Chapter Three – The Trade Wagon.

Benador stood squarely in the path of the approaching horses, announcing his presence as surely as they had
revealed theirs. The Lone Wolf was in some way relieved that the ritual of obeisance would not be played out
again, as the Royal Armies of the capital had always seen themselves as equal to the Kai. Indeed, the hail from
their banneret was one of almost jovial tones. As the steeds cantered to a halt, Benador approached, and nodded
curtly in deference of the Sommerlund banner – a red backdrop bearing a crowned sun, and the stylised initials
of the ruler, Tanor Strannell. Any casual observer would have ended their description there; but through his
extensive knowledge of heraldry, his understanding of the symbols went deeper.
The crown, of course, was simply that – informing even the dullest mind that they were in the presence
of the Royal Forces. The sun beneath, though, was far more. With sixteen rays, eight triangular points divided
by a further eight curved beams, an intelligent observer ignorant of the history of the rulers of the Sommlending
might yet have drawn the correct analogy to a compass, but could not have understood the purpose of the
seemingly inconsequential dot separating the king's initials, directly under the southern bearing. This, Benador
knew, represented the direction from which the Strannell dynasty arrived at Holmgard. Over two hundred years
ago, King Tanor's ancestors undertook a journey of many miles northwards from the lands of Ruanon, the first
home of the Sommlending. It was there, Benador recalled, that Ulnar Strannell, allied with troops sent by the
then-king of Hammerdal, first defeated the Drakkarim and their sorcerous Vordak. The natural abyss sundered
the Durncrag range, separating Sommerlund from the darklands; and although the enemies' own capital city of
Helgedad, was many miles from the rift, Ulnar realised that they could no longer remain safe at that location.
Holmgard was the ideal destination, being much larger and more defensible. Upon arrival at the city, and after
an explanation of his epic victory, Ulnar was knighted on the spot by the present ruler, King Farne. A ballot was
arranged throughout the royal court; and although not unanimous, the voting was very strongly in favour of
Ulnar's eventual ascension to the throne upon the death of the childless ruler, himself at the end of his own long-
standing dynasty. Thus did King Ulnar come to wield the supreme power in Sommerlund; and he, and all his
progeny, ruled with strict kindness to the present day. Tanor was the fifth child, along an all-male lineage, to
bear the crown; and there was a subtle character-play even here, with the initial S being designed so as to be
intentionally confusible with the relevant digit. All of this history was remembered in a moment upon sight of
the wavering banner before him.

‘My Liege-Lord’ the Kai correctly began. ‘I bring tragic news regarding the extensive lands of your
most benevolent ruler’
The banner-bearer frowned, partly from the doom-laden words of this stranger, partly from the formal language,
doused liberally with flattering adjectives; but mostly from the state of the individual before him, clearly a
young Kai; and therefore almost certainly an initiate in the arts.
‘You may speak more freely, initiate’ the knight conceded. Benador bowed again, and continued.
‘My Lord Knight, as time must press upon you at this late hour, I shall make my report brief. The
cityport of Toran has fallen to the Drakkarim, as has the Kai Monastery – I remain as the last of its order; at first
the Silent Wolf, now renamed Lone Wolf. The remaining Toranese travell to seek sanctuary at Holmgard, and I
have undertaken a quest to report the news to the King so that he is prepared when the invasion reaches that
city's walls, as it surely will.’
The royal knight nodded as the paraphrased information was related.
‘Lord Lone Wolf,’ he began in mutual respect of the powers of the Kai. ‘The King has been made aware
of the threat of the Drakkarim forces, the main body of which have already been engaged in combat as far from
the capital as possible. So far, reports are good – the enemy force, although much larger than our own, lacks our
military training and has therefore not gained any significant ground towards Holmgard – yet your words give
another reason why this is so. We had predicted an initial attack on the city, and had not anticipated the prior
inclusion of the Kai Monastery or Toran in their battleplans. The fall of both, we are distraught to acknowledge.
As you may imagine, the King is busy with strategy, and at this time cannot be disturbed, even though the fine
details of your report will be of value to him. I can, however, take you to his eldest son, Pelathar, to whom the
news would be equally invaluable. Please, ride with us to the Heir Apparent.’
 Benador smiled as another of the riders indicated the back of his steed, offering him a hand and a stirrup to
assist with mounting. Lone Wolf placed one foot within the strap, and had lifted his other from the floor just
before a terrific pain assailed him, and he tumbled backwards, screaming in agony.

The snub-nosed dragon raised a wicked battleaxe in its arms, its chitinous jaws foaming
rabidly. Beneath its reptilian feet, the iron man with four wings instead of ears fell back,
and the encouraging snarls of the Giaks behind the beast urged it on. One swipe would
sever the mutant's two heads, one blank and featureless placed beneath the muzzle of a
dwarven horse surrounded by a barbed circlet…

‘No!’ Benador screamed, coming to his senses. His bruised head throbbed anew, as he had fallen upon
the wound. He was aware of the rider who had offered his hand jumping hastily off his steed in concern.
‘My Lord, are you alright?’ the banneret called. ‘Are you well enough to travel with us?’
‘I…’ Benador sat upright carefully, nursing his temples. ‘I believe so…but…images…so real…so
vivid.’ He stumbled over his words, recalling the nightmare scene and its details. Especially clear in his mind
were the elements which did not make sense; as upon emerging from a bout of deja-vu, as he undoubtedly had,
he recognised from past experience that such symbols were potent omens of a possible fate; one that was more
often than not undesirable, his mind somehow seeing into the unknown future and advising him what should be
avoided. Yet, when he had suffered from this psychic phenomenon before, he had only experienced mild
discomfort, headaches, strained eyes, tinnitus. Perhaps it was because of the injury already sustained, and yet…
The tiny horse, the wings on the mans head where ears should have been…no, he saw it better now.
Only two of the wings were there…the other two were on the sides of the horse…
‘My Liege,’ he began to ask, suddenly sitting up, and triggering another small wave of nausea.
Shaking his head muzzily, he continued.
‘Whereabouts is Prince Pelathar? Answer me with the truth I command as Kai.’
‘My Lord,’ the knight slumped. ‘The Prince is on the battlefield, fighting for his father.’
‘My Lord, please understand our motives’ the banneret pleaded. ‘We require your assistance on the
battlefield. Should the Prince fall, morale will decline, and the forces of the Drakkar would advance inexorably
towards the palace.’
‘Every word you have spoken is the exact truth’ Benador admitted, slowly, ‘but it is the words you did
not speak that were the more important. The King must now be warned, for it may already be too late to save
the Crown Prince.’
‘My Lord, how can you say such…’ the banneret stopped as the implication hit him.
‘The spasm you witnessed just then, it had nothing to do with my spate of recent misadventures…I
possess a more advanced form of the Sixth Sense, the control of which no Kai Lord can teach, as the discipline
is virtually unknown. In my mind, I saw a glimpse of a future. The Prince's symbol is that of Pegasus, is it not?’
‘Yes – that is what you saw?’ The banneret imagined the mythical beast in flight.
‘Graven upon the crowned helmet of the fully armoured Prince…he was struggling against something
the likes of which I have not encountered, so my brain could not rationalise it fully. It appeared to be in the
likeness of a dragon, but without the snout.’
‘A Gourgaz!’ recognised one of the cavalry. ‘It is a hideous demonspawn, created in the darklands by
the Vordak experiments. The creature is a construct, with four limbs like a human, the tail of a crocodile, and
the ghastly aspect of something not of this world.’
‘And this reptile-fiend was pitted against the heir…why, such devils were created for no purpose other
than mortal battle. If all you saw is true, then there truly is no hope' another added. Benador shook his head.
‘There is always hope, my Liege. I claimed it to be the future, and it may still be so; a future which those
with foreknowledge might be able to change. You must meet the battle as you were ordered. I, however, will
continue to the capital. With luck, we will meet again after this ordeal.’
There was a moment of contemplative silence, broken only when the leader ordered his soldier back up onto the
saddle. He turned to Benador, and nodded his agreement.
‘Go, Lone Wolf.’ The cavalrymaster commanded. ‘Go with our blessing.’
The regal motif was piped out, and the horses thundered onwards to their fate. A moment later, Benador turned
southwards, and continued towards his.
By now, the thrall of night had completely covered the forest, although the starlight remained sufficient for
vision. At this hour, the monastary would have been as quiet as the stones from which it was comprised; the Kai
within solitary meditation, or else sleeping through the moonlit hours to rise briskly at the break of dawn.
Benador was surprised to find the world outside its walls was not subject to the same doctrine – even now there
was life to be found on the tradepath, as more hooves sounded on the stones. This time, though, they were
accompanied by the creaking of strained wheels and the clanking of metal upon metal. The sounds, although
recognisable, caused Benador to start in shock, as they emanated from directly behind him, and were rapidly
increasing in volume. As he turned, the snorting of two overheated horses combined with the percussion; and
Benador threw himself off the road to avoid being seen by the approaching beasts. Once hidden, he watched as
the van clattered closer. As he saw the drayhorses, their manes matted with broken leaves and twigs, his fear
evaporated. These animals were not employed by the Drakkarim, although it was clear that they had been
recently spooked; and had undertaken a forest diversion to escape their fear. Now that they had turned onto the
traderoute, their panic had eased, yet the travel was still maintained at a fear-inspired pace, rushing them on
towards the capital. Their driver held fast to the reins with white knuckles, his hide whip flailing, unrequired, at
his feet, and a weatherproof cowl struggling to remain atop his head. Benador smiled at the twist of fate, as this
must surely be. Here was a rapid passage throughout the night, which, by the new day might arrive at the gates
of Holmgard. He had to be careful not to rattle the horses anew, so as the trade caravan rattled past, Benador
lithely jumped onto the tailboard at the rear of the van, his actions making hardly a noise. Although he realised
that the driver would be deafened by the sounds of the vehicle's metallic cargo, he knew not who else might be
lurking behind the thin wooden portal he now crouched against, seeking yet to find a secure footing on the
planks which were wettened by their trip through the forest. At last, clutching to the side of the lurching
caravan, he steadied himself, and had the chance to examine the exterior of his transport in greater detail.
The van was constructed purely from wood except for the connecting nails, yet the commonality of the
materials was overshadowed by the opulence of the paintwork they bore – the panels being decorated in a deep
and alluring scarlet punctuated by bright yellow flecks. These were separated by stout beams covered in the
richest gold hue. A ragged trade flag whipped in the breeze above him, torn by branches, and threatening to
separate completely from its pole. Again the colours of gold and red were diagonally striped across its length.
Red signified the commodity of silks, and gold indicated the presence of aromatic spices. The conjunction was
common, as both would have been purchased in foreign lands, brought to the Sommlending for the benefit of its
wealthier denizens; most of which were resident of Holmgard. The caravan itself would contain the lion's share
of the stock, although the many bound chests and casks jostling around on the roof of the caravan would also
contain skeins of material of lesser quality, or vials of commoner powders, the clinking of glass upon glass
being only just audible under the backdrop of the remaining tumult. No sooner had the Kai registered the facts
that his senses had provided than the door opened, almost dislogding his tenuous position on the tailboard.
Alerted by he knew not what, the guard certainly expected trouble, as his scimitar was already unsheathed, and
glinting wickedly in the moonlight.

‘Aha!’ the man grinned, his leer adding to his already unwholesome features. ‘You were quite correct.
We do have company; but it will not be for long.’
Whilst informing his hidden master of the news, the servant twisted his arm behind him to pull a thick curtain
over the exposed entrance, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on the stowaway who was concentrating hard
just to retain a grip on the rear beam, hunched low to maintain balance on the rocking planks. Yet as the blade
was raised, Lone Wolf played his gambit by rising upright, using his stature to dwarf the stocky swordbearer.
‘It would not do for my blood to enter the cabin, and risk damaging the wares within’ he praised. ‘You
have been taught well, citizen of Tyso.’

The unexpected words brought pause, enough for the bodyguard to re-study the new passenger. His purposeful
snarl morphed slowly into the face of one awestruck, then more speedily to fright as he realised the atrocity he
had been so close to committing. As he recognised the green vestments, his sword almost fell from his numbed
hand, yet the man had presence of mind enough to arrest this action, and replace the weapon into its sheath. The
guard swallowed hard, and steadied his voice.
‘My Lord Kai, it is auspicious to have your august presence upon our humble vessel.’
Only scant minutes had passed, yet Benador's situation had improved beyond recognition. It had not taken long
for the guard, Eikoluel, to usher him in; nor for the master merchant, Revanatra, to rest him on a soft chaise,
offer a him glass of rich wine, and make his introductions. Eikoluel fawned over the young man, insisting on
referring to him as a Kai Lord, even though his position as a mere initiate had been given. This, Benador
reasoned, would be less due to failure to recognise the lower status as a repeated show of penitence. Revanatra
himself treated the young man more amicably as the questions began pouring in from either side.
As the merchant learned of the purpose of the Lone Wolf, so too did Benador gain more information of
the fate of Sommerlund. Whilst Toran had been utterly destroyed, Tyso had only been visited by a handful of
Kraan and their Giak riders. There were three port towns almost equal in size; however the Tysans had no
control of magickal arts, and as such the Drakkar had no fear of its people. For this reason, he believed, had it
been spared. Likewise, in all probability, the northernmost town, Anskaven. Yet the Tysans had been decimated
nontheless by the viciously bloodthirsty carrion-birds; and many had taken flight for their lives. Revanatra had
been lucky, it appeared, to be already in motion when the skirmish had descended upon them, and as such he
had lost nothing of his livelihood – it was all here within and upon the vehicle. In this cabinet, opulent cloth
from Casala, dyed with rich colours obtained from its magnificent woodland flowers; here, a cask of food-
enriching spices from the notorious Barrakeesh, whose desert dwellers appear to subsist on such flavours.
Under the couch, a flat box of pressed garments, gowns and suits alike, garnered from the borderland of Orello.
As the elderly man's description continued further into the cataloguing of the wonders of his vast
inventory, Benador gave a relaxed laugh.
‘Lord Revanatra, would you be attempting to hawk your merchandise to one such as I?’
The man harrumphed, and voiced an observation he had not failed to notice on first sight of the tall young man.
‘You carry a money pouch, and I see it is not empty.’
‘Eight crowns’ Lone Wolf revealed. ‘Surely this would be insufficient to purchase more than a sleeve of
such glorious wardrobe.’
‘Not so, my Lord!’ the other retorted. ‘I am not one to hike up my prices for excess profit. You would
obtain the collar too, at the very least!’
For the first time since witnessing the trade caravan, Benador fell to laughter. The elder man also relented.
‘Never fear, I am aware of the Kai and their view regarding such luxuries. However, surely you would
not refuse a sample from my more palatable commodities. Join me in a supper of spiced meat and rice; and then
rest whilst Eikoluel remains alert for bandits.’

During their meal, as the finer points of each man's journey could be related, Benador relaxed into lighter
conversation. His sixth sense again lay dormant – there was no more to this man than there appeared; he was
guileless, and scared, but not so much from the fiends above as those on the paths themselves. Indeed, when the
Kai had alighted, the vigilant guard had initially suspected the visitor to be a night thief, and it seems that only
the Kai’s brazenness had saved him, as the identifiable robe could have been stolen, if not from a powerful
living Kai, then from a dead one who would not offer so much resistance. Since the fate of the monastery had
already been broached, Revanatra had, not unkindly, pointed out that there were now rather a lot of these.
Whilst a true felon would possess the wit to make such a statement, when faced with such a wicked-looking
weapon, they would sooner have jumped, and waited for another, less risky opportunity.
‘In truth,’ Revanatra revealed, conspiratorially, that blade has not once seen blood – nor would I ever
wish it to - as I employ the swordarm of my bodyguard only to cut my materials to the desired lengths of my
discerning clientele. It is quite a spectacle, and brings plenty of additional trade.’

Benador himself had virtually run out of enquiries, except for the nature of the wonderful meal that had been
presented to him; without charge, under the seal of friendship.
‘Well, I truly do not know if it has a Sommlending name’ the merchant admitted. ‘In Barrakeesh it is referred to
as Koyakhac. Due to its unique, pleasing taste, the rulers of the land serve it to visiting nobles, trying to flatter
their guests with their generosity. Indeed, the words’ root derives from Koyakakirrah, to ingratiate. I have once
heard a similar dish described as Curry; the word having the same definition in our own tongue.’
Benador absorbed the etymology lesson with as much willingness as he consumed the curry – thinking all the
while that should the Feast of Fehmarn have been completed, and had he been present, he would have not
learned so much in that day of compressed knowledge as he had done so far in his personal odyssey.
True to the proposed schedule, soon after the enchanting meal, its heated spices being countered in part
by a further goblet of the wine, Benador Vulpane was given a couch to sleep upon. More so than by continued
travel; the rest, the large meal, and even the conversation, as entertaining as it was, were tiring him, and it had
barely passed the midnight hour before the Lone Wolf returned to the whims of Morphian unconsciousness.

The lulling rattle of the constantly moving van provided Benador with a fitful sleep, but as ever, as the light of
dawn filtered through the trees, he woke. Quickly scanning the room before rising, he ascertained that the
merchant remained at rest. He wondered about Eikoluel and the driver, both of whom had apparantly remained
awake the night through; but the caravan possibly only travelled during the dark hours, when the traffic was
scant, and the chances of encountering highwaymen were lowest. Gently, so as not to disturb his host with
sudden light, he drew back the opaque window curtain, and saw that he had indeed travelled miles closer to his
goal. The trees here were sparser, and smaller – the heart of the forest was long behind him. The terrain, though
still favourable, was riddled with hills and valleys; the path causing the powerful horses to make slower pace
than he had originally anticipated, yet the capital must be close. As his heart lightened, a sudden piercing cry
chilled the blood passing through it. The unmistakable howl of a Doomwolf, and loud enough so as to be no
more than a quarter of a mile away.
‘What…is someone in pain?’ Revanatra burbled, roused rudely from his slumbers, and misinterpreting
the howl.
‘We soon could be’ Benador informed him. ‘That was a Doomwolf; another of the Drakkarim creatures
of war. Thankfully, each beast can only support a single rider; but the downside is there never is just the one of
them. Doomwolf packs in battle have never been known to be fewer than thirty in number.'
Eikoluel threw open the door curtain, bathing the two occupants in an uncomfortable amount of light
from the dawning sun.
‘Three wolves on the road in the middle distance’ he reported to his charges. ‘They seem unafraid of the
wagon, and bear their teeth at our steeds.’ The merchant tilted his head to the Kai Initiate, who explained.
‘It’s a scouting party. Their call will bring the mounted wolves running.’
‘A scouting party... of wolves?’ the guard queried, uncertainly.
‘The Doomwolves' intelligence is widely believed to be greater than that of their riders. Actually, that
often goes for the Kraan too.' As those words were spoken, an answering bay, still thankfully distant, was heard.
‘We cannot hope to fight them all’ Benador admitted, ‘but they should not attack if we do not advance.’
‘You mean they even recognise when they have bested their foe, without bloodlust leading them on?’
‘So I have heard from attending one of the previous feasts’ Benador conceded to the incredulous merchant, 'and
it is not often known for Kai Lore to be wrong.’
Lone Wolf thought awhile, calm despite the approaching foe, whose calls were getting louder by the moment.
‘There is only one option’ he concluded, voicing the results of his rumination.
‘You must turn the horses around, and proceed slowly back along the path. To move too quickly could
be construed as an attempt to contact your own reinforcements; as if this wagon a scouting vehicle, the truth of
which they wouldn’t be able to discern.’
‘We will act on your advise, Lord Kai’ Eikoluel bowed.
‘You speak of this as though you will not be travelling with us much longer’ Revanatra noticed.
‘I must continue’ Benador acceded, ‘and I must do so as swiftly as possible.’
‘You have some link with the creatures, being in name a wolf yourself?’ the guard quizzed, to which the
Kai laughed and shook his head.
‘Alas, were it that simple. The name of Vulpane was allocated many years ago along with all the others;
picked from a long list to distinguish each family from the others.’
‘Then, how do you intend to outpace them?’ the guard asked.
 ‘On four legs, I’m afraid.’ Benador replied, before leaving the cabin so fast that the others barely
registered his movements before reins were snapped, a horse sprinted towards, and jumped over the existing trio
of wolves, and the Lone Wolf had vanished southwards in a cloud of dust.
The Doomwolves were barely given a chance to prevent the departure, and turning swiftly on their heels, they
had but an instant to report the event to the approaching pack. With a notably different cry, the central wolf
raced after the steed, whilst leaving the other two to maintain their barricade. Very slowly, the carriage and its
remaining horse paced a half-circle, not daring to step too much closer to the remaining sets of snarling fangs,
and walked back towards the remains of Toran, leaving the two wolves to decide on their own course of action.

Despite his hasty move, Benador had thought through the most likely response of the scouts, and had not only
expected chase, but had in some respects counted on it, allowing for the increased safety of the carriage in its
escape from danger. He further anticipated, though, that only a small fragment of the approaching pack would
be sent to follow him. The biggest unknown factor was how many beasts that would represent – an uncertainty
both for the merchant and his entourage as much as for himself. He paced onwards, leading the horse swiftly
but not so as to discomfort the creature. At this calculated speed, whilst still approaching the capital faster than
he could on foot, he also realised that the wolves would be faster in pursuit, gaining ground surely, but more
importantly, slowly. This allowed him to reckon their number based upon the noise they were making, and
gauge his ensuing actions based on the result. The solution was provided ten or so minutes later, when four
wolves, three bearing Giaks, became visible. The odds were still too great to risk remaining on the open path,
and so the poor horse found itself being instructed once more into the trees.
Although the Kai had some skill in animal control, being able to lead wild animals with relative ease,
this horse had been trained by the hand of another; and as such was unused to the variation of the established
commands that its new rider was giving. Each moment that the horse lingered on the road, the distance between
Benador and his goal shrank, but at the same time put the beast and its rider at greater risk from the approaching
wolves. As a direct consequence of this, the more time the confused horse took to comprehend the instructions,
the more frightened it became; it too being very much aware of the danger racing towards it. Unfortunately, as
the panic increased, the less thought it could ascribe to deciphering of the instructions, which in themselves
became more urgent with each passing second. The situation began to spiral. Eventually, realising that the horse
would not respond as easily as he had hoped it would, Benador had to resort to more desperate measures. All he
had achieved so far was to guide the horse away from the centre of the tradepath, towards the diminishing
woodlands on their right; this being what the poor animal had misunderstood the signal to have been from the
outset. With another steep hill ahead, time was truly at a premium, for the ascent would slow the horse further,
allowing the enemy a greater chance to capture the fleeing beast. Lone Wolf uttered a hasty apology to his gods
for deliberately harming an innocent creature before quickly grabbing a branch from the foliage. Transferring
the stick to his other hand, careful never to let go completely of the reins, he whipped the poor horse severely
down its left flank, trying to aim for its natural blind-spot. The Kai Initiate raked the flesh rather than striking it
directly, aiming to fool the creature into believing that a wolf had already reached them, and was clawing at the
animal. As a gamble, it was chancy, but there was increasingly less to be lost.

Suddenly frightened by unexpected pain, the horse snickered and tossed its head wildly to and fro, to locate its
unseen attacker. Lone Wolf had chosen the area well, for the beast could not crane its neck sufficiently to notice
what was truly happening to it. Instinctively, the horse changed direction, away from the non-existant enemy,
into the forest. The desperate ploy had worked…almost. For in the time it had taken to move the horse aside,
the genuine foe had reached them. With a snap and a snarl from a Doomwolf, the horse buckled; and as
Benador leapt off the tilting steed, to avoid being crushed, the horse fell – and was instantly swarmed.

Benador did not dare look behind him as he fled from the wolves. Momentarily safe, as the vicious carnivores
would not leave such a large meal to rot behind them, he knew that the reprise was temporary. The powerful
jaws of single doomwolf could strip a horse bare in ten minutes flat, it was said; and here, four were sharing the
feast. Even more if the three Giaks were also ravenous, Lone Wolf admitted to himself. Although the ogre-kin
were not barbaric, choosing more civilised fare whenever the option was present, they also would not refuse
such rich meat if their need was dire enough. They would consume it raw, although the majority of the fresh
blood would be drained away first, either onto the forest floor, or down the gullets of their less picky steeds. On
his side, the fact that with the stench of carrion about their muzzles, Benador's own scent would be far less easy
to detect. Against him, the thinness of the forest here, which provided scant protection.
It was for times like these that the Kai discipline of Camouflage had been taught, and yet one could not learn
them all at the same time, and Benador had made his choices, which had served him well thus far.

The Lone Wolf ran without thought, trying to maintain as southerly a path as he could; for in this direction there
was a greater distance to cover than if he bore east instead. He ran speedily, his agile limbs and alert senses
taking him over obstacles almost before he had the chance to register them, and yet it seemed but a moment
later before he heard the snarl of the wolves once again on the hunt. Had he been running so long already? No,
he realised, this time he had guessed wrong. Only one of the four raced on his trail; the others would eat their
fill, and there would be sufficient remaining when this last beast returned to the grizzly dinner. Rather, it would
if it was still in need of sustenance by then. Along with the sounds of the doomwolf, a grim chuckle emanated
from its rider. The Giak was feeding an altogether different kind of hunger, his sword already unsheathed in
anticipation of the battle ahead. Rounding a small hill, their quarry was sighted, yet fleeing for his life.

Benador was aware of four eyes on the back of his skull, and yet he had to wait for the last possible moment
before changing his actions. Let them think he raced blindly until it was too late for them to know the truth. As
he sped along, his legs working automatically, without requiring much thought, his mind calculated the best
strategies open to him, which were somewhat limited. Judging by the rate at which they closed the gap, Lone
Wolf estimated there would be ten seconds before he was within range of the wicked sword that was being
waved menacingly, should he have the foolishness to turn and see it. The wolf was following his every step, and
its foul breath was now assailing his nostrils as he gasped for the air his body required in full flight. Benador
decided to use that to his own advantage. Even though the plan he had formed would be initially painful, he
would rather maim himself that let his enemy have the pleasure. He ran headlong into the largest oncoming tree.

The doomwolf did not fully comprehend what happened to it a moment later. All it realised was that its prey
had done something incredibly foolhardy before another part of its mind let slip that it was far too close to this
maniac, and therefore it was much to late to change its own trajectory. As a result, it too smashed into the trunk
at full pace, which was significantly faster than that of its prey. Even the Giak wore a stupid expression as it
flew forwards into the unyielding side of the mighty oak, inertia causing it to slip off the saddle to face the bark
head on before gravity dropped it like a dazed stone upon the stunned body of the wolf, whom itself rested,
deadweight, upon the Kai Initiate. And yet, as the formulator of the crazed plan, Benador was in the best
position to gain from it, despite his restricted position. Fumbling for the axe by his belt, he slewed himself
painfully around so as to be able to jam it straight upwards into the exposed ribcage of the still dizzy wolf that
weighed him down. With a yowl of agony, the beast pushed away, digging frantic claws against the bark for
leverage. All very well for the wolf, but as the beast flipped over, it crushed the rider beneath it all the more
heavily. Benador managed to gain his feet before either of his enemies. The doomwolf was already mortally
wounded by the direct strike at its heart. Its rider bruised and battered senseless, yet still very much able to
fight. Without the teeth and claws of the wolf, which was rolling around in its death throes, the battle was more
even. The Giak angrily stabbed at the Kai, both enemies weaving almost drunkenly as their heads swam in pain
from their respective collisions. It was surely due to this that the tip of its sword found Benador's shoulder just
before the somewhat dulled reactions of the initiate responded by swinging his bloodied felling axe at the foe's
weapon. He hissed in pain as his own heavier blade contacted the sharper, its tip still deep in his shoulderbone.
The momentum of the axe, coupled with the fact that the sword was unable to swing freely, caused the Giak
blade to be split in two, and as the opponents separated, Benador rapidly grasped the needle of metal that was
still embedded, lest it fall to open the wound further and allow increased blood loss. The remainder of the blade
was discarded as the Giak charged, weaponless and frenzied towards the struggling initiate. It was with a single
further motion, though, that the lethal axehead found itself buried in the odious creature's skull; and the dying
Giak pitched forwards, increasing the injury as he fell upon the tool which Benador wisely released on impact.
After the fight, which had been quick, but excrutiatingly painful, Benador took a while to attend to his shoulder.
With a hastily torn fragment of his robe in his hand, he pulled out the sword tip, replacing the cold metal with
the tough fabric as fast as he could manage. Struggling against blacking out, he squeezed the two halves of his
torn shoulder together as hard as he could, concentrating fervently on the power of healing.
In his mind, he called forth the gory injury, allowing his brain to imagine the blood congealing on the edges of
the tear, forming a protective scab beneath the green cloth, and binding the two sides of the wound to each
other. As the vision in his mind became clearer, so too did his arm throb in response, as the one became allied
with the other, and the mental image was forced into becoming true. Tentatively, Benador let the bloodstained
square of torn clothing free. For a while, it remained against the gash, the gumminess of the blood adhering it to
the flesh, but then the wind pried a corner loose, allowing the cool air onto the cut. Benador screamed, and
flinched; the movement causing the fabric to fall completely. It was accompanied only by a few viscous drops.
The Kai Lore had been successful, and the wound, although still tender, was protected by a paper-thin film of
dried blood. Benador allowed himself to rest awhile, testing whether one thing after another would dislodge the
natural shell – the force of the breeze, a single movement, a falling leaf. With each test, Benador half expected
the clot to burst, and the blood to flow anew, but his skills at healing were greater than he credited himself, and
the leaf skimmed past, causing an almost intolerable itch, but leaving the protective shell of congealed ichor
intact. He relaxed a little, and breathed words of thanks to his guardians above. Then, retrieving his axe from
the cracked cranium of the Giak and wiping it relatively clean against an untouched patch of grass, Lone Wolf
carefully went on his way before the three feasting wolves realised their comrade would not be breakfasting.

Upon cresting the hill before him, Benador almost exalted in relief – the walls of Holmgard were closer than he
had believed possible, the caravan having brought them over the Uneram during his sleep, and less than ten
miles from his destination. His recent diversion had removed him from the trade route, but at the same time
closer to another point of entry to the capital, as the river Eledil which flowed through the city was not three
miles away due south. It was to this that he headed now. It was less than an hour before he reached the northern
bank. He waited for a moment, watching the peaceful flow of the river wending its way towards the Holmgulf
and the Kirlundin straits before merging with the great Kaltersee; its course passing directly underneath the
capital city, where numerous wells had been bored down to meet it. Whilst the waters were relatively clear, the
Lone Wolf had little desire to meet the King drenched head to toe from swimming, so considered his other
options. There were two immediate choices before him. Along with an old canoe, which looked like it had seen
much better days but could still be rendered riverworthy, there was a pile of driftwood against the water's edge
containing a couple of logs that appeared able to bear his weight. Making his way carefully down to the small
area of sand at the edge of the water, he examined the canoe further. There were only a couple of holes, but
some of the smaller driftwood branches were of a similar circumferemce, and could be used to effectively plug
these, so he set to work with his axe, using it once again in the manner for which it was forged.

His toiling was swift, but upon finishing his work, he realised that once again he had company. Atop the cliff he
had just descended, and from further along the bank, heading towards the capital, a small troupe of the King's
ranger cavalry were galloping closer. As he watched, he recognised the banner, but not the wielder. This must
be a different group, and he wondered if they had somehow escaped the main battle by the Uneram, and were
intent on bringing statistics, or even worse news, to the ruler. As he considered whether he should make himself
known, another message flashed into his mind, unbidden, but welcomed.

They have not escaped – they are fleeing in danger of their lives.

The thought gave him pause, and he ducked behind the canoe just in time as a vast number of Giaks emerged,
many on Doomwolves, pursuing the fleeing horsemen. One fired a bow, and its arrow slammed into a ranger,
knocking him off his steed, and causing him to plummet into the water not a hundred metres away from the
unseen Kai. After this, the sounds above him quietened, indicating the fight had moved away from the river.
Benador swiftly removed his backpack and the tattered remains of his cloak. Dropping his axe heavily enough
for it to bury itself just beneath the surface of the sand, in case looters spotted it and recognised its worth, he
dove into the river, and swam expertly to the flailing ranger. His own arm by now had recovered sufficiently to
cause him little more than an occasional twinge; and he towed the drowning man back to the shore. It was at
this point that he realised his actions had been observed from above. When he and the dying cavalryman
reached the bank, two spear-wielding Giaks had also joined them, and there was no chance of recovering his
axe to even out the combat.
The two Giaks snickered to each other, a nose which was almost recognisable as a laugh. Never taking
their eyes off the Kai, the larger of the two punched the other on the back sportingly, before pointing at the
hideous looking shoulder wound on the human infront of them. Then, the bigger brute took a step backwards.
Benador tried not to betray in his own body language the relief he was suddenly feeling here. Although he had
no idea what instructions had been conveyed, they evidently thought this was going to be easy, and so the older
of the two would simply wait and watch his colleague in battle. Given that the injury beneath the blood clot was
almost healed over completely, this was not their lucky day. Indeed, as the weaker Giak approached, lunging his
spear in a vaguely threatening manner, Benador reacted, grasped the pole as it was being waggled about and
wrenched it from the creature's grip. As the beast looked stupidly at its empty hand, the missile was returned to
him, lightning fast and through the stomach, the Kai having found and exploited a literal chink in the other's
armour. So good was the aim, and so quick the blow, that the weapon thrust through the body and out the other
side, having skirted the spinal column by the smallest margin. The Giak was not so dumb as to try and pull the
spear back out. Instead, he grappled with the initiate, throwing him heavily to the ground. In the resulting
melee, both combatants took and received body blows until, with a cry of triumph, Benador extricated himself
from the fight by ducking under an intended headshot, and nipping agilely behind the beast. Putting a foot
against the foul creature's rump, he grabbed the tip of the spear and pulled with all his strength. As the beast
realised what was happening, it twisted around to prevent the action, but only succeeded in snapping the spear
in half, accompanied by a shower of blood. The shrieking creature fell backwards, and disappeared into the
water behind him, which turned a diluted red in the near vicinity.
Immediately, Benador turned his attention to the larger Giak, who discarded his own spear somewhat
fearfully, stepping on it with full weight until he heard the wood breaking. Evidently thinking that this would
prevent him experiencing a similar fate, he had inadvertantly provided Benador with the opportunity to thrust a
questing hand into the sand for his own axe. As the Giak had just destroyed his own weapon, he was unprepared
for this twist of fate, and Benador's arcing blade sliced straight through the other's arm at the elbow. As the
dismembered limb thumped lifelessly to the sand, Benador made the mistake of watching it, instead of keeping
his attention on the remainder of the body, which was altogether more animated. In that same split second, the
creature grasped the initiate's axe hand roughly in its one remaining fist, breaking knuckles and bones between
its own death grip and the unyielding hardwood of the handle. With a viciously accurate twist, which was
possibly intended only to once again disarm the enemy, Benador's wrist snapped in half.
Screeching in agony, the Kai pushed against his attacker, separating the pair. As the Kai slumped to the
sand, trying to ignore the ghastly pain of his virtually severed hand, the Giak fell roughly against the bank,
before blacking out from the pain of his own missing limb. Benador continued fighting, but now simply to keep
conscious, to ensure that the larger foe would not be continuing the fight. As the second Giak slumped over,
head first, into the sand, the Lone Wolf brought his healing mantras to mind. As rapidly as he could with only
one functional hand, he dragged the canoe into the water, slumped into the boat, and let himself be carried along
downstream towards the capital – the axe and quarterstaff he could no longer wield, and satchel of food he no
longer cared for left behind on the shore. Wrapping himself over in his own tattered robe, he finally allowed
himself to enter the peaceful state of unconsciousness. With any luck, an observer from the bank would think
that this was just one more bier left to the whim of the current.

Time becomes unrecordable when comatose, so Benador had no idea of how long he lay there, underneath his
barely recognisable forest green cape. He was unaware of his Kai training at work, accelerated because of his
restful state, his breathing slow and controlled. He was also completely ignorant of his change of scenery – the
river flowing from the tranquil, natural environment that the Lone Wolf had first witnessed from the crest of the
cliff into a veritable floating barricade. In truth, it was less than thirty minutes since the battle that had cost
Benador Vulpane his weapon, satchel and the use of his hand. In that time, the hastily but safely repaired boat
had started off sluggishly, accelerating as the river narrowed, and rounded a meandering chicane. By the time
the Eledil once again widened, it was barely recognisable as the same peaceful watercourse, and by now,
Benador was resting so deeply that he did not even hear the shouts of the soldiers on the barges as they spotted
the apparantly unmanned vessel, nor the subsequent cries when the body beneath the grimy cape was noticed.
One of the crew reached out a hooked pole to snag against the edge of the canoe and pull it alongside their own
larger vessel.
‘He looks like he’s dead, Sarge.’ the cadet with the hook observed, emotionlessly.
‘Just another victim, eh?’ his companion asked, suspiciously.
‘That’s what he could be wanting you to think. Look at him, laying there, beneath those rags,
unidentifiable, motionless. What better way to breach the walls of the city than as an unknown corpse.’
‘You mean he could be Vordak?’ the first queried, aghast.
‘Easy he could.’ The Sergeant grabbed his bow from his back. ‘Only one way to find out, ain’t there –
stick an arrow into ‘im, and see if he complains about it.’
The cadet could not argue, but his horrified expression betrayed his disagreement.

At that point, Benador's exposed leg twitched.