinking as most likely is going through your mind this instant.” She clutched her shawl about her chest in response to his still roving eyes.

“Shut up,” he snapped. “What I mean is why didn’t he take you himself?”

“Because a duke’s place is with his troops at the capital. What if Osric invaded whilst he was away? Can you imagine what it would do to his reputation?”

Ransom flicked his last cigarette, still unsatisfied. His stomach growled as he sneered. All of his misfortune could be traced back to the day he accepted this little escort mission. He should have known something was wrong the first day, when he met the good nun, but he was hard up for cash and decided just to go with it against his gut instinct. In retrospect, the two hundred Draper advance was hardly worth it.

“Well, you better be able to do something, cuz were outta food, and I haven’t a bow to hunt with.”

Clarissa snorted as if he were a simpleton. “Then use your sword.”

Ransom wanted to explain how such a thing was impossible, but instead rose and stalked off. Winning an argument with Clarissa was also impossible. After no more than twenty paces, she began to whine and complain anew, demanding he stop. As always, he gritted his teeth and complied, thinking of ways to abandon his charge.

* * *

The festivities of three nights prior had taken their toll on the elves, setting them back a day as they recovered from hangovers. After a leisurely march, much to Aichlan’s displeasure, they finally reached the Wraith Wood. The wood was notoriously difficult to navigate and Aichlan attempted in vain to propose an alternate route, but the Colby-Nau were adamant that their people had made the trek countless times before and he conceded to their judgment. The trick, he had been told, was to move only in straight lines and right angles. The wood was a labyrinth that grew over the remains of an ancient city from long before the collapse, with its maze-like streets and collapsed structures winding into the center of the wood.

As the group stepped under the darkened canopy of the ancient forest, a sense of dread and foreboding overcame him. The overgrown and rutted tarmac road that lead into the forest soon gave way to stone and gnarled roots eager to trip all foolish enough to enter. Several metal signs jutted from trees that had grown around them, covered in rust and lichen. As they progressed, the slog became even more difficult as ancient monoliths, toppled in some war millennia before, blocked their path, or ancient timbers walled them into a non-linear course.

Aichlan was reminded of the story of a lost expedition that a group of Aes Sidhe gentry undertook several years ago. While the northern half of the wood was passably tamed, due in part to some king of Duvachellé, who centuries past commissioned a road through the section of the forest that his kingdom encompassed, the southern half was largely uncharted. These noble men of Aes Sidhe sought to replicate his feat for the southern half; but whereas Duvachellé accomplished this task with mage fire and heavy siege engines, these Aes Sidhean noblemen set out armed only with a spirit of adventure and a misguided quest for fame and glory. Nothing is known of their ultimate fate, but it was speculated that they followed the path of least résistance and spent the last of their days in the labyrinth that is the forests heart.

This wood had claimed many such expeditions into the lands west of the Sorn peninsula; most were said driven mad by the phantoms believed to reside here. Many maps of the continent still leave the lands west of the forest as a blank spot or mark it with the symbol used before the collapse to warn of the fallout sickness plague.

* * *

After marching in a decidedly un-straight line, it was finally conceded by Kielan that they were lost. Aichlan was in a foul mood due to the lost time, and the elves were equally upset due to the lack of bandits. The group traveled in silence, lest tempers flare in the confined maze of old and gnarled trees. If Fiora and Alice were aware of the tensions, they did not show it as they trudged on through the undergrowth. Fiora’s armor had been reworked to be less bulky, the leather replaced with rawhide root, a substance that can be woven like cotton but had the strength and durability of leather. Ashe had also done her best to bang out the dents, insisting that the castle smiths were hacks and it was a wonder the piece took as much of a beating as it had.

Aichlan had taken to sparring with her whenever the chance arose—she was surprisingly agile and eager to learn. Far from the subpar dueling skills she displayed back in Nole, but nothing extraordinary either. Her greatest strength was her resolve and determination. No doubt she was used to having to surpass expectations in a male dominated unit, or perhaps she was eager to impress him due to the name and title he held. Either way, she was not as much of a liability as he had initially thought. Still, he was loath to leave the protection of Alice to her and her alone, despite the young mages insistence.

Speaking of Alice, she was a different story altogether—her worth could not truly be evaluated until something was done about her eyesight. He was pleased to see that she didn’t require the pampering that others of her upbringing would have likely demanded, though given that her cousin the King was a rough and tumble sort of man, it wasn’t too surprising.

They eventually reached a small clearing beneath two overgrown towering ruins and several equally ancient trees. Kielan motioned for one of his men to climb to the top of the structures, likely to see if they can get a bearing on where they were. Eth ambled over and offered Aichlan a flask, which he gladly took.

“Place was wrought by Sidhe magic’s. If we weren’t so afraid o’ bein’ cursed I’d ah personally set the blasted place tae fire.”

Aichlan handed Eth back his flask, which he took and wandered off before he could respond. Aichlan shielded his eyes as he looked up to see the men climbing the tower. He let out a whistle in amazement and turned back to join the others who had begun to ground their gear.

“We set up camp here for now. Aichlan, Ashe,” Kielan said and motioned for his lieutenants.

Aichlan and Ashe joined him in a clearing littered with fallen trees.

“Good news an’ bad news, lads,” Kielan began.

“Better’n no news at all, I s’pose,” Ashe added.

“Bad news, we’re hopelessly lost in a wood infamous fer ensnaring unwary holidaymakers. We were unwary.”

“I believe ye were the o’er anxious one, brother. Can’t get the thought o’ that farm lasses minge from oot yer head?”

Kielan’s younger brother Cinaéd was usually soft spoken, Aichlan had only exchanged a handful of words with him since the journey began, and it was kind of a surprise to hear him speak.

“Ye know what, Cinaéd? I’m ‘bout sick o’ yer shit,” Kielan responded in jest. “And at least I got the memory o’ something be’er than this.” He said as he made a quick jerking motion with his hand.

At least his spirits were high, Aichlan thought.

“Well, what’s the good part?” Aichlan asked somewhat impatiently.

Eth smiled, baring his fang-like canines. “I smell me’al.”

Aichlan had learned that Eth’s nose was unsurpassed in accuracy and sensitivity. Eth had also been in the most battles outside of the normal tribal infighting, mostly involving their elemental cousins in Alfheim or being hassled by the Sorn highway patrolmen when they travelled through the kingdom.

“What like ore?” Aichlan asked, still quite confused.

“No, mate, this is the me’al o’ weapons an’ armor. Won’t be no ore in this wood.”

Someone, or something, rustled the bushes behind them and the group abruptly stood and drew weapons. An elderly man in red and white habit of a bishop ambled over to the stunned group, beaming beneath his coarse goatee. Aichlan cursed under his breath and stiffly dropped to his knee, making the Sign of the Dawn with his hands, his head bowed in respect. The man’s long black dreadlocks identified him as a Eurithanian, not to mention his brown skin was relatively rare in Runandia, aside from a few of the elves.

“Rise, my son, the journey’s just begun.” The man responded in traditional greeting as he anointed Aichlan’s forehead with oil he kept in a crystal vial.

Aichlan rose and bowed again; the man wore the emblem of the Morning Star upon his chest and ring. Priests of the Morning Star operated independently of The Order; some even speculated that they held more power and influence than even the Priestess Renata, being tasked with keeping the first Renata’s teaching consistently applied and interpreted through the ages. They were more commonly known as keepers of lore and responsible for finding each incarnation of the Priestess. They typically never travelled far from their temples, making it odd to find one out here in the middle of the Wraith Wood. Suspicious even.

He stroked his goatee as he considered Aichlan’s confusion with amusement. “Well aren’t you a fortunate one? Or perhaps cursed?”

“Pardon, Your Grace?” Aichlan asked puzzled.

“No matter my boy.” He chuckled and clasped Aichlan genially by the shoulder. “It is just that I do not know what is more puzzling, my presence here or your present company.”

The elves put away their weapons, disappointed that it was not an enemy. The recent bandit skirmish had ignited some fire and lust for battle within them. Aichlan wondered if it was simply cultural, or if there were something more to it. Ashe seemed to agree that it made little sense, but even as a blacksmith she was more battle hardened than many men he had served with.

“Could Eth be losing his touch?” Kielan teased.

“Humph. Nae likely, ‘e ain’t what I smelled.”

The bishop took a seat on a chunk of rubble. “You must have smelled the armor of Osric’s men.”

“His army is here!” Adrenaline and painful memories flooded Aichlan’s senses.

“No, my child, merely the advance scouting party. But tell me, why is the Priestess’ personal guard so far from her? I doubt you took that uniform from some poor unfortunate soul.”

Aichlan blushed, embarrassed at his own failure and impatience to receive news on Osric’s movements. He hastily recounted the tale as the bishop listened intently. He even patiently abided Kielan and Cinaéd’s bickering on whom was more valorous in the last battle.

“Well then, Aichlan, it seems we can be of assistance to one another. I, too, am making my way to Duvachellé. As for Osric’s men, they no doubt came seeking those with whom I was supposed to meet. I fear they may already be lost; it’s been far too long.”

“Then you know the way out of this cursed wood?” Aichlan asked, a glimmer of hope forming on his horizons.

“Of course.” The bishop regarded him as if he were a child asking a self-explanatory question. “Move only at right angles and straight lines. You’ll get out eventually. Don’t tell me you’re lost?”

The elves groaned behind him as this was, in fact, knowledge they already held, though it was easier said than done. Aichlan wondered how it was that they navigated the forest in the first place.

“I am afraid so, Your Grace,” Aichlan said as he bowed his head.

The bishop held up a hand, pulling a pipe from his sleeve and placing it in his mouth. “Please, call me Leucetius. Or Cetius, whichever is your preference.”

Aichlan introduced the others of the group; they were more interested in the prospect of combat however and did not pay him much mind. Aichlan did not doubt their skill, having witnessed it firsthand, but his own experience taught him to be wary of those that actively seek combat and bloodshed.

“I left Nassica shortly after the invasion; Duke Laelianus had some vital information regarding Osric’s tactics. I waited for my contacts in Sorn, but that kingdom was overrun, and I was forced to seek them out myself. I was to meet my contact and return to Marquez, but it seems she has become lost and Osric is aware of her mission.”

“Who is she, Your Gr—excuse me—Cetius?”

The bishop was silent for several moments as he visually took stock of Aichlan and his companions.

“A sister named Clarissa. She is an odd one, I’m told. She serves directly in the palace rather than a convent like other nuns in the area.” Cetius pointed his pipe at Aichlan. “A proficient healer though. She was in service of the King, a man at death’s door for several moons. She seemed to have made progress in his convalescence, last I heard anyway. Strange that he should choose to send her…”

Aichlan noticed the Bishops shifting eyes and his conspiratorial tone struck Aichlan as odd. He got the feeling that this man was trying to insinuate something; he had a slightly mischievous and fanciful manner to him, though he mumbled and spoke more into his pipe than anyone in particular. It was common for those of The Order that seclude themselves from the rest of the world to be a bit eccentric, yet Aichlan doubted it was merely idle self-talk. The man’s eyes were far too sharp and intelligent for that.

Cetius scratched his head as he pondered the situation, only stopping his inward monologue as he became aware of Aichlan’s gaze. “So, what do you say to an allegiance of sorts?” He directed his question at the elves; Aichlan had no choice in the matter, though he would have assisted regardless. “I can’t face those soldiers alone, and it seems you won’t be able to leave this forest without my assistance.”

“I say it sounds like extortion to me,” Eth grumbled.

Cestius laughed heartily. “So it does, so it does! But I assure you, that is not my intention. I had only assumed you children of Rhode enjoyed the thrill of battle. If not, I’m sure Grandmaster Aichlan and I can manage…”

“When the flames o’ Rhode freeze over an’ her mines yield nae ore!” Eth spat in response.

“Excellent!” Cestius said as he rose, bracing his knees as old men often do. “Oh, and before I forget, the Lady Renata was secreted away to the temple at Therion. It is unlikely that she will be pursued to so remote a place. Unless of course they share the same destination…" He chuckled, "that would be, most unfortunate.”

Aichlan bowed, relieved at the news, though curious as to the man’s morbid sense of humor. The isle of Therion was an isolated place at the edge of the Sea of Sorrow, and, unless Osric had an Aes Sidhean ship and crew, he would never be able to reach them.

“Thank you, Bishop Cestius.” Aichlan made the Sign of the Dawn,crossing his chest with his thumb from nipple to nipple and back with a semi-circle to form a sun cresting the horizon.

“Don’t thank me yet, child, especially with this madman on the loose.” Cetius waved for Aichlan to rise.

He had already begun to think of tactics for the inevitable confrontation. If the soldiers were still actively searching, it was safe to assume that Sister Clarissa had yet to be captured, and it would be wisest to avoid the enemy altogether. If they could manage a prisoner, the intelligence gained would be too great to ignore, assuming they could manage with such small numbers.

“How many are we to expect, Your Grace?” Aichlan asked, attempting in vain to keep his hope in check.

“Hmm, I’d say a company or two, nowhere near a battalion, but quite a few nonetheless.” The bishop re-lit his pipe as he spoke, pausing to try to recall as much detail as he could.

“I can’t be certain, but I’m sure that they’ll have snipers and trackers, those sorts that specialize in this sort of operation. Essentially anyone good at hunting and or killing in fucked up terrain such as this.”

“I, I see.” Aichlan said, taken aback by the bishop’s language.

The elves began to grow excited, no doubt wishing to run in slashing wildly, a tactic not suited for the confines of the forest, or a trained military. Including Leucetius and himself, Aichlan’s group consisted of only twenty-eight men and women. One company was likely to top one hundred men easy, let alone two. The only thing in their favor was that it was more likely a unit of specialty troops, hunters or their ilk rarely worked in large groups; therefore, their numbers could be less. It was unlikely that a large force would be dispatched for a single nun, even if she did have an entourage, especially in this choked terrain. Yet given his experience at Arlien, he assumed Osric was one to use outrageous amounts of force for small operations, so one never knew what he would authorize.

Aichlan turned his attention to what he recalled of Xanavien tactics that he had encountered in Arlien. The soldiers were mostly minimally skilled, relying on armor and horde tactics for victory. That most likely accounted for his vast numbers. Where most armies take a year minimum to train a soldier that spends a lifetime mastering his or her art, Xanavene most likely grabbed whatever peasant, vagabond, and farmer they could, stuck a pike in their hands, and taught them to march in formation.

“Our best option would to be play on the terrain and the element of surprise. Osric’s army usually rushes and swarms its targets. If we can turn the tables and ambush them, we could use their confusion to our advantage. Not only will they not be aware of our actual numbers, we could use the night as concealment.”

“I daen’t like it, fighting in the dark works to both of oor disadvantages.” Cinaéd objected.

“Agreed.” Kielan added to Aichlan’s surprise. “If this Osric likes tae ambush, we should be able to maintain the same element o’ surprise if we do the same. We needn’t lay in wait like thieves when we can rush ‘em now and end it.”

“Their numbers more’n double oor own,” Eth calmly stated.

Aichlan thought he did a double-take, thinking he had misheard, Ashe stood with mouth ajar, equally shocked at his sudden rationality. Eth was the most vicious of them all, during the attack in Nole he charged through the streets like a madman hacking and slashing all that got in his way. It was largely due to him that the city burnt to the ground.

“We can take away their element o’ surprise, leaving only their numbers. Our skill far surpasses that o’ their awn. O’ this I’m fairly fuckin’ certain.” Eth continued, ignoring the mumbled comments and stares.

“Right, yes, that’s exactly what I was getting at,” Aichlan mumbled in surprise, still reeling from the shock. “We can break their ranks, and, in their confusion, discipline will crumble. It will be no difficult task to sweep through and dispatch of the fleeing soldiers as we take several officers prisoner.”

“Hmm, a sound plan.” Cestius nodded approvingly. “It is imperative that we gain all the knowledge we can about troop movements and actual numbers.”

“And what if they daen’t talk?” Cinaéd added.

“Then we convince them it would be in their best interest to comply.” Aichlan said flatly, looking Cinaéd directly in the eyes.

Eth barked a short burst of laughter, obviously thrilled with the idea.

“I condone neither torture nor sneak attacks,” Kielan said after a moment of tense silence. “But it seems that desperate steps must be taken by desperate blokes.”

Kielan folded his hands together before his face, looking at each member of his council before he continued. “Aichlan, I leave this operation in yer hands. Ye make any necessary arrangements and I’ll make sure they get done.”

Aichlan nodded his thanks, trying not to return Ashe’s infectious smile. “I’d like to set up a roaming guard, rotating every two to three hours.”

Kielan gestured to Cinaéd.

“I’ll prepare a roster.” Cinaéd said as he nodded in acquiescence and returned to the camp.

“I’d like for us to be broken down into squads, to better portray the illusion of greater numbers when we attack from multiple directions. I shall lead one; I will leave the other two slots to your discretion Kielan.”

“Alright then, Eth, ye take one and I got the other.”

Eth nodded, the wheels already turning in his head as to how he would proceed.

“An’ who will ye command, Aichlan?

Aichlan knew he had to take Fiora; she was shaping up beyond anyone’s expectations, though still a little rough around the edges. As for Alice, he did not even know where to begin with her; he would take her just to keep an eye on her. However, he would need a second in command, he knew whom he would choose, but did not want to be too obvious in his choosing.

“Ashe,” he blurted out before he had a chance to catch himself.

Kielan nodded as if he did not expect any other answer. Aichlan debated on his next two choices, but knew they were also a necessity.

“As well as Fiora and Alice.”

Kielan was surprised, but also visibly relieved. The elves were wary of the two women, especially Alice, and did not want to be held responsible should something happen to them.

“Fine, I’ll take Cole an’ his lot,” Eth said as he counted their numbers off on his hand.

Out of the twenty-eight, twelve were tasked out, including the leaders, leaving sixteen free agents. Eth had six already, Aichlan had three, and so far, Kielan had chosen no one.

“I’ll take Cinaéd, of course. What is that, sixteen left?”

“Yeah. What ‘bout him?” Eth said, nodding to Cestius.

“I’ll join Aichlan’s team if that is agreeable. I assume you will be initiating the attack correct?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Good!" Kielan stood, not altogether thrilled with the idea and eager to get it over with. "Me an Eth’ll sort the rest out later, make things nice and even like.”

Aichlan was relieved, this way no one was forced to join his squad that was not exactly pleased with the idea. Kielan would be ultimately responsible for telling them he was in charge. Aichlan considered his second choices: he was right to be worried about Alice, but his apprehension regarding Fiora was unfounded. She was a soldier of Sorn, therefore well qualified. She certainly couldn’t have gotten as far as she did based on her good looks alone. She walked with her head held up; her eyes were set in determination, even when facing daunting challenges or criticisms. She went above and beyond in any task given to her, likely a habit from her old unit. Aichlan’s own experience was that women were regularly underestimated in the military; they constantly had to prove a woman’s worth on the battlefield to their colleagues. He himself had done this on occasion, though hopefully he was not too set in his ways.

In a way, it made her that much stronger, though Aichlan was still guilty of his own prejudices, and may have inadvertently coddled her a bit too much on occasion. Though his intentions were good, he hoped he had not offended her. Alice was a different case altogether. Though her magic was indeed powerful, she lacked the accuracy to match. He would have to think of some use for her that did not require the frontlines or precision.

Across the makeshift camp, word of the upcoming battle had spread quickly; many took the opportunity to prepare, while others snored away on bedrolls in the various nooks and dips of the forest floor. Aichlan plopped down his mat upon soft, mossy soil between two massive gnarled roots. Ashe curled up next to him as he stared at the canopy, draping her arm across his chest as she nuzzled up to him. He felt the familiar warmth emanating from her; he tensed, feeling a pang of guilt. Every day he felt more guilt for growing attached to his traveling companions, especially for growing closer to betraying his love for Renata.

“Do I make ye uncomfortable?” She asked sadly.

“No,” Aichlan admitted, “no, Ashe, I’m just afraid of hurting you.”

“Then daen’t.” Ashe tightened her grip and closed her eyes to sleep, though Aichlan suspected it was to fight back tears.

* * *

Ransom watched as Clarissa slept, waiting until he was certain that she was soundly asleep. Darkness had swiftly descended upon the forest, casting eerie shadows in the dying light; it was not hard for one to imagine how it came to be named the Wraith Wood.

Clarissa’s loud snoring wracked Ransom’s nerves, furthering his resolve to do what he felt needed to be done. She had often woken him up complaining that his snores had kept her awake, when most likely she had just woken herself. He silently crept over to her resting place atop his cloak and rations, lifting her head from it delicately and placing it back down on a new pillow of moss and soil. He hesitated before placing the dwindling rations at her side and donned his cloak. He nearly retched at the scent of her perfume, which now permeated the fabric. He glanced longingly at the rations but forced himself to look away. He was willing to risk escaping this dreaded wood without aid of what little food they had left as long as he did not have her in tow. All he had to do was walk in a straight line and he would make his way out somewhere, somehow.

Ransom hesitated as he departed and considered turning back for the supplies; she was going to die here regardless after all, and it made more sense for him to take them with him. Clarissa snorted and shifted, trying to gain some comfort in her bed of dirt. Not willing to test his luck any further, he skulked away, wrapped in the black cloak. When he gained sufficient distance, he broke into a sprint. A smile crossed his lips as he thought of the quietness to come. No more complaining, no more stopping every twenty paces to catch her breath or find her blasted slipper! No more ignorant remarks spoken as gospel truths, and most importantly, he would not have to look upon her absurd pink hair or smell her too-flowery perfume. He tried not to think of the inevitable, the slow death by starvation she would suffer. Hopefully, some wild beast would pick her off before that happened.