I'm going to dedicate this chapter to blackchook who has been showing me so much love. I thank you.
Those Made Wolf's head
The scattered villages dwindled to be replaced by charred ruins, or the squalid residences of the sub human ones as the two men pressed further north into the dune country. There were no eager audiences here to grace with his songs or stories and Jhary found the further they ventured into these territories the more nervous he felt, even in the capable presence of his unwitting, fierce protector.
That evening over the last of their rations Jhary was most discomforted to see Aran shedding the majority of his large quantities of gold and secreting them in his bag. He knew Aran well enough to know he would not do this without good reason. He had also noticed the warrior now carried his sword by his side ready always to be drawn swiftly, even if the heavy weapon was unwieldy and repeatedly slapped his calf as he walked.
The slight man followed suit. He had no real valuables to hide but he did bring forth from the bundles on his mule a light, sharp rapier. Aran did not miss the appearance of the weapon, watching his companion lay it next to his bed roll. So mused Aran this little, merry man of song had been armed all this time.
"Can you use that over sized knife?" Aran said smugly, a rare grin lighting his usually stern visage.
"It's not a knife, it's a rapier." Jhary corrected, adding. "I sure can, well enough. Though I'm not sure it would do any good against your sword." He chuckled somewhat uneasily. "It's a weapon that relies on speed my friend, not brute power."
"Well, lets hope you never have to use it." Aran's words had a formidable tone to them as he turned over, positioning himself that he might sleep covered in his cape. Jhary shivered, and it was not because of the cold, as he too bedded down for the night by the dying fire. Questioning his sanity for following this man so far from his comfort zone.
*****
The following morning the two men broke camp in silence, the wind was on the rise portending a miserable day of cold and stinging sand ahead. However there was little option but to continue as there was no shelter here or anywhere nearby. The usually ebullient bard was silent as he packed his scant belongings on his patient mule this day, and Aran did not offer any words either as he rubbed his gelding's ailing foreleg in a fruitless attempt to wish the horse to mend.
The only saving grace was at least the wind was to their backs, but progress was slow in these conditions the visibility being no more than a few feet in any direction. Aran pulled his furred hood over his head limiting his vision, something he was always most loathe to do in this dangerous place, but it was all he could do to relieve his eyes of the worst of the flying sand.
As they walked Jhary found his hand straying to the comfort of his rapier, it had been a very long time since he had had the cause, or motivation to use it. He preferred to make music and love as opposed to any kind of aggressive act; part of him wanted to turn about and go back to the familiar villages and towns he had always plied his trade in. To be adored by the women and girls, hear the laughter of the children, and feel the camaraderie of the menfolk as he sat drinking with them late into the night, for no one refused a bard. Yet he felt compelled to follow this man on his quest to hell knows where? To locate some mysterious woman he knew very little about.
Jhary had to admit he liked Aran, even with his taciturn manner and his brash nature there was something refreshing and honest about his companion that drew him; but mostly he guessed in the time he had traveled with this warrior he had felt indisputably safe, something he had never felt before in all his long solo wanderings.
Yes, even the affable Jhary could fight if hard pressed, but smallness of stature made him a tempting target, for he did not exude the danger his companion did. At night the bard slept well, confident his wild compatriot would hear any approach and deal with intruders easily.
Perhaps these reasons were selfish reasons Jhary ruminated, but in this violent day and age it was indeed every man for himself and he could see no better way. The bard had nowhere definite to be and as long as his companion did not take affront to his company, Jhary Brannon was along for the ride.
Late in the day the dune country dwindled, the endless rolling sands slowly giving way to small undulating hills and jutting rocky promontories that rose through the blanket of dust and wildly driven sand. Their ageless windswept shapes loomed like fantastic creatures on all sides, menacing, warning of danger. The standing stones were interspersed by the last vestige of low stunted trees, long ago divested of their leaves, their twisted, tortured branches brittle and dead like driftwood.
Jhary pushed on keeping sight of Aran's back, hoping this man who seemed as one with the elements knew where he was headed, and some form of shelter was in sight. The wind was howling and the usually talkative man did not even have the chance to utter a questioning remark, instead spending the time in uncomfortable quietude, and reflection.
The smaller stone monoliths transformed into undulating valleys of displaced rock, broken, and sharp, treacherous in places; especially for Aran's lame horse, the sure footed mule fared much better. There was little sand here just the remnants of long ago volcanic activity and bald rock, still bravely bearing the occasional evidence of plant life long dead from the cold.
Jhary could reason where the warrior was leading them, for this was the entrance a large sheltered valley. The bard was relieved to be out of the worst of the wind, even if the ground underfoot was far from easy to navigate. It was then Aran's gelding fell without warning, hard, his lame leg lodged in-between the sharp stones like the teeth of a dragon.
The horse squealed and struggled to stand, his torn leg bloodied and raw, the white foam of the animal's distress and sweat flecked its black coat. Aran steadied the animal, but he was already shaking his head and his face was grave, and for once Jhary had nothing to say.
Aran managed to persuade his injured mount into the small sheltered clearing just beyond the jagged stone impasse, but the noble beast could no longer put even the slightest pressure on its torn leg. Jhary just stood watching his companion unsaddle the beast pausing to stroke the horse's white blazed forehead and muzzle one last time.
Aran drew his sword, this was the first time Jhary had witnessed the big man use it. The heavy, deadly, weapon somehow sat solidly in his hands and he swung it upward effortlessly in an arc, severing the horse's jugular and carotid artery. Blood sprayed and the animal crumpled to the ground issuing one last inhuman groan. Jhary looked away.
The mood that evening was subdued, Aran who wasted nothing and was never overly sentimental took the opportunity to eat his fill of the horse meat. Jhary however found he could not partake of the meal, and ate only a little of the last of the stale bread he had in his saddle bags. The fire burned brightly one moment, and guttered the next in the strong gusts, fortunately there was no shortage of long dead, dry, wood to feed it with.
The frozen wind still raced fiercely above, whipping between the rocks that stood on the crown of the valley. Occasionally small stones displaced by the wind from above would tumble down the valley's deep sides, crashing and echoing on their downward fall. Aran would grasp the pommel of his sword and listen intently, and Jhary's heart would race in his chest. Trouble always made him feel faint hearted.
The musician preferred conversation in moments of uncertainty and decided to try to engage his often wordless companion in some kind of dialogue. Even small talk was preferable to silence.
