Hellrien kept throwing anxious sideways leers from below her slouch hat as the company journeyed ahead along the Great East Road. The horse’s hooves beneath her clip-clopped monotonously against the remnants of the ancient dwarven pavement, and her head kept pounding in the same pace with the hooves. Her heart was pounding to it’s own rhythm, rapidly and irregularly, like it was trying to jump out her chest. When she had seen the reflection of her face in the watering hole this morning, she had seen her chubby, swollen cheeks, dry, cracked lips and black raccoon eyes. Sweat had glued llocks of hair to her forehead. She threw another sideways glance. She felt like Taala and Tannur were staring all the time. Hellrien hung her head forward and closed her eyes.
Damn them! Hellrien didn’t like the idea that every time she met Taala she seemed to be in a need of some sort of rescue. It had happened all too many times already, and it was too much for her pride to swallow. But she had been weak as a baby and in a need of an intervention, that much she had to admit to herself. A damsel in distress, albeit an unconventional one, that’s what she was.
She had told them everything. She had told them about the masked woman, her horrifically disfigured face and her death wish; Ozzie and his gruesome death in the hands of the sadistic half-orcs; Harmon Rushes and the other adventurers from Bree, all after the blood-stained elven gems; the Créoth sacrificial altar and the grief and hatred of the old warchief upon his dead daughter, slain by intruders to his land; the curse of Naruhel and the Night Walkers that had haunted Hellrien ever since, so that she didn’t always know if she was awake or only dreaming; she had told them everything. And they had seemed to understand, at least Taala. It was always hard to know what was going on in Tannur’s head.
She still felt the burning shame when she thought about what had happened in Ost Guruth. What a sow she had been, what a moaning, whining brat! Of course Ozzie got killed, and it had been her fault. But people had died because of her before and they would in the future, it came with the territory. Such things would happen for as long she was a contractor and probably even after. It was her destiny, and she should have gotten used to the idea long ago.
I’m starting to get weak, she thought. This was the first time when this has happened to me. What is the meaning of it? Am I losing my grip? Have I started to sink – all the way to the bottom? Is it now my turn… to lose my nerve, like so many in this profession?
The thought gnawed her mind. She had seen it happen to so many. Sellswords and fighting men and women who one day saddled up and rode away and didn’t stop before they felt safe again. But they could never find peace anywhere. Nightmares followed them everywhere, keeping the wounds open.
Perhaps it’s my turn now, Hellrien thought and noticed she was soaking in cold sweat. Perhaps the Night Walkers are mustering up for me. Perhaps I will end up a trembling, boozing wreck in the Beggar’s Alley, a living corpse who sees ghosts in every corner.
She thought about the journey through the wilderness from Ost Guruth to the Forsaken Inn. During that journey she had sweated the swill out of her system, and the sand and the sun and the wind had washed her eyes clear. Her languished muscles got action and her belly something other than rotten swill. She had not tasted a single drop of alcohol and loathed herself for it. Hellrien had never before been on a bender this long and she had no idea what was waiting for her. She had assumed she would have a hangover for a day or two and then she would be fine again. That had been two days ago, and she was only feeling worse, not better.
She had no idea that the worst was yet to come. But Taala knew better. She knew from experience.
She had never thought of alcohol as an enemy before. Drink was a friend and an ally, not a foe. It helped her sleep and kept the ghosts away. Would she now have to reconsider her attitude? She tried to think the events leading to her binge reasonably. Had the drinking bout been triggered solely by what she had been through? Did she have a need to forget? Or did she need to escape from reality, to muddle her wits?
Did she need to quit entirely, become an abstainer? The mere thought of a lifetime without a drink filled her with dread. Surely that was not necessary! Let’s put things into perspective. She had been through some very tough times, and that had driven her to drink. Something like that had never happened to her before, and it would never happen again. She would sweat it out of her system, then cut down for a while as she shed the pounds gained and got back to shape. Sober up, shape up, get back into the game – and then everything would continue as normal. She was not a problem drinker. After all, she had not tasted a drop in two, almost three days now. And never once had she asked for a drink either. That alone proved she was in control.
On the other hand Hellrien was well aware that she was somewhat unable to moderate herself to the extent normal people seemed to be. That’s why she had been always drawn to regimented, militaristic organizations such as The Sworn Brotherhood and The Bloody Dawn. In such surroundings the discipline and structure was imposed upon her from the outside. On her own she was a menace, a threat to her own self, unable to resist the temptations to indulge in sensory pleasures, mainly drinking in her case. That’s why she felt great relief and gratitude towards Taala and Tannur, for the things they had done for her. But the feelings of gratitude mixed up with annoyance, for Hellrien didn’t like the idea of being indebted to anyone. What had been their motive for helping her? Charity and pity? Or did they genuinely think she could still be a valuable asset to the company? Hellrien was determined to prove her worth to them, for she hated nothing more than the idea of being a subject of charity and pity.
She kept fidgeting nervously on her horse, thinking about the journey. During every break she had crawled into the bushes like a wounded animal, desperate for privacy as she threw up. And she remembered the time when she had practiced her moves, or tried to. She had been clumsy, very clumsy – like an overweight rookie holding a weapon for the first time in their life. She could barely remember the moves Burwod and Ranesora had drilled into her so many years ago – moves that had once been a second nature to her, so ingrained into her nervous system that they were like reflexes. All gone now. And how badly out of shape she was! After only a few minutes she was sweating like a pig and panting like a dog in heat. She could not carry on for long. Taala and Tannur had exchanged meaningful looks then, at least Hellrien had thought so. Tears of frustration were not far then, but she had fought them back. She could not let Taala and Tannur see her weakness, her vulnerability – they couldn’t think of her as somebody who couldn’t make it on their own, stand on their own two feet. They couldn’t see her as a charity case.
Hellrien didn’t notice what was happening to her. She didn’t notice that something inside her craved to make contact with another human being, to open up, she didn’t notice that the lonely cold emptiness was hurting her. But her cold nature suppressed her need for human contact like an invisible armor designed to keep others at arm’s length. Her reserved, detached and aloof armor never cracked as the three sellswords kept slowly approaching Towerglan.
