[doug*platypus]

The Passage of the Plains

Skara had woken early that morning, his head heavy. He felt as if he had been asleep for days, and quickly roused himself and his companions, eager to be up and moving.

It was now late morning, and finally after days of the stuffiness of the Great Wood, the trees were beginning to thin out. The last few days had been uneventful, though hardly pleasant. The situation with Rogar had become worse. He talked seldom to anyone but Bór, Barold's brother, and only grunted if Skara commanded him to do anything. Blair did not trust Rogar at all, and never let his sister out of his sight. Which was as well, thought Skara, since he would not allow Nura to escape. Likewise, Rû-Sahn kept a close watch on the elf child, although this duty was also shared around some of the other more trustworthy men.

Blair, Skara and Rû-Sahn were usually at the front of the line now, with the rest of the men strung out behind them. There was the odd grumble or two, and Skara was not certain where the loyalties of most of his men lay. Fortunately the trails were good and the game was plentiful. Skara himself had brought down a fair-sized hart the day before. He had been in fine mood that night, jesting with the men and telling of his past hunting glories. But at the back of his mind, always Skara worried that there would be strife before they reached home. With Rogar and Bór acting up, he could have a fight on his hands even if the elves had not followed them through the forest.

After another hour or so, the trees failed altogether. Skara breathed deep and looked out across the plains. He would be home, soon. He smiled wickedly at the elf girl as she looked out, terrified of so much open space. Next to him, Skara could feel Rû-Sahn tense up.

"What is it?" he asked, knowing that the weaponsmith was a man with strong senses.

"I do not know," Rû replied. "I feel... something. I fear that danger approaches."

As he said this, he was rubbing the palm of his bandaged hand. Skara looked at it nervously. He had of course noticed Rû-Sahn's wound, and questioned him about it in private. He did not believe the story that Rû-Sahn had told the men, and eventually learned from him that his wound was given by a spirit in hawk form. A spirit that was probably aiding the Fair Folk. It had also taken the child's fine dagger, at which Skara had laughed. It seemed as if Rû-Sahn's luck had not lasted.

"We must press on," Skara said to the Easterlings, who had now all gathered around the leaders. "Let us reach cover before we rest again."

They hoisted their burdens and continued east, with Skara looking cautiously back over his shoulder. He tried to shake his newfound uneasiness off, but found this more difficult than he would have thought.