Chapter Four – Perils of the Road
Elriza woke the next morning to the sound of panic, a boiling commotion of frightened cries and nervous murmurs that swept across the camp like the tide. She rolled to her feet before understanding could finish piercing the fog of her thoughts, one hand snatching up her axe as the other lowered the blearily protesting G'raha to the ground. There was no time to don her armour, nor to plan and implement any coordinated response, so after a moment spent orientating herself Elriza settled on long practiced habit and ran towards the screams.
It wasn't hard to discover the cause. Sometime before dawn a small group of wanderers had come upon the convoy, and now they were standing on a small rise just the other side of the road giving the camp looks that ranged from considering to downright predatory. There were only three of them, but that was small comfort when each stood a full head taller than Elriza and twice as broad, vast slabs of flabby tissue laid over a monstrous core of solid muscle. Truthfully, they reminded her somewhat of the Gigants of her homeland, save for the difference in fashion. These giants did not bear the chains and helmets of the enslaved Hecatoncheires, nor the rune-marked tattoos of the wandering Gigas, but instead wrapped themselves in vibrant orange fabric and flowing red silk, with slashed doublets and feathered caps.
The roegadyn slowed to an ambling walk as she laid eyes on them, and though she could not fairly claim to understand what she was looking at, the frightened whispers of the refugees provided more than enough context. 'Ogre', they said, 'monster' and 'maneater'. Were such words true, or mere expectation spoken as if they were fact? The ogres had yet to attack either way, and so they deserved a chance to speak. With that in mind, Elriza stepped up onto the smooth flagstones of the road and rested her axe across one broad shoulder. A challenge and an invitation all in one.
The trio of ogres seemed to confer for a moment, and then one of them stepped forward to meet her. His beetle-black eyes sized her up, comparing her relative size and the humble nature of her vest and underwear to his own bulk and magnificent apparel, and with a toothy grin he swept the massive poofy hat from his head and affected something akin to a bow.
"Thurgredd Heartseizer, gentleman adventurer, at your service," he said with a low and throaty chuckle, straightening up and running one calloused hand down his long and stringy beard.
"Elriza Kurwyn, Warrior of Light," she replied, studying him cooly. The frilled sleeves of his shirt were stained with blood and other unmentionable substances, and there was no disguising the hunger in his eyes. "You have business here?"
"No, no, business was done days ago. We're heading back to town, now, the lads and I," Thurgredd said in a companionable sort of way, nodding to her, "but as it happens, we're a bit peckish after the march. Seeing as you've got a nice herd here, how'd you fancy helping us with breakfast?"
Elriza blinked, entirely thrown, and with a wiggle of his eyebrows Thurgredd glanced at something behind her. She turned, still confused, and frowned when she realised that he wasn't looking at the oxen or their small pile of supplies, but rather at a small group of… children…
"Walk away," said the Warrior of Light, in the same voice that once passed judgement on gods, "right now."
Thurgredd shrugged, seemingly unsurprised, and with deliberate ease turned away and lumbered back across to join his comrades on the far side of the hill. Elriza watched him go, hand wrapped so tight around the haft of her axe that the metal creaked softly in protest. Children. He would dare to prey on children. He would dare to ask, imagine that she might, that she would ever…
The ogres turned and began to charge.
Began, because Elriza was waiting for them. Because as they turned, she was in motion. Because as their feet hit the ground, she was upon them. Because as Thurgredd Heartseizer opened his mouth and began to roar, the Warrior of Light was before him, axe in her hands and something more and less than mortal staring out at him from behind a pair of stale yellow eyes. Flesh tore, blood boiled, and with a sound like a timber saw through wet cloth the ogre came apart like a rotten oak. Chunks of meat rained across the cobblestone, and an arcing splash of viscera a dozen paces long painted the grass red.
For a moment Elriza stood there, motionless, soaked in blood and haloed by the burning light that gathered around her axe. Then she turned, with dreadful slowness, and looked upon the remaining ogres. The first looked at her, and then at his brother… and then he shrugged and returned his club to the hook on his belt.
"Fair enough," he said, bending down and grabbing hold of a ruined chunk of meat that had mere moments ago been his comrade in arms, "thanks for the breakfast, yeah?"
Elriza blinked, lowering her axe, and watched in baffled silence as the two remaining ogres grabbed what they care to carry from the viscera and ambled back off down the road. Some part of her urged her to go after them, to end the threat they might pose to some other traveller tomorrow or the day after, but she refrained. She was not so far gone as to take life with such contempt, even on her worst day. So she watched in silence until the ogres were out of sight, then exhaled and turned back to the camp.
"Taal bless you miss!"
She'd been expecting fear, or perhaps awestruck deference, for such had ever been the response from those who saw for the first time what her trade and title involved, but not today. Today the refugees looked at her with joy in their eyes and admiration in their hearts, and as she approached the gathering, they cheered and applauded and showered her with praise.
"I, uh, thank you?" she managed, utterly wrong-footed, and it was the sight of G'raha chuckling at her discomfort that brought her through it, "Pack up the camp, and we'll get underway."
"You'll want to wash first," an old dame called, to cackles of amusement from her extended family, "you reek of blood and shit!"
Flushing, Elriza went in search of a private stretch of river, and with laughter and good cheer the refugees packed up and prepared to move. The high mood persisted throughout the day, the air filled with chatter and snatches of song as the convoy made its way along, and when Elriza made her way through the column she was beset by chattering old grannies and curious children and even a few amorous glances she had to regretfully turn down. The only slight flaw to an otherwise excellent morning were the racking coughs that seemed to afflict half the convoy at various points, something she generally put down to the dust of their passage.
It wasn't until they broke for lunch, taking advantage of the empty ground outside a small but fortified inn, that anything threatened to dampen the mood. Elriza was walking the perimeter when one of the refugees approached her, an older woman with skin like leather, head bowed but expression set.
"There's something you need to see, sir knight," she said in a quiet voice, glancing furtively from side to side. Elriza nodded, gesturing for the woman to lead the way, and was swiftly led across the camp to a small family group lurking on the outer edge of the makeshift encampment. There was close to a dozen of them all told, sons and daughters with spouses and children of their own, and as Elriza approached they casually shifted position to shield the scene from view behind their idle bodies.
"Greta, please," the old lady murmured, speaking now to a young blond woman hunched over a grey woollen blanket. The younger woman hesitated, her bloodshot eyes swollen with tears, before yielding her position and pulling back the blanket to reveal the scrawny form of a boy less than ten summers old. His skin was pale and waxen, and he was shivering violently despite the blanket and the noonday warmth.
"When did this start?" Elriza asked quietly, kneeling at the boy's side and touching his brow with the back of her hand. His skin was as cold as ice, and from this angle she could see a series of strange pale blotches forming on his chest and neck.
"Four days ago… but it was just a cough, a spring chill," the mother said in a dull, broken voice, the ends of her hair fraying beneath fidgeting hands, "The marks… they came this morning. And he can't hear anything we say."
"It won't be any trouble," said one of the men, a brawny looking fellow with small leather bands woven through his long hair. He was speaking confidently, but there was a tension in his shoulders, and his eyes gleamed with fear and desperation just barely held in check. "I'll carry him, and we'll eat our meals together, not with the rest, so don't…"
He trailed off there, unable to put his fears into words, but Elriza hardly needed him to spell it out. Plague always hit the poor and destitute the hardest, a merciless reaper that preyed upon the tired and the weak. The man feared that his son was already doomed, that the warrior who led them would cast the rest of the family out to die with him, in hopes of saving their neighbours from the same grisly fate. In some circumstances it might have even been the only rational choice. Fortunately, Elriza had other options.
Exhaling slowly, she closed her eyes and reached out with her soul. The aether of this land flowed strangely, took different forms and shone in different colours to what she was used to, but it was still aether, and it still obeyed the same rules. When she extended her right hand towards the great River Talabec, scarcely even a malm distant, the aether of the water leapt eagerly to her side. When she laid her left hand upon the boy's brow, it flowed down her arm and into his flesh. When she commanded it to cleanse, it passed through the flesh and blood and bone like a river through the forest, carrying away the impurities. And when at last she stopped and opened her eyes, it was to find the boy looking up at her with wonder in his heart.
"…mum?" he said, his voice shaky but clear, "Who's this?"
With a ragged gasp the mother brushed Elriza's hand aside and seized her son tight, holding his against her chest and sobbing with desperate relief. The others present stared in shock or smiled in joy, and when Elriza rose to her feet once more they hung on her every word.
"Keep him warm, and as well fed as you can manage," she said, flexing her hand with a frown. Some of the foreign aether seemed to be lingering in her body, tingling strangely as she worked the muscles of her hand to clear away the unwelcome feeling, "he should get his strength back in a day or two."
The mother scarcely seemed to hear her, so lost was she in joy and disbelief, but the old lady who had brought Elriza hence nodded in satisfaction as she patted her daughter on the shoulder. Elriza nodded and was about to depart when she noticed the troubled look on the face of the boy's father. He caught her gaze, and after a moment's hesitation jerked his head towards the shade of the nearby treeline, a silent invitation she was happy to accept.
"That was…" he said a few moments later, when they were far enough away that none of the others could easily overhear, "I'm not scholar, but that was magic, weren't it?"
Elriza nodded, not entirely sure where he was going. She was no white mage, nor did she have G'raha's near prescient control of aether in all its forms, but she'd learned enough to pass muster. The Conjurers of Gridania taught any that were willing to absorb their philosophy alongside their magical techniques, and Alphinaud had been only too happy to spend hours talking her ear off about the finer points of aethereal manipulation.
"Right. Well, you saved my boy, so I won't hear a word against you, but… you need to be careful," the father said, grimacing awkwardly as he looked between her and the jubilant gathering of his relatives, "if you're slinging magic around without a license, that makes you a witch. And witches, well, they get burned at the stake."
"…a license?" Elriza blinked, totally thrown. Burned at the stake? For basic aethereal techniques that a child could learn, assuming they had the patience to sit still long enough for the lesson to take? What kind of madness was that?
"Yeah, from the Colleges in Altdorf, or one of them Magisters they've got," the man nodded, "I guess you could get recognised as a priest, too, I heard they gave a pass to some of the foreign ones in the war."
"I'll do that," Elriza said, still reeling from the very idea. The man nodded in satisfaction, her good deed now repaid with an honest warning, and with an almost desperate haste returned to his son's side. Elriza watched him go, still utterly perplexed, and then went in search of G'raha.
"Curious," G'raha said, ears twitching and red eyes unfocused, "but… not entirely implausible. Did you notice how none of our companions seem capable of using aether?"
"I… no," Elriza frowned, thinking back over what she had seen thus far. She'd spoken with Meinhard the blacksmith about the lack of crystals in his craft, but she had been assuming they were rare, not simply all but useless. "Like the Garleans?"
"Perhaps, but likely nothing so universal," G'raha shook his head, frowning in thought, "if these 'Magisters' are able to wield aether in some fashion, then aetheric insensitivity cannot be a universal condition. Yet if they go so far as to burn those who wield magic without such training… there must be more that we are missing."
"There's a priest in Breitblatt," Elriza offered, remembering an overheard snippet of conversation around the campfire, "maybe they can explain it."
In truth, though, she somewhat doubted it. What explanation could there possibly be for putting to the stake those who only sought to help?
