Morgan shakes his head. "I can offer you a bandage, but that's all I know for a head wound. Is there somewhere that has one inside a day's travel?"  Horses were slow, he remembered, so it sounded right.

"Verilan is about an hour's ride that way." she points back along the road, in the direction Morgan came from.  Though Morgan had seen seen no such place on his journey, that might just mean he had passed the spot while in a world where Verilan didn't exist.  Or it might mean she's lying.  "It's the biggest town around here.  We were riding from there to Hafton, which is, I think, a little closer, but I don't know if there's anybody there who can help this."

"A bandage might be of some use, yes."

She watches Morgan as he approaches her uncle, her expression betraying a little nervousness, "What manner of beast are those?  Are they tame?"

Removing a coiled beige strip, Morgan shakes his head. "Not as such. They're members of my unit."  He wets it with a generous splash from his flask, and begins wrapping the bandage around the man.

"A two hour ride between towns? I imagine wagons go through frequently. I'll let them know a doctor's needed."

"Your... unit?" the girl replies, puzzled, "That makes them sound a little like soldiers, but I have never heard of any such creature serving in any army."

Then she shakes her head, "Please forgive my manners.  I am called Fercalla.  This is my uncle, Bors, brother to my father, Laethran, who is a commander in the garrison at Verilan.  That is why I know a little about armies, and am surprised at the thought of these creatures being soldiers."

She watches as Morgan works on the man's injury, "We will, of course, be grateful for any aid you can provide."

"A bit more prestigious, but yes."  Morgan acknowledges.  "We're from rather far away."

With everything in place, he stands, and pulls himself onto a convenient saddle. "We'll be taking a few minutes of detour to notify a doctor everyone. Let's move." Coughs and calls from the others spread the word, and the small army got on its way down the road.

Leaving the girl, and her injured uncle, at the roadside, Morgan and his unit move away, at best speed.  The panthers are faster than most horses, certainly faster than any normal horse, and they reach the town in something less than the hour they'd been told it would take.

Almost.

From the top of a rise, Morgan looks down to the lower land, beyond, where the ruins of a small town smoulder still.  Thin streamers of smoke flow downwind from the charred remains of the buildings,

There are still a few people moving about down there, walking aimlessly among the wreckage.

Coping with the scene and a throbbing headache, Morgan almost turns away. They'll need the doctor more here than elsewhere, if he still lives. But then he pauses, uncertain. An hour's ride she said. Either she lied, or the cause of this, then, was close.

"Down, we'll ask the time, and then the cause."  His directions are simple, and twenty-some panthers flow down the hill.

The ground is wet, and many of the people are carrying buckets from a nearby stream, as Morgan rides in, carrying water to douse the last glowing embers.  Others are using wooden poles to poke through the still-hot ashes.   Their faces, and clothes, are blackened by soot.

Many of them look nervously at Morgan and his unit, and a couple of dozen grab makeshift weapons, moving to intercept him.

The air around the smoking remains of the buildings is hot.

One woman, steps forward, directly in front of Morgan, holding a scythe.

"If you've come to finish what that other thing started, you'll find us more prepared this time!"

Morgan shifts, shaking his head. He makes no move toward his sword as he speaks. "Sorry, no. I don't play with fire. Just hoped you would tell me what did do this, and if you could, which way it or they went. Also, a man up the road a ways has a head wound when a doctor is free, for all you've enough to do here."

She does not relax, and the smoke-reddened eyes, peering out of her soot-grimed face, regard Morgan suspiciously.  The scythe is still held in readiness, and she gives the impression that she knows how to use the implement to good effect.

She inclines her head to the left, "It went that way.  No more than a half hour ago, and moving fast.  If you see it, you'll recognise it, easy enough.  It'll be the thing that's on fire, and still moving, while all around it burns and dies."

"But I don't recommend that you go that way.  Common sense'd tell you, as would I, to go that way, instead."

Sadly, Morgan agrees. "Naught we can do to a living flame but bleed on  it. Thank you, we'll trouble you no further." They turn about, racing back along the road.

"Aye, that's about right.  I've heard of such things... Arches they're called, or somesuch... attacking other towns, only in the past few months, mind you.  But never this far north."  The woman looks behind her, as the charred posts of one of the buildings collapse in a shower of ash and sparks.

"If this has become the way of things, then there's no sense in staying here.  Maybe we should move closer to the sea.  More water to fight the fires.  It'll be hard to do, though."

A shake of her head, then she looks at Morgan again, "We'll send a couple of lads out to see to the injured man.  Might be able to find a wagon too, though I doubt it, in this mess."

"Thanks." Morgan stops Leareth to listen and speak. With her information, the woman has actually helped quite a bit. That done, a small bow from the saddle and the pride is off, intent on catching their fellows.

For hours the panthers bound along the road, moving faster than (almost) any horse, and the miles slip past, beneath their clawed feet.  When they reach forks, Morgan uses the map to determine the best way to take.  For the most part, the map seems accurate, so far, but there are a couple of places where the scenery does not quite match what he might expect.

Still... though the landscape may sometimes be at variance with the map, the road, itself, seems to run true.

Across the wide lowlands, and the up into the hills beyond, winding through gorges and valleys, the pride keeps up their relentless pace, and always climbing now.  The hills become mountains, grim crags, with only the barest vegetation, clinging to crevices and tiny ledges.  Often the rumble of distant landslides echoes through the valleys.

The road leads higher up the flanks of the mountains, high above the  narrow valley floor, where a river rages across rapids and between outcroppings of stone.  Mile upon mile of white water, beneath a slate-grey sky, filled with rapidly moving clouds.

The road veers left, into a twisting canyon, and away from the river valley, and the rain, long threatened, starts to fall.

The canyon connects to another valley, where a paved road runs, and Morgan turns right, descending now.  The panthers move swiftly across the wet slabs, and half an hour later, they turn off the road, and onto a narrow flight of of crude stairs, leading up the mountainside.  The pads of their large feet find good purchase on the slick stone, and they climb easily.

The stair leads up, and up, eventually reaching the clouds, and passing through, until it rises above the rain, and starts to level off, in a cleft between two higher peaks.  Ahead looms a tunnel entrance, marked on Morgan's map as a shortcut.  Ancient it is, the stones which frame it worn almost smooth, and some of them have fallen, laying about on the path which leads to that dark maw.

Everything here is shrouded with cobwebs, wet and gleaming in the cold, damp air, and a foul-smelling breeze blows out of the darkness.

And so man and panthers are presented with a choice... descend the stair, and take the road, or plunge into the foetid, Stygian gloom before them?

They are no stranger to the awful, but the past few days, weeks?, of comfort have softened the shell of indifference. Or so Morgan sees it, as he considers the map.  And going through that cave would not be comfortable.

There are other considerations, too. Without light, his power, dangerous as it is, will be of no help. They will have to rely completely on following the shadow trail left behind by past travelers.

But after a minute, he realizes there really is no choice here. He had sent a squad ahead, using this map and following these trails.  It was going to be substantially faster and safer following that squad's trail, both scent and shadow.

"We follow the others." He finally says, nodding toward the cave.  "Watch, though. The spiders are spinning quickly, so they must have food. And something must be feeding the bugs, that they go into the cave. I won't be able to see, so don't wait for orders."

The panthers plunge ahead, into the blackness.  Their sensitive noses, and excellent vision, make the going easier than it might have been for others.  Still, it is by no means simple.

Scarcely have they entered the tunnel than the way turns downwards, a long staircase, descending steeply.  Blind as he is, Morgan feels a change in the rank air of this place, and hears the echoing fall of a displaced pebble, and realises that the stair is running across the face of a wall, with a near vertical drop of unknown distance to one side.

For hours the panthers move downwards, and the air grows colder, as the path plunges into the roots of the mountains.  Eventually Morgan senses the rock enfolding him again as the stair enters a more confined space.

The light, when it comes, is no brighter than a firefly, but the man is almost dazzled by it.  A cold green radiance from the wall on his left as the panthers hurry around a corner.  Some sort of fungus.

The way continues, and then breaks out onto the floor of a large cavern, lit by more of the fungus.  There are bones scattered about here.  Large bones, many of them.  And something which moves among them.

Not a spider though.  Huge, and serpentine, with dozens of legs, in the strange light of the cave, it more closely resembles an eyeless dragon.  It lifts its head, and makes an odd coughing sound, and one of the cats leaps aside as a mass of sticky, entangling threads strikes the ground where it had stood.

The blind head swings about, seeking another target...

"Bypass." Morgan's decision is instant. If it uses immobilizing tactics, the thing wasn't likely to be fast. More, the bones weren't in the stair, were there was less room to dodge. He hopes that means it grew here, and can't leave.

In any case, the decision made, they race through the cavern in rough formation. Deafening roars from everyone's throats echo everywhere. It must be well used to tracking by sound and scent. But one can't see in too strong a light, and they intend to create too strong a sound.

They leap around and over the bones. They've not the time for pity, and their reinforcements sent for will be able to treat them properly, if they on't take the long route.

The panthers scatter, spreading out around the strange creature.  Blindly, it tries to select a target, but the cavern is filled with confusing motion.  So many possible targets, all moving so quickly, and making so much noise.

It rears away from them, looping backwards and turning away.  Slower targets will come by, sooner or later.  Easier targets.

Morgan and his unit continue on, and again the path starts to descend, curving slowly to the left, lit by the luminescent fungi.

Before long, though, that greenish light is gone, and Morgan rides once more in a darkness so profound that it is as if his eyes have been put out.  How long this lasts, it is difficult to be sure, but eventually a pale grey light grows, some distance ahead.

Finally the panthers emerge from the tunnel and into a broad, forested valley, illuminated, comparatively brightly, by stars.  The way drops down, towards the trees below, into them, through, and onto a stone-surfaced road.  Onward, as the valley narrows, and the walls grow steeper, and the panthers which were sent ahead are waiting.

They turn to face Morgan as he rides closer, and slows.

"All right. Everone but Leareth, hunt down some lunch, but don't take your time. We'll be off again after we hear what's ahead."

Standing, he wouldn't meet their eyes sitting, so Morgan doesn't bother, instead sinking into a comfortable crouch on the verge of the road while they talk. He spares a moment to be grateful for the excuse to stretch tired legs, but is soon back to business.

"A toll bridge? Did you catch what the charge is?" Morgan's inlined to pay it, but would like to know if someone tries to cheat them.


< Did it see you? How did it react? What did the caravan look like? > Leareth's reaction was more military.

"Was it already night when you got there?" He would have said dark if not for the recent lesson in true blackness.

"You'll have the point duties," scouting a mile or so ahead, to give them a minute or two of warning, "until we pass the bridge, then we'll switch it back."

The information given to Morgan is fairly clear.

The creature is big, at least twice as tall as Morgan, and much broader in proportion.  It looks like it's made of stone.  It has a badge, of some sort, claims to be official, and everybody pays it.  The price is always the same, varying only between foot-, mounted-, and wheeled-traffic, but never more than a handful of copper coins each.

After the travellers have paid, the creature hands them something, and they go on their way, unmolested.  Often he gives some small piece of advice about the road ahead.

Most of the travellers approach the bridge in daylight, but a few approach at night.  The time doesn't seem to matter to the guardian, who appears to live beneath the bridge.

To Leareth's questions, the answers are just as clear.  They were seen, and the creature watched them for a while, but largely ignored them once it became clear they weren't trying to cross.

The caravan consisted of ten carts, heavily laden, pulled by two or four horses each.  It had guards, who were very alert approaching the bridge, but once they reached it, everybody relaxed.  Once they crossed, some of the guards climbed up on the carts and seemed to settle down for a sleep.

The news reassures Morgan, and as everyone returns, licking away blood stains, he motions them forward. These people have far better roads than the one he made.

"Wait when we get to the bridge, I'll be paying."

When all have returned, appetites satisfied, Morgan moves them out.

The road curves upwards, and crosses a ridge, before descending into a valley, where it arcs over a swolen, fast-flowing river.  The amount of debris, fallen branches, and shattered timber being washed along with the flow might indicate that there have been recent storms here... but for the moment there is only a cold, sporadic drizzle.

As the lead panthers set foot on the bridge, a shape hauls itself up, over the parapet, to block the way.  Twelve feet tall it stands, and broad enough to appear squat.  Its arms are long, like some sort of grotesque ape, and its skin, most of which is visible, since it wears no more than a tattered loincloth, is black and covered with scales.

The face is a distorted mockery of humanity, with one eye missing, leaving a hideously scarred socket, and its twisted, leering mouth is filled with jagged fangs.  Tangled black hair, all knots and snarls, hangs around its face.

It's only possessions, other than the loincloth, seem to be a heavy club, and a large leather bag which is slung over one shoulder.  The bag's strap bears a large bronze brooch, which looks to have been polished recently.  It reaches into the bag, and pulls out a document of some sort, set with a seal, which it holds out towards Morgan.

"This off-ish-ul toll point.  I have paper from King Hodic says I off-ish-ul.  Toll pay for stop brig... stop brig... " it pauses, scratching its head, then, "Brig-gands.  Stop brig-gands on road.  Toll pay for fix road after big storms.  You pay toll, or not pass."

Morgan nods agreeably. "Not a problem."  He offers a hand pre-filled with slightly more than the correct amount. Thinking about it, he has the distinct feeling he does not want to get in a fight with the creature.

Shoving the document back into the bag, the thing on the bridge grins at Morgan, a not altogether reassuring sight, raises one hand, and starts to count the panthers.  Some of the counting is a little strange, in particular a tendency to confuse the numbers eight and nine whenever they are encountered ("... 6, 7, 9, 8, 10, 11... "), but the final figure is accurate enough, and the calculation of the required toll seems correct.

The creature accepts the coins, bites one, to ascertain its quality, after an apologetic explanation that it is part of the duty of a toll collector to make sure the coins are genuine.  The bitten coin, Morgan notes, ends up with an impressive dent in it.

A wooden box is pulled from the bag, and placed on the ground.  The toll collector leans over the box with the coins held in the palm of one hand, and flicked, one at a time, into the box with a grime-encrusted fingernail of the other hand.  The creatures lips move the whole time, and as the final coin drops into the bag, it squints at Morgan with its good eye.

"You make pay too much.  I make pay change, or... "  It turns, looking along the road in both directions, before continuing in a (relatively) hushed voice, "You can make offer what is call tip.  Bridge troll life not so hard like wild troll.  I live under strong bridge, so that not so bad.  But pay not so good.  Is good manners to give tip to bridge troll."

"I buy food.  Not beer.  Beer make troll stupid.  Make break things and steal things and kill things.  Karsk Horse-biter not do that.  Not buy beer.  King Hodic would take job and give same job to other troll."

"You make give tip, I not buy beer."

"Is tip."  Morgan enunciates, hoping he has the grammar correct. Or understandable, at least. "For you."