The day dawned with a watery light, fading from black to grey without the fanfare of a sunrise. The drizzle had turned to ice over night and long thin icicles clung to the mouth of the cave as Torchanar peered out. His white bear cloak once again over his shoulders, he looked back at Rowan, still miserable after another sleepless night. The ranger left his companion with broth and soft foods and a skin of water as he set out for the hidden stronghold of Esteldin.
The weather was as grim as Torchanar’s mood on the long walk among the familiar hills, alternating between rain and sleet and never quite stopping. His fur cloak was becoming sodden and heavy as he trekked on a muddy deer path that traced up another rise. The hills grew steeper and it was hours before he saw the gap between two cliffs and the trail that would lead to the stone walls.
Torchanar nodded greetings to a few rangers, those taking a respite from the wilds and resupplying themselves. Despite the weather, there were men and women still about, hauling firewood and one hunter skinned a pair of young bucks. The infirmary was a large room in the long stone building, a ruin of what it once was but still serviceable. Other buildings held rooms for crafters and storage, barracks and a kitchen that fed the fort.
The oak door creaked on its hinges as he pushed it open, the grey light even of the afternoon did little to illuminate the inside which was lit with a hearth and candles now molded into mounds of melted wax. Torchanar stepped inside, the breeze making the flames shudder. Quickly he shut the door as one of the healers glared at him, the woman looking up from her seat beside an unconscious patient.
His gaze flickered to the sick man then at her, for a moment he remained silent. There was memories in a place like this, how many times he had come to visit his late wife as she sat up with a patient. The infirmary in their village was nothing like this, only a sturdy hut with a handful of cots but the effect was the same. Torchanar cleared his throat and bowed his head respectfully “Suilad, Healer,” he said, “I come in need of aid, it is urgent.”
Torchanar told her of Rowan and the lung fever, watching her move even before he finished. Her tall slender figure was draped a warm gown and she put a cloak over her shoulders. “I am Laerhen,” she said, then called to an apprentice to take her place. Her eyes had the color of laurel leaves, a soft grey green distinct even in the fire light. He held her gaze for a moment, she looked too young to be a healer but she had the same determined, self assured manner his Calithiliel had possessed. “I will go with you, I’ll fetch my supplies. Go to the quartermaster and get another blanket and some food.”
He nodded, then told her his name, ignoring her dictatorial tone. It was often that way with healers when they were needed. “I will meet you near the gate.”
Torchanar gathered the supplies she bid him to retrieve before heading to the stable. In a stall, he found his horse, a dark brown mare with a white star on her brow. Her winter coat was shaggy and she was a compact beast, made for long distance travel rather than speed. He brushed a gloved hand over her thick neck and murmured to her.
At the gate he waited, the horse saddled and packed with supplies and extra bedding. Torchanar watched Laerhen hustle through the muddy courtyard, heedless of the hem of her gown getting wet. She paused and frowned, “I’d rather not take a horse.”
“I doubt he can make the walk under his own power and the longer he is exposed to the elements the worse off he’ll be,” Torchanar replied, “I’d rather have him ride, but first you.”
He caught her expression, he pat the horse on the neck to reassure her, “Have no fear, she is docile and stronger than she looks. Thinelroch can go all day in rough terrain and she’s trained to remain as quiet as possible.”
A brief smile of pride crossed his somber features before he offered his hand to help her mount the horse. After a moment of hesitation, Laerhen accepted his help and he boosted her into the saddle, then secured the stirrups on her booted feet. She clutched a chunk of thick mane as he took the reins in his hand. “I fear I too would struggle to make the walk under my own power,” she admitted, “I’ve been up since the third watches with the patient.”
“Then rest,” Torchanar replied, watching as she stubbornly let go of her pride and relaxed in the saddle. “I’ll guide us there.”
Leading the mare through the gates they departed for the hidden cave.
Dusk was drawing to a close by the time they arrived, though the sleet had finally stopped there was still a mist in the air, drawing a cloak of frost over everything it touched. Torchanar paused, whistling low in the call of a night bird that was often used by rangers, to assure Rowan of their presence. He looked up when Laerhen stirred, her voice thick with sleep.
“How long has it been?”
Rather than answer, he reached up for her hand and put a secure arm around her waist to guide her down from the saddle. Twin plumes of steam rose between them as they breathed, the only sound was the trickling of the water still unfrozen in the stream behind them and the occasional creak of leather as the horse shifted her weight.
“Let me go in first, his fever has made him delirious,“ Torchanar said, lowering his voice as it felt unnaturally loud. “I didn’t tell you, as I am unsure myself, but he claims to hear a voice. Haunted by some evil, he says. Whether it is illness or magic, I know not.”
Pushing aside the bramble that surrounded the dark maw of the small cave, Torchanar ducked inside, expecting Laerhen to follow. The mare stayed, settling herself into a spot out of the wind and she grazed idly on dead grass that clustered near the cave.
Inside, the fire had died down and he could see the ghastly pale face of the younger ranger. He was slumped over, fighting back a coughing fit as he clutched his sword defensively. Torchanar felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise as he heard the rasping voice, muttering darkly about shadows and fiends.
“Rowan?” he said in a quiet voice, so not to startle the sick man. “I’ve brought help. Put away the blade.”
Rowan responded, perhaps the familiarity of his voice cut through whatever haunted him and he released the sword as he pushed himself to sit up. “You return,” he mumbled.
Behind Torchanar, Laerhen approached as he spoke. He heard a hiss of breath and turned to see her eyes widen, her hand over her mouth in shock.
“Rowan?”
