The Song of Roland Ch. 23

Her fear was palpable, her panic near-animalistic. Kelsea clung to Roland's arm with a drowning man's grip, her palpitating breath and wide eyes speaking to the unqualified dread that the hooded figure standing amongst the crowd of ecstatic parishioners instilled in her.

He's here! She cried in his head. He's here! Oh merciful Gods, keep me safe!

Maybe the terrified Succubus did not grasp that her thoughts were now known to him, or perhaps she simply did not mean it as a command. Regardless, Roland tightened his protective grip about her, his right hand threading down her back and to his hip, tugging gently at the hilt of his dagger. He lifted it experimentally out of its holster, satisfied that it could be drawn at a moment's notice. He shoved the thing back into his belt, but kept his palm upon the pommel.

"Loriel!" The Cultists kept chanting, mobbing in a group towards the strange, slender figure and their even stranger steed. The horse that was not a horse lifted its head, turning this way and that with its slitted eyes to look across the crowd. Roland momentarily locked eyes with the thing and it did a double take, snorting loudly before turning its head to stare at him with both eyes. Roland felt a hardness come to his expression. The horse tossed its snow-white mane and began to scan the crowd once more.

"Loriel!" They shouted, laughing and raising their arms to the sky. Their adulation was unrestrained and unabating; It was as if a beloved war hero had returned to the village of their youth after years of absence. Hands reached out, but they did not touch. Cheers fell to whispers as they came to the fore of the crowd. Despite Kelsea's mind screaming at him to keep back Roland hustled her closer, holding to the edgeline of the flock yet holding back from falling directly into it. Almost the whole of the village had turned out to see the rider. Roland caught sight of Almyra pushing through the throng of cheering people. She emerged into the narrow circle in which the rider stood alongside their steed.

The rider's gloved hands reached up, pulling back the edges of their heavy hood. The multicolored fur fell away, revealing a feminine face of astounding contrast. Exposed in the light of the deepening sun, she was as dazzling as she was strange and offputting. Warm cheeks of rosy countenance, hair the texture of woven matted moss, eyes elongated and rounded to a geometric perfection. Her hair was long, colored as the dead leaves of fall: crimson, with hints of yellowed strands running through them like roots through the yielding earth. Her lips were full, yet her face was that of a young woman, barely beyond the throes of adolescence. She was thin, narrower in scale and slimmer in body than any human had a right to be.

"An Elf." Roland blurted out, and Kelsea's eyes turned worriedly to his. He lifted his hand to point above the heads of the gawking Cultists. "Look at the ears: they're shaped like a knife's blade." Strangest of all, however was the odd disfiguration on the Elf's otherwise stunningly gorgeous face. While her left eye was a normal enough blue, her right eye socket was...

It almost looked like tree bark. Pitted and gritted like an ancient oak's scabbed, brown skin. It chipped away to flesh by the time it reached her thin, reddish brow, yet Roland could see what almost looked like vines curling beneath the skin, extending outwards into an unseen root network across her face. Set in the center of this cancerous patch was her right eye; it was amber green, the color of sap. The odd eye shone with a strange, reflective quality, as if from glass or the surface of a pond.

Upon catching sight of Almyra, a wondrous thing happened: the Elf smiled. Roland felt his heart leap. It was such a splendid thing to behold! He could not have described the feeling had he tried. It was as if he had seen the grey curtain of clouds roll back after a vicious rainstorm, only to reveal the dazzling sun behind. Her simple, honest smile seemed to herald a new time of endless horizons and boundless possibilities. There was no sexual attraction in it, only a feeling of childlike delight, a sense of the impossible.

"Loriel!" Almyra exclaimed, her own face breaking out into a child's foolish grin. She rushed forward to the smaller figure with haste. "Gosvin be good: you've returned to us!"

Loriel laughed. It was as soft as a falling feather, fresher than an icy mountain stream. "Almyra. Dearest Sister." Her voice was measured, more flat and detached than a human's more expressive outbursts. Yet it was filled with its own, peculiar emotiveness. "It is as if an aeon has passed since I laid eyes upon you last."

Crossing the distance, the two women embraced. Roland watched as Almyra lowered her forehead into the smaller Elf's shoulder, burying her face into her neck. She began to sob.

"Gods, I-I thought you'd-" Almyra pulled back, wiping at her face as she grimaced through her tears. "So much has happened since you've gone, Sister. So many new graves have been filled."

"-Though not Bogdan's, I see." Loriel remarked in an arid tone.

Despite herself, Almyra laughed. She acted for all the world like she was conversing with a returned ghost. "No. He yet remains amongst the living."

"Pity." Loriel said, reaching out and gently stroking Almyra's tear-stained cheek. "Like as not he is annoyed to have been once more denied a chance to meet his feckless deity." Loriel's half-smile faded. "...What has become of us, Almyra?" The Priestess of Gosvin's hand instinctively reached up to clutch at Loriel's.

"We are-" Almyra began, but her mouth snapped shut. She glanced around at the searching eyes of the crowd that surrounded them, as if embarrassed by something. "The Cult remains intact, but we have bled for it.The Inner Cloister remains ours, but the Outer Cloister is a ruin. Half the town has burned, our crops are destroyed and we are feasting on our dwindling winter stores."

"Captain Guyles led a spirited defense, but we lost many of our warriors in the last raid. We..." She swallowed, "We only just held out. A chance meeting with some adventurers tipped the scales, but..." Tears drifted down her patrician features, her braided tresses fell about her face as she looked at the ground.

"Loriel, Emilde is gone."

The color faded from the Elven Priestess' pale skin. A woeful melancholy entered her eyes. Loriel's slender shoulders sagged, her body hunching forward as she shook her head from side to side. "So my dream was true, then. I had a figment enter my thoughts a few days ago, a whisper of wind, words threading through the boughs of my mind as I slept." She sighed. "So falls another pillar that holds the Cloister above the trammeled earth. Must we be so sorely tested?"

"She saved many lives." Almyra whispered.

"Not nearly enough." Loriel replied, pulling Almyra close to her again, "She neglected to concern herself with her own. My heart-roots ache and my shoulder-branches shudder at her passing."

Almyra allowed herself a long moment of embrace, before stepping away and raising her voice so that the crowd could hear her proclamation. "You came. That is all that matters; you were successful in your task, and brought forth the men who will exterminate the evil that we could not overcome ourselves!"

"It has been a prolonged journey." Loriel agreed. "My path has been a harsh one. The Children of Amphara stalk the woods freely now; I have been waylaying their kind for days. They infest the whole of the plateau, from the mountain's summit to the High Road." An angry color filled her eyes. "They found no respite from my wrath."

"Nor did they fare any better against ours." Almyra agreed. "Come: you must be weary. Let us retire to the Verdant Temple, your flowers have been wilting without you to sing to them." The human Priestess glanced about at the awed parishioners. A soft smile grew upon her face. "-And I'd expect you have many others who would like to join you in chorus."

A deep-throated cheer arose from the assorted townsfolk. There was a true sense of wonder in the air. Loriel nodded, and together she walked arm in arm with Almyra towards the overturned oak that functioned as her sanctuary. As a group, most of the villagers followed. Roland took Kelsea by the arm, steering her in the opposite direction of the Elven Temple. The half-panicked Succubus craned her neck around to try to catch a glimpse of the retreating pair.

"Roland! That was the-!"

The red maned mercenary grunted. "I know who it was, Kelsea. Nothin' we can do about it right now."

She turned to look at him, "What do you mean there's 'nothing we can do?' She's the one who gave me the hex!"

Roland dragged Kelsea along by the arm towards the Inner gate. Despite her harried protests, he could see she was no more eager to confront her Elven assailant than he was. "Aye, she was. And what d'you think she'll say when you meet and have a heart to heart? 'Gods, sorry fer turnin' ya into a human watercolor painting! Here, please fuck my fellow Priestess on top of her altar!'"

"It'd make for a more spirited sermon..." Kelsea grumbled. "The hex is getting worse, Roland. I can feel it."

As can I. He thought, a strange twinge building in his gut just as Kelsea reached down to stroke her own ribcage."You think I don't know that?" He pulled them to one side of the gate, hiding in an alcove between the wall and the nearest church. They stared each other down. "My main concern is seein' ya the fuck out of this town, arright? We've tarried too long already, and now we're caught between a bunch of Demon Hunters and a Druid who's killing your kind on sight."

He ran his hand through the long, red bangs on his forehead. "-But there's a time and a place fer this, yeah? Almyra's distracted, Carl's half-dead, and the Harpy is still missing. Now's not the time to press our luck with a woman who was just yesterday roaming the Demon-infested forests alone... and killing 'em."

"You like her!" Kelsea joked, her eyebrow quirking.

Roland let out a gruff expulsion of breath. "Aye, as much as I like a mouthy whore with a face like a half-painted canvas. Point is: I doubt this Loriel is gonna be as forgiving as Bogdan or Almyra were when they first laid eyes on you. On the real you."

Her head drooped when he said the words. Roland wished he could take them back. "What should we do, then?"

"Lay low. Talk it through with Almyra. Figure out if Triss has any clout with the Hellstriders, and if we can perhaps find some leverage there." He did not like the feeling of queasiness that grew in his gut; there were a thousand 'maybes' attached to his so-called plan.

"I don't trust her." Kelsea replied.

"No, you don't like her." Roland countered. "Remember the High Road, with the Harpy? This is like that, only I actually shagged her, albeit years before we ever met."

Kelsea's brow furrowed. "You're not helping your case, Roland." She said, scowling at him.

Roland guffawed. "Who says I was tryin' to?" He touched the Succubus' cheek, brushing a stray lock from her face. "You trust me, that's all that matters. D'you think I'm about to run off with that madwoman and leave you out in the lurch? You're too ravishing to lack for company."

Kelsea blushed and looked away. "I just... she's not-"

"Calm yourself. Take a breath. Kiss me." Roland said. She met his eyes. His blue hue stared at her ocean colored irises as the two came together. She kissed him, and Roland replied in kind. Their tongues touched, hands reaching forth to pull one another closer together. Kelsea gasped in his mouth, and Roland felt a nervous flutter in his chest.

Every time. He heard her voice in his head. It's just like the first time.

They came away panting, their eyes locked to one another. "Feel better?" He asked, and she nodded. "Good. I hate it when you get so damned mournful. Ya need to smile more." Roland grinned at her, "Like me!"

Kelsea laughed aloud. "I could say the same thing about you, you grumpy stick in the mud!" Her fingers curled against his chest, running down to his waistline. "...Thank you."

A warm feeling entered his chest. Despite their dire predicament, despite the pain and fear and suffering they had endured in the last few, hectic weeks, Roland felt better in that moment than he had in years. Perhaps most of his life. He pulled her to him again. "No." He whispered. "Thank you."

____________________________________________________________________________

Nightfall. The winds of the high plateau were as chilling as they'd ever been, sliding down from the mountaintop like a spectral avalanche of grey mist. The evenings following the great battle had been clear for the most part, so unease settled over Roland at the sight of the clouds rolling in.

He moved through the crippled, gutted street paths of the Outer Cloister, striding with undue haste through the abandoned wasteland that the once teeming place had devolved into. He traced the outer line of the inner wall, threading his way through the deepening darkness. To his credit, he refused to jump at shadows... though every once in a while, some shifting thing would catch his eye and he'd calmly move his hand to the hilt of his blade.

He followed the sound of shouting voices and clinking glass. A series of lights were on in the northeast portion of the Cloister, in a place he had never been in, just beyond the graveyard. There stood the tallest and sturdiest buildings of the village, huddled together as stacks of tinder amongst the snow piles. This area had been the least affected by the Imp attack, and thus most of what had once stood still stood even now. Spotting the warm light of fires in windows, Roland made towards the loudest of the bunch.

The small Inn was packed to the brim with the men of the Hellstrider company. Raucous laughter and ale from flowing kegs filled the night air. As Roland approached the sealed and closed portal, he could see the orange glow of cooking fires. He pounded upon the door. The heavy oak creaked loudly as it swung open to reveal an unsightly looking fellow with a jutting underbite and greasy black hair. He was a hulking brute. The doorman, left at the entryway to keep the nosy villagers scared, and out of the Hellstrider's hair.

"Oi." He slobbered, alcoholic foam still fizzing on his unkempt whiskers. "Fuck off, aye? Peasants ain't welcome inside."

"What about real men, then?" Roland answered, "Are they supposed to just sit outside in the cold and freeze their arses off?"

"If it pleases ya." The self-styled guard snorted. Roland scowled at him. "...Is your hearing off? You cultists got some snuggly, warm beds behind them Dwarven Walls. Go sleep in 'em."

"Not before I get the chance to fuck yer sister in my warm, snuggly bed." Roland replied. "Step aside you big ugly cunt, lest you want to make intimate conversation with the floor this evening."

Cacophonous laughter spread through the packed tavern. It seemed the patrons were all listening to the exchange. "Is that Roland, I hear?" Triss' raspy voice carried out from the inside. "Barkley! Let the fool through! I can hear in his voice that he's hopping mad and half-sober. If ya value your teeth, I'd step aside!"

Shooting Roland a harsh look, the doorman named Barkley reluctantly made way for him. Roland brushed past, stepping into the maelstrom of humanity that crowded the tables and loitered about the fire roaring in the hearth. Triss let out a call and raised her mug, indicating for him to join her. She sat with two other men, hard of countenance and scarred from battle. They shared a passing glance with Roland before turning back to face each other.

"What fresh spawn of evil are ya concocting here, Triss?" Roland said, taking the final seat at the small table in the crowded room, facing his old friend.

She flashed him a crooked grin. "Gettin' drunk and swappin' riddles. You up fer a round or two?"

Roland measured her playful look with suspicion. "Aye." He said after a moment's pause. "But only if yer buyin'."

"After defending a town from a demon attack? A few free rounds are the least I could do!" She chuckled, snapping her fingers to get a nearby mercenary at another table's attention. "Oi, Brickers! Bring us a round, aye? Double glasses fer the tall, ugly fuck with the flowing locks o' ginger curls!"

She turned back to the table. "Roland, these are my two fellow Lieutenants: Hobber and Tedric Merryman. We're the drunken brains behind Captain Fabius' mess of an operation."

"Mind yo' tongue, Beatrice." Said the one on Roland's left, a hard-eyed man with a shaggy brown beard and balding head. His eyes never drifted towards Roland at all as he spoke. "He's not wif us. Hellstrider Bidness aint his bidness."

"Oh quiet yourself Hobber, you mealy-mouthed old bastard." The dark-skinned man on Roland's right said, smiling into his drink. His black hair was long and braided, drifting in collected curtains down his head. "We're hardly discussing battle plans with the man. Besides: Beatrice found us a final player."

Triss smacked her fist upon the table, causing the three men around her to jolt. "All right! Enough talking, you overpaid cunts. Time's wasting and I'm dying o' thirst. Rules are simple: one man tells the riddle, the other three each get a guess. Guess wrong first and you drink. Guess wrong second and you drink twice, and so on. Guess right, and the riddler downs their whole mug." Triss' scarred smile was wide and predatory. "You run out o' riddles, you buy a round fer the whole table."

The round of drinks was set out in front of them. Together, the four clinked their glasses and set to business. Roland collected himself, remembering an old book his mother had used to read to him. He made a mental note of the ones he could best recall.

"Hobber." Triss said, swiveling to him, "You first, since you're so damned crotchety this evening."

Hobber snorted and thought. He mumbled out the words. "What can run but never walks, has a mouth but never talks, has a head but never weeps, has a bed, yet never sleeps?"

A short pause. "A river." Roland said. The eyes of the table moved to him. Hobber looked as if he had just swallowed a metal coin.

"Aye." He said dejectedly, lifting the brimming mug to his face. Triss guffawed, pounding the table with her hand.

"Ha! And you were worried he wouldn't have the head fer it!"

Tedric Merryman smiled from ear to ear. "Looks like this'll be a long night. Mayhaps we should have started the game with slimmer stakes?"

"Rules are rules." Triss retorted, smirking as Hobber's cheeks wept from either side with excess alcohol suds. Her smiling eyes turned to look at Roland. "Only an oathbreaker goes back on his word."

Roland's eyes hardened. "That wasn't what I intended when I left you, Triss."

Triss' grin widened. Her scarred face shadowed in the flickering firelight. "No indeed, old friend. 'Meet me by the Inn in three days time.' Was what I said to you. 'I swear it!' Was what you said back to me. Seems like a broken oath to me, if a bit minor in the grand scale o' things."

"I had to leave."

"Of course ya did." She replied. The other two Lieutenants shared glances with one another. "My turn now, yeah?"

"Yeah." Roland said, his fist clenching beneath the table.

"I'm the beginning of eternity. The end of time and space. I'm the beginning of every end, and the end of every place. What am I?"

"Nothing." Hobber answered immediately, having commandeered a second mug of ale. Triss laughed.

"Nay! Take a drag. Yer off yer game tonight, Hob."

"Two weeks of hard ridin' and two months of sleeping on the cold ground next to your ugly mug will do that to a man." He grumbled, taking a deep gulp.