Despite having grown up less than twenty leagues away, Tarun had never been to Joska before. Neither had most of the mountainfolk, and they kept glancing around anxiously as the Fourth Company followed the Running Road east. If Geristan had been strange to the Men of Trosk, Joska was nothing short of alien. At least in Geristan, they had still been a least somewhat within the reaches of The Teeth, the familiar mountainsides and lichen-covered rocks reaching out to embrace the small mining town. Here, beyond the limits of even the foothills, the world felt overwhelmingly large.

The town itself was built from hundreds upon thousands of blocks of dry, red sandstone. Conical roofs sprouted upright toward the vastness of the open sky seemingly at random, their scale-like tiles and layered tiers bringing to mind the pine cones which could sometimes be found on the hillsides below Trosk. It must have been a market day; even at a distance, the men of the Fourth could see the awnings and hear the bustle of the traders' stalls lining Joska's main streets. A pair of griffins circled overhead, honking as they passed above the marching coloumns of soldiers. The late afternoon sun turned their feathers to gold, and with a soft thumping of their powerful wings, the griffins spiralled away back toward Joska.

It had been nearly three days since Hengar's desertion...three days since Tarun had been whipped. As the son of a shepherd, Tarun was used to long hours spent hiking up and down the steep trails of The Teeth. He was not used to plodding along, hour after monotonous hour, every inch of his back burning and itching like he had rolled in a colony of nettle ants. The nights brought only enough rest not to fall down in the middle of the road come the start of the next day's march. Tarun felt like misery incarnate, and probably looked it too. The presence of the other mountainfolk should have been a comfort to Tarun, but after weeks on-end constantly surrounded by other people, Tarun would have cheerfully given his left ear for just one day alone in blessed silence.

At least Second: The Deeds of Amentherian Heirs Unknown was proving itself as delectable an entrée as Lady Elowen had promised. It turned out that there had been many persons of note in the Amentherian dynasty who were – in Tarun's opinion – as intelligent and talented as their enthroned siblings, if not moreso. Arturen Amenthis, for example, had been far outshone by his younger brother Agron when it came to devising a plan for diverting the Voyoto River, thus protecting Skidona from sudden flooding in the north over a hundred years ago.

There likely would be more opportunities to read Second in the very near future; as they approached Joska, Lieutenant Neel announced that the princess wished to spend the next day in town, resting and recuperating from the vigors of travel. Upon hearing this pronouncement, Tarun had shot a sour glance at the gilded carriage in which Princess Ellorae and her ladies rode. Andris, more peevish than usual after having been essentially abandoned by his elder brother, actually went so far as to snort derisively. Pedrum was riding up the length of the company nearby, and so Tarun took the opportunity to quickly elbow Andris into silence before he was overheard.

"We camp outside Joska's limits," Jerriod leaned forward in the saddle to shout at the Fourth Company. "Pitch camp, and set sentries at the perimeter. We're verging on the edge of clan territory here."

With that in mind, the men certainly went about getting camp organized and settled with a touch more energy than usual at the end of a long day of marching. With the Factionist uprising in the south, and then the fiasco at Trosk, it was no secret that relations were tense between Amenthere and the eastern clans. There were seven clans in all; each one with its own politics both inner and outward toward the other six. Some, like A'Khet – the current occupant of The Weeping Keep in Derbesh – remained on at least somewhat reliable terms with the capital. Others like N'Shar and R'Tor were so volatile, they seemed as apt to fight each other as they were to potentially side with the Facionists. Still others, U'Krell and S'Dir most especially, preferred to keep to themselves, and were seldom encountered beyond the bounds of their ancestral clan territory.

Joska, set along The Running Road as it was, brushed up right against the edge of G'Hesh land. If Tarun recalled correctly, it was Lord Kirben G'Hesh who had set the Fourth Company onto the tail of Sula and Nadathan's Factionists at Trosk. And so he was both reassured and boiling with silent anger as he helped Garrit pitch their tent. The G'Heshs weren't likely to interfere with the presence of a Gorian Royal Army company. Neither did they likely feel any remorse for their role in what had happened to Trosk. As a mountain man before a soldier, Tarun was more inclined to bask in his resentment toward that particular clan than he was to enjoy Joska's hospitality.

Jerriod, it seemed, had other ideas. To Tarun's surprise (and quiet rancor), the captain sent for him just as the sun was beginning to set and dinner wash-up duty was being assigned. Tarun found Jerriod standing outside the officers' tents at the center of camp. Lieutenant Neel and Officer Pedrum stood nearby with their heads together, deep in conversation. There was another person there as well; a lowlander soldier of middling height and build, perhaps Tarun's age if not a little older. The soldier eyed Tarun dubiously from beneath high-arched brows as he approached. No doubt Tarun's public humilitation was far from forgotten, and just as another reminder his back decided to flare painfully beneath his jerkin.

It was immediately apparent that, going forward, Jerriod had no intention of treating Tarun as anything more than another cog in the Fourth's wheel. He watched Tarun deliver the mandatory snap-to and bow with impassive calm, even letting him stand there afterwards in uncomfortable silence under the eyes of the officers and every other soldier in the vicinity.

Even after only a few weeks in the Royal Army though, Tarun knew enough to keep quiet and wait. Lowly footsoldiers did not address their commanding officers first when summoned. At this point, bottom-barrel was likely the highest rank which Tarun would ever occupy, so he knew he may as well get used to standing and waiting. The longer the silence went on though, the harder it was growing for Tarun to keep the resentment from making its way across his face. The last thing he needed right now was another thirteen rounds with Pedrum.

Finally, Jerriod put Tarun out of his misery. "Thrymmson, you are to seek the attention of a healer in Joska tomorrow morning. I am assigning Derrian Bel here to accompany you. I have given him the coin to pay for the healer's services, as well as directions. I expect you both reported back to the sentries by midday, if not sooner as this is not in any way a recreational leave. Am I understood?"

Whatever Tarun had been expecting, it wasn't to be sent to a healer. Keeping the stripes on his back clean and scabbed over had been proving difficult though, especially on the road as they constantly were. Even with Garrit's help, there was little he could do except ginergly dab at the inflamed, crusty wounds with dampened rags at the end of each day. Despite all efforts and the passage of days, his shirt still came away stuck to his back each time he tried to remove it. And that was all to say nothing of the burning, jaw-clenching pain that shot across his shoulders and chest every time he tried to lift his arms or bend over. If the army was prepared to pay to clean up the damage which they had caused in the first place, then Tarun wasn't about to refuse.

'Not that I have any say in anything anways,' he thought bitterly. What he said was "Yes Captain."

"Yes Captain," echoed Derrian Bel, his voice lightly accented in a way that Tarun did not recognize.

After they had made their bows and been dismissed, Tarun glanced skeptically at the other soldier before he dissapeared between the tents. So Jerriod was assigning him a shepherd, was he? So be it, but that didn't mean that Tarun had to do anything more than tolerate the presence of the lowlander tomorrow in Joska. Jaw firmly set, he strode away to the side of camp where the mountainfolk had pitched their tents, resolving to be as brisk and impersonal as possible when dealing with Derrian Bel the next day.

OoOoO

Everything started out according to plan. When Tarun rose with the first bell and made for the edge of camp, army-issue cloak held tight to ward off the pre-dawn chilld, Derrian Bel was already waiting. He greeted Tarun with a quick nod, and Tarun's reply was just as austere. With no further niceties wasted, they set out from the Fourth's camp toward Joska.

As to be expected with market days, Joska and the various merchant camps pitched along The Running Road were already coming to life. The two of them made their way into town amidst streams of clansfolk - merchants and shoppers alike - many leading tall-horned rhinos with bundles of goods tied to their backs. The grey, leathery animals snorted at strangers when they passed too near, and one grumpy looking old creature even let out a rumble at a nearby griffin. The griffin, draped along a low stone wall beside its rider, merely gave the rhino a narrow look before returning to preening its feathers.

"This way."

After walking this far together in absolute silence, Tarun was almost startled to hear Derrian speak to him directly. With a curt nod though, he follwed the other man down a side street. A rhino's cantankerous bellow echoed after them, loudly punctuating the rising buzz of a crowded market.

At first, Tarun was willing to simply trail after his lowlander guide, head down and shoulders hunched to apease the irritation of his flayed back. The longer they walked though, and the further behind they left the main roads, the more Tarun began to take notice. Surely a healer wouldn't be tucked this far back from the marketplace, would they?

Still loathe to engage, Tarun said nothing. Nevertheless, he began to keep a sharp eye on their surroundings as they went further and further into Joska. The buildings here were beginning to look less like main attractions and more like a humble housing district. Long gone were the artfully etched red edifices and conical tile roofs; on either side of the narrow, packed-earth street there were only wattle and daub houses, single-storied and topped with dry thatch. Children with sandaled feet and curious eyes watched as the two soldiers passed by, although one mother noticed them and was quick to shoo her little ones inside.

There was nothing for it. Tarun's rising suspicion demanded that he say something. Clearing his throat, he spoke bluntly to Derrian.

"There's no healer here, this far off the main street. Where are you leading me?"

A huffy look over one shoulder was Derrian's first answer.

"Captain Jerriod gave me the directions," he replied. Squaring his shoulders and adjusting his tunic – the golden crown of Goran staring back in Tarun's face - Derrian marched down another narrow side street with absolute conviction.

Tarun held his peace only a few blocks further. When they turned and nearly walked straight into a goat pen between two houses though, he had had enough.

"There are no healers here," he repeated, more vehemently this time. "What is this?!"

"The captain said it would be this way, three blocks after the covered well!"

"I didn't see any...wait a minute." Suspicion suddenly turned to disbelief, and Tarun reached forward to seize Derrian by the shoulder. "Are you lost??"

A flush of embaressment crawled up the other man's neck, even as he shrugged off Tarun's hand.

"I am not lost! We passed the well just a few houses back, did we not?"

"That was no well, that was an altar."

"...A what?"

The blank look of confusion on Derrian's face reminded Tarun that he was dealing with a lowlander, probably from west of The Teeth. Throwing up his hands incredulously, Tarun immediately felt the welts on his back flare and regretted the gesture.

"An altar? To make offerings to call down the rains? The Fourth passed this way before on the way to Trosk; surely you've seen such things among the clansfolk?"

"No, actually, I was rather occupied by the possibility of being ambushed by a band of griffin riding Factionists!" snapped Derrian, still blushing scarlet.

"Aggghh!" Turning away with a growl, Tarun surveyed the narrow, claustrophic street in which they now stood. There was no sign whatsoever of the main road, or the marketplace, or anyone at all for that matter. Pretty much all the locals had retreated indoors, no doubt scared off by the tell-tale red tunics that marked the two of them out as soldiers.

"What directions did Jerriod give you, exactly?" asked Tarun.

Derrian held out his hands helplessly. "He said 'Follow The Running Road into town, and turn right past the farrier. Keep walking until you reach the covered well, then turn left. The town healer has a shop three blocks down on the corner.'" Seeing Tarun's unmasked annoyance, Derrian doubled down. "We left the main road at the farrier, just as the captain said!"

"Well clearly you don't know what a well looks like. Can you at least lead the way back?"

"Erm..."

A look of sudden panic froze Derrian in mid-protest. Elbowing past Tarun, he rushed back to where they had passed the altar. Admittedly, it did look remarkably like a well – as it was meant to, being intended to envoke rain – although the wind chimes hanging from the top and the light blue painted symbols clearly gave it away. Turning on the spot, Derrian looked down one deserted street, then another, no direction bringing any spark of confidence.

"...You have no idea where we are, do you?" Tarun groaned.

"I do!" protested Derrian. "We're..." He turned on the spot once more.

"Lost," concluded Tarun bitterly.

The struggle was obvious on Derrian Bel's face as he tried to find some way to counter Tarun's accusations. His eyes – a unique shade of pale blue – flashed back and forth between Tarun's stare, the unfriendly houses, and the empty streets. After holding out valiantly for several moments more, finally Derrian sagged.

"We could always knock on a door and ask for directions?" he offered.

"And scare the daylights out of whoever realizes they have royal soldiers on their doorstep? How about not."

"Well, what then??"

Tarun rolled his eyes. Striding up to stand beside the rain altar, he studied each other three streets before them.

"That way seems more well-worn, so perhaps people have been passing that way to and from the main road. Come on."

Now it was Derrian's turn to trot along at Tarun's heels while Tarun led the way. Several blocks passed that way, and when they ended up wandering around the back alley behind a cart-maker's stockyard Tarun was forced to admit that perhaps this wasn't the way to the main road.

"Look, why don't we just ask for directions?" Catching Tarun by the elbow, Derrian pointed to a pair of men working to fit a wheel to a cart inside the shed.

"No. We're at a dead end, so we can at least be sure it's not this way."

And so they returned to the street corner with the rain altar yet again. Overhead, the lengthening morning brought the sun over the rooftops with it. Jerriod would be expecting them in a few hours. Now people were beginning to re-emerge from their homes, and many pairs of eyes watched them with cautious flickers of curiosity. Tarun determinedly ignored them. The soldier's uniform he wore made him feel strangely self-conscious, and his back only grew itchier and more painful as the late summer heat made him sweat.

"Are all you mountainfolk so taciturn and stubborn?!" demanded Derrian.

"Excuse me??"

Derrian pointed at a nearby front stoop where numerous children peeked out past the doorway. "There are dozens of locals all around us, any one of which could probably tell us the way. Just ask one, for Amenthis's sake!"

It made perfect sense at this point to follow Derrian's advice and simply ask for directions. Whether it was the fact that he was a lowlander, a soldier of the Fourth, looking at Tarun like he was daft, or just plain annoying, Tarun had already made up his mind to stand his ground.

"There's only one street left to try. What good are directions to you anyways, seeing as you clearly can't follow them?"

Derrian's eyes widened in surprise, followed immediately by a furious scowl. Glaring daggers, he stomped after Tarun as the two of them followed the third and final street, leaving many bemused stares in their wake.

OoOoO

"That's ENOUGH!"

Half an hour and countless dead ends later, and Tarun and Derrian were just as lost if not even moreso than they had been at the rain altar. It seemed beyond belief that a town no bigger than Geristan should be this impossible to navigate. Every street looked the same though; nothing but clay buildings, reed shutters, and nervous eyes. Rounding on Derrian where he stood planted in the middle of the street, hands on hips, Tarun's fatally frayed temper finally snapped.

"Will you just shut up?! I could have been to the healer and back by now if Jerriod hadn't cursed me with you!"

"You're cursed?! When the captain asked for someone to accompany you, all the men had to resort to drawing straws! You scraggly goat-herders have been worse than a bother! It's bad enough that you sound like a bunch of stone giants, grunting at each other in your awful accent and sculking together in corners. It's been nothing but trouble since Trosk though! Fights, suicide, desertion...you're turning the Fourth Company into a mockery! And – the crowning glory - with Princess Ellorae as a witness!"

That did it. Lightning in his eyes, Tarun seized Derrian by the front of his tunic and dragged him nearly nose-to-nose.

"You think we want to be here?! You and your wretched Fourth Company gutted our village! I'm beginning to think I should just-"

Unnoticed by Tarun and Derrian, so caught up in their anger as they both were, they had wandered into one of the more isolated corners of Joska. Here the watching eyes were no longer those of curious mothers and children. In fact, several unseen figures had taken note of the red army tunics which they wore, as well as heard them mention the Amentherian princess, and decided these two soldiers might be useful. It was not, in fact, until the sack dropped over Tarun's head that he realized getting lost might not have been the worst of their troubles.

Derrian, thankfully, was a little bit taller and thus harder to reach for a would-be-kidnapper with their hood. Out of sheer instinct, he snapped his head back in surprise. The back of his head made contact with the face of the person behind him, and they toppled backwards, cursing thickly past a bleeding nose.

"Ger'off me!" Tarun hollered, scrabbling with blind fingers for the sword on his belt. A sudden sharp jab at the side of his neck stopped him in mid-draw though. Someone had a knife to his throat.

"Move and he dies!" Tarun's attacker shouted at Derrian.

Derrian, however, was not unduly concerned with Tarun's health and wellbeing after their quarrel. This oddly enough ended up working out in his and Tarun's favour. Rather than surrender, he pulled the first thing his fingers touched off his belt and flung it hard and fast at the assailant's face. Weighing almost as much as a small bag of stones, the coin purse which Jerriod had given them struck the man square in the eye.

"Argh!"

The knife twitched away from Tarun's neck for a split second, and even with a hood over his head that was all the chance Tarun needed. Ducking into a forward roll, he scrambled to his feet and pulled himself free of the sack.

There were three attackers; garbed in dark, travel-worn clothes and assorted leather gear, as well as layered head wraps after the fashion of clansfolk. The faded grey smudge between their eyebrows tugged at Tarun's memory, and realization hit him like a loadstone. These three were Factionists.

"Back off!" he shouted at them, even as he drew his sword.

"No! The royal army has no right to these lands!"

Movement shifted behind Tarun, and to his begrudging relief he recognized Derrian placing the two of them back-to-back.

"Wait!" The third figure who had until now been hanging back called out. "You're from Trosk?"

"...Yes."

"Put down your sword. We're with Sula and Nadathan."

The names of the Facionist ringleaders who had unwittingly led the Fourth Company to Trosk did nothing to cheer Tarun. In fact, he felt a sudden surge of bitter ire toward these mercenary rebels.

"What do you want?" Tarun demanded, still holding his sword out in front of him.

"Put down your sword," the third Factionist repeated. "We can offer you freedom, and a chance to avenge your village."

"Don't listen to them!" growled Derrian over Tarun's shoulder.

Tarun ignored him. "Avenge? ...How?"

"The Fourth Company is traveling with the Princess Ellorae right now, aren't they? On the way to Derbesh?"

"What of it?"

The Factionist whom Derrian had head-butted spoke up, still pinching the bridge of their nose. "You could help us set an ambush between here and Derbesh. Help us plan how best to catch the Fourth off-guard, and with the princess as a hostage we could end this war in a week. You and your folk would be free to go home, back to Trosk."

Back to Trosk...it should have be a dream come true. But for some reason, excitement was not Tarun's first reaction. If the future unfolded just as these Factionists said, he would indeed be free to go back to Trosk...but Trosk was not where he, Tarun, wanted to be. He wanted be in Amenthere, standing upon the threshold of The Academy, about to begin his studies in a mastery of his choosing. Jerriod might have foresaken him, but the words of Lady Elowen still rang in his mind.

'There are higher powers in this land than the officers of the Royal Army, Tarun Thrymmson. Remember that.'

A recommendation to The Academy from an army captain was one thing...but another thought had taken root and been growing in Tarun's mind, nourished and strengthened every time he turned the silky pages of Second. What higher power could there be than the blood of Amenthis? Who greater to ensure a commoner's place at The Academy? It seemed that the princess and her handmaiden had taken some interest in his deeds as of late; why else would Princess Ellorae have instructed Elowen to give him such a valuable book? If he sided with the Factionists now...yes, he might end up free of the army. But unless the Factionists utterly defeated Mahir, removing him entirely from power, such treason would decimate Tarun's last possible road to The Academy. It all came down to who he believed would win the oncoming war; the Factionists, or the crown.

"Tarun!"

Hysteria was beginning to creep into Derrian's voice. If Tarun accepted the Factionists' offer, there was nothing to say they even needed him alive anymore. The three dark-swathed figures stood waiting, a few paces back but making it very clear they would not allow room for escape.

Tarun made his decision. "You're as much to blame for Trosk as the Fourth. Get out of my way."

The change was instant. All three sets of eyes narrowed beneath their head wraps, and swords were drawn with a ringing hiss.

"No. You'll help us capture the princess, as allies or as prisoners."

"Duck!"

The knife – thrown by one of the Factionists – hurtled past Tarun's shoulder and only missed the back of Derrian's head because he heeded Tarun's warning. The three Factionists rushed in at them like a sprung trap. Tarun had to deal with the focused attention of the third and largest Factionist, while the other two concentrated their attack on Derrian.

A real fight quickly proved to be worlds different from practice pairs with Pedrum. Tarun was pushed up on his heels, and only Derrian shoving back kept him on his feet. The Factionists fought with slim, long swords, each with a hooked barb on the top edge of the blade. The little barb quickly proved to be almost as dangerous as the sword itself; several times Tarun had to twist his own sword away at the last second before it could be caught and pulled straight from his hands.

Behind Tarun, Derrian was not faring much better. Two against one was stiff odds for anyone, and the best he could hope for was to continue blocking attacks as they came. With Tarun covering his back and vice versa, they were at least able to stand and fight without having to constantly worry about being flanked. On the other hand, neither of them could move very far to avoid their opponents without losing the benefit of their rear-guard. It was overall a very bad position to be in; they were pinned down and the Factionists knew it. All the three rebels had to do was wear the two of them down and eventually they would find an opening.

It seemed that just such a mistake had been made when the tall Factionist locked swords with Tarun. Rather than try to break the lock though, the Factionist threw their body weight forward. Tarun reacted instinctively, falling backward against what he thought would be Derrian. Derrian, however, had just at that moment been forced to lean far to one side to avoid an incoming swing from on high. Tarun's shoulders met nothing but air, and depite locked knees and corded muscles, he could not prevent himself from falling over backwards. He landed with a painful thud, his whipped back making full contact with the ground. Nearly blinded by the pain and winded, Tarun tried and failed to bring his sword up fast enough for a block as the Factionist's blade fell...

By some stroke of sheer luck, Derrian's dramatic lean to escape his own attacker brought the point of his sword up high and back over one shoulder. Caught up in his own forward momentum and the excitement of impending victory, Tarun's attacker either did not notice or could not stop himself in time to avoid Derrian's sword. The tip caught him square under the chin, driving home and killing the man instantly.

Blood spattered Tarun's face, and he blinked up in shock. The Factionist loomed frozen above him, held up only by Derrian's sword. Then a shout of anger from one of the other Factionists forced Derrian back into the fight, and when his sword pulled away the dead man collapsed across Tarun's legs.

There was no time to dwell on having witnessed such a brutal thing though. Unsettled and without Tarun guarding his back, Derrian was immediately driven back on the defense. The other two rebels were quick to press their advantage, eagerly circling Derrian like a pair of hunting falcons. This gave Tarun the split-second he needed to scramble to his feet and attack one of the Factionists from behind.

A shrill whistle split the air, ringing in the narrow streets and bringing every head snapping around. The noise of the fight must have attracted attention; half a dozen men in yellow surcoats and padded chainmail were charging down the street toward them. Tarun remembered having seen several such figures at the main entrance into Joska; town guards, no doubt. Their angry voices certainly carried a certain measure of authority.

"Drop your blades! Do it now!"

Tarun and Derrian were quick to obey; if three against two had been difficult to manage, six against two would be impossible. The Factionists, however, had other notions. No doubt as rebels they could ill-afford to be arrested by guards still under Amentherian authority...at least on paper. They turned and ran for it, sprinting down a nearby alley. A low gate barred the path, but the two helped one another vault over it with surprising agility. By the time the town guards reached where Tarun and Derrian stood, the surviving Factionists were gone.

"What is this?!" One of the guards shouted at them, black eyes blazing in a sun-weathered face. "By what right do two lone soldiers spill blood in Joska?"

Tarun's first instinct was to come right out and protest that they had been attacked, by Factionists no less. A second thought came to him warningly though. If word got out that there had been a fight between royal soldiers and Factionists inside Joska, no doubt Jerriod would be notified. Trosk had nearly been razed for harbouring Factionists. After being foiled following Hengar's desertion, Jerriod would no doubt be spoiling for an opportunity to reassert his authority. An incident like this would be perfect fodder for Joska to become the next Trosk... Would the fact that these were G'Hesh lands be enough to forestall the captain's wrath? The memory of The Giant's Shoe burning made a powerful argument not to risk it.

"We were attacked..." Derrian was just beginning to say, a finger pointed accusingly at the dead Factionist.

"We were attacked by robbers," interrupted Tarun. When Derrian tried to protest, he barreled onward. "By what right do you call yourself guardsmen if you can't even keep petty thieves from attacking soldiers of the king's Fourth? I haven't seen such disrespect for the crown since we passed through Trosk!"

Tarun laid extra emphasis on the name of Trosk. He also gave Derrian a subtle side-eye which held an unmistakable warning.

Derrian was not quite as bad with hints as he was with directions. He gaped at Tarun, seemingly unsure. At the last possible second though, he changed his mind and turned on the guards instead.

"You're lucky we were able to fight them off. How terrible would it look for Joska if a soldier of the royal army were to be attacked and murdered within its bounds?!"

The realization that they were indeed dealing with soldiers – with an entire Company camped just outside their town - brought an instantaneous change over the guards. The leader's previously outraged tone morphed into one of purely sympathetic concern.

"Thank the spring rains that neither of you were harmed! And it seems the thieves didn't even manage to get what they came for..."

Following the guard's open wave, Tarun realized that Derrian's coin purse was indeed lying accusingly open in the middle of the street, luns and ignums shining in the bright mid-morning sun. Derrian was quick to kneel down and begin gathering up Jerriod's money.

"No thanks to Joska's guards," remarked Tarun coldly, trying to project both authority and disapproval with every word.

Uncomfortable silence fell, in which Derrian finished gathering up the coins and the town guards shuffled amongst themselves. The stood facing one another – soldiers and guards – with the dead Factionist lying in the street between them. At length the leader cleared his throat.

"I...imagine you'll be wanting to file a report at the magistrate's office, then?"

Tarun waved the suggestion away as if it were just another fly in the dry eastern air. "No, we leave dealing with crime in Joska's streets to you. The royal army has more pressing concerns than your campaign against petty theives."

The man hid his emotions well, Tarun had to give him that. The sag of relief at knowing the army would not be getting involved in Joska any further was barely visible, but there all the same. He snapped a quick bow, as did the other five guards.

"It will be dealt with, on my word."

"See that it is."

Not wanting to linger any longer, Tarun jerked his head at Derrian toward the street from which the guards had just come. Radiating just as much confidence and authority as Tarun, Derrian was quick to fall into step beside him. Together, the two of them quick-marched away, hoping with all their might that this road might finally lead back to Joska's main thoroughfair.

When they were well beyond earshot of the guards, Tarun seized Derrian by the arm. Pulling him into a narrow cubby between two houses, he growled;

"You helped me cover up that those were Factionists. Why?"

"...I was at Trosk too, you know. What happened to your village...shouldn't happen here."

"Why should you care? You've made it more than clear that you think we're just a pack of grunting rabble-rousers and traitors."

Derrian's high brows flew together; the man actually had the audacity to look afronted. "That doesn't mean I want to see more inns burned. Besides, I know you at least aren't a traitor."

"Oh?" Tarun scoffed.

"You aren't. You could have thrown in your lot with those Factionists back there, but instead you fought at my back. If you hadn't done that, I'd probably be dead right now. Or at very least, kidnapped and being interrogated by Factionists."

O, how Tarun wanted to throw some manner of sarcastic comment back in Derrian Bel's face. Perhaps it was the still-receding nerves of their fight with the Factionists, or the stinging ache of his back, but Tarun's formidable collection of retorts deserted him just then. Derrian smiled smugly.

"Come on. I think I see a crowd at the end of that street there. If we're going to find the healer and get back to camp before midday, we'll have to hurry."

When Derrian pushed past Tarun and back out into the street, Tarun gave up on finding a suitably cutting remark and followed him. Sure enough, at the end of the street they emerged out into a crowded, sunlit marketplace, filled with all manner of shoppers and vendors.

"This time, we ask for directions," said Derrian.

"We don't need directions," Tarun insisted. "Not if you let me navigate this time."

Derrian rolled his eyes so dramatically, it was a wonder they didn't go spinning away into the sky. "Fine. It's your back that'll go without if we get lost again."

Tarun was just about to start working his way through the crowd when an at least half-serviceable insult came to mind.

"You know, for all your whining about our accents, you hardly have much of a mountain to stand on."

Derrian came runnning after Tarun. "What exactly is that supposed to mean??"

"You sound like you're exagerrating everything when you talk. And your voice goes up and down more than a ram lost on a hillside."

"I will have you know, my parents actually had the money to send me to a proper Vaelonese school! I learned my letters alongside the children of some of the city's most properous businessfolk...and even the minor nobility!"

"Hurrah for you. You still sound like a fool."

"Well you just try taking that gutteral mess of yours inside the walls of Amenthere! You're almost as bad as the fisherfolk from the south. I met one once, and I swear, the way they talk comes straight from the roof of the mouth...!"

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Tarun had to endure nearly another two hours of Derrian's non-stop anecdotes, teasing, and general commentary on all the ways in which he and the other mountainfolk would stand out like sore thumbs amongst Goran's upper eschelons. By the time they made it back to camp – with not a minute to waste and covered in poultice and bandages on Tarun's part – Tarun thought he might have made a mistake in not letting the Factionists just kill the man. The sentiment only multiplied when Derrian thumped him companionably on the back before they parted ways.

"You know, I think I could get used to your company, Tarun Thrymmson!" he declared, drawing incredulous stares from Thyge and Joar where they stood building up the cooking fire nearby.

Tarun ground his teeth. "Well, don't. I don't imagine we'll have much cause to speak again now that we're back."

"Now there you're quite wrong! It is, after all, a long way to Derbesh!"

Tarun prayed that Factionists would be merciful enough as to ambush them along The Running Road long before then.

OoOoO