Eledhe muttered something that sounded highly uncomplimentary, and contained the phrase 'dark gods' once or twice, before hauling Kjan to his feet and haphazardly dragging him out of the tangle of bedrolls. Once they were reasonably out of earshot - except for Tomith, who would hear anyway, and who already knew everything she was about to say - Eledhe jabbed a finger at Kjan's chest. "You had better hope," she began, eyes narrowed, "that you make it to morning without elvish steel in some vital organ."

There was a pause. "And not from me, either," added Eledhe in order to be perfectly clear, her opinion of Kjan's intelligence not being extremely high. "As in, elves that are probably listening to this conversation right now."

Someone by the campfire grunted and rolled over. "So," Eledhe ended, punctuating her words with jabs of her index finger at Kjan's chest. "Please do yourself and everyone else a favor and make this perfectly clear to your fearless leader there, as I currently occupy the spot of Traitor Elf, and nothing I say is worth paying much attention to."

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"I already made it 'perfectly clear' to him," Kjan replied evenly when Eledhe had finished encroaching upon his personal space. "We have our own special language, consisting of euphemisms, half-truths, and non sequiturs, combined with the occasional pointed glance. It's quite effective, really, in that no one else can ever quite decipher what it is that we mean. But, linguistics aside, the fact remains that he is completely aware of the situation. It's just that we can't really do much about it at the present."

He started to leave, only to pause and slowly turn back around. "Perhaps he might be a bit more inclined to trust you not to murder us in our sleep if you seemed less likely to do precisely that?" he ventured cautiously. "He did trust you - we all did - for quite a few years. And you repaid us by kidnapping Lady Silvryn. Now she's a prisoner, and we're being shadowed by elves who would rather like to see us dead." Kjan shrugged, glancing briefly over at the others. "Can you really blame us if we're taking more precautions than before?"

"Never used the word blame," retorted Eledhe, snappish. "Would you like to wager that if I go over there and wake him up, I won't end up in several pieces?"

Trust. Trust was peripheral, that was what everyone at the Mercenary's Guild had always said. The only people who put any stock in it were naive, and could therefore be convinced to lower their weapon long enough for you to run them through. Why bother? Everyone assumed that everyone else was going to betray them sometime or other, and with that mutual understanding, coexisted more or less peacefully. Except for the times when they didn't.

She realized she was glaring intensely at a point a few inches to the left of Kjan's head, and fixed him with a nonplussed look before adding caustically, "Just you make sure that special language perhaps lessens the surprise when we all wake up with daggers in our backs."

She turned, and an owl hooted gleefully. Further off there was the answering howl of a coyote. Eledhe gave Kjan a meaningful look (she assumed he could decipher the meaning, from his description of said special language) and went to sit on a rock and listen to coyotes that weren't coyotes, talking to owls that probably weren't owls either.

----

It seemed, at least to Eledhe and Tomith, like a welcome miracle when they all awoke in possession of all necessary limbs and appendages. The mercenary herself got carefully to her feet, looking suspicious, and went off to see if any incriminating tracks had appeared overnight. None had, of course, and she came back looking displeased and muttered uncomplimentary things while she saddled her horse.

Everybody was used to this, though, and more or less stirred into groggy action. Seeing as they were no longer being pursued by homicidal elves (or rather, they were, but half of them didn't know they were and therefore had no reason to move quickly) there was considerably less swift packing up and considerably more grumbling about being hauled out of bed at such an hour.

The Phantom pored over his scrap of map for a few minutes, turning it various ways and squinting as though that might make the direction easier to find. Eventually he stuffed it back in a saddlebag and hauled himself onto his horse, who wasn't a morning person either.

The sun persisted in getting in his eyes, too. The Phantom slouched down and thought unfriendly thoughts about traveling in general. They were preferable to worrying.

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Dante stretched out of his crude pallet, and made a generally growling sort of noise, grunting with every breath.

"It's all very well for you..." he muttered darkly to no one in particular, "Healthy. Young. Strong. But if I don't die before we reach this wherever-we're-going, then I'll most likely die on the way back. Gods, what I wouldn't do for a strong drink."

He groaned loudly, exaggerating the agony of being saddle-sore as he hoisted himself up onto the poor beast, already worn down from the hard riding it had been subjected to. With a free hand he rubbed at the dark circles under his eyes, and started his horse up alongside Ash. He started to complain about something to the young rebel before breaking into a wheezing coughing fit - curse this cold morning air - and ended with a, "Are we <i>nearly</i> there yet?" that sounded much more whiny than he'd intended.

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<center>
"The piano is able to communicate the subtlest universal truths by means of wood, metal and vibrating air."

Kjan considered mentioning that none of them had been having a particularly easy time of it lately, or that most present had already been cheated of several years of youth by their chosen lifestyle, but he found that he didn't care nearly enough to start another argument so early in the morning. The fact that he'd barely slept at all after his brief discussion with Eledhe may have been mildly contributory.

"Few more days, I think," he said, swinging himself up into the saddle with an easiness that belied just how sore he actually was. He grimaced slightly and bit back a curse as gash across his ribs gently reminded him of its presence, but he was able to proceed without further difficulty. Twisting around to reach into his pack, he pulled out a flask and tossed it to Dante. "It's not exactly strong, but it's a step in the right direction."

Once everyone was packed and set to go, they set out at a moderate pace, granting the horses a slight reprieve from the hard riding that had characterized the past few days. After they had been going for a short distance, Kjan maneuvered his horse so that he was riding alongside the Phantom. "So," he began conversationally. "We weren't killed in our sleep. That was nice."

"Mm," said the Phantom, unresponsive, scanning the surrounding greenery mostly out of habit. He wasn't terribly worried about the possibility of being followed, as it only made sense that once the elves had acquired who they came for...

His thoughts veered once more in that direction, as though unable to make the smallest foray into another subject, and the Phantom decided to get out his map in order to head them off. He scrutinized it, then passed the parchment to Kjan. "Couple more days. Should be able to stay alive that long."

He meant the comment half in fun. But only half.

Over the course of the day the terrain changed gradually around them. A good thing it was, too, because what with the recent morale-depressor of losing Silvryn, along with the general air of anxiety, none of them were extremely talkative and the view was perhaps the only object of interest available. The trees were growing slightly sparser and were interspersed with giant oaks, birches and others that would have been identifiable if any of them had paid the slightest attention in that part of school, and between the trees they could catch an occasional glimpse of sunlight sparkling off water. The Phantom supposed it was a lake.

As the road began to grow more even and less like the trail of a mentally disturbed mountain goat, traffic increased as well, to intermittent groups or pairs of travelers passing occasionally. The Phantom prudently put up his hood and dropped slightly back from the rear of the party, aware that if anyone happened to recognize him, it could mean a serious delay - and any delay was one they couldn't afford.

Camping was a subdued affair. There was a little (halfhearted) discussion about where the next day of travel would likely take them, and the mood altogether as they rolled themselves in cloaks was tense.

The Phantom didn't sleep much. For one, the intermittent hooting of owls was beginning to make him a tad suspicious. He hadn't entertained, particularly, the notion of actually being followed, but as the night wore on and he did entertain it, he became rather less comfortable rather than more. Then there was the fast-approaching matter of the Heartshard. They were a little over a day's ride away. However cavalier he appeared about the idea, the Phantom wasn't at all keen to try his luck with the thing. He rolled over and sighed. Jate was sleeping across from him, the glowing coals throwing dim light across his cloak-rolled form. The Phantom briefly let the strange dwarf's idea saunter across his mind, taking it quasi-seriously for just a moment.

No. It wasn't possible. He rolled over and tried to sleep.

The next day was effectively more of the same. The trees were rapidly thinning due to the increasingly rocky terrain, which was not exactly mountainous, but certainly not conducive to much greenery. By late afternoon they were picking their way through rocky hills, which, with their irregular jutting stabs of stone against the darkening sky, had a faintly spooky air. The horses in particular were rather fed up with it all. The Phantom couldn't blame them. He propped the map once more against his saddle horn and scanned it, just to make absolutely sure, but there was definitely nothing for it but to keep on pressing through the uninviting surroundings to the promising little X that should, he hoped, mark the spot.

Eventually he got as fed up as the horses, and after some poking around a hollow was found that didn't have too many sharp rocks and didn't look as though it might be the lair of some strange beast. There being no firewood to speak of, except for the few pieces the Phantom had picked up when it looked as though they were moving out of treed country, they were all a little flummoxed until Eledhe, with a not-so-subtle roll of her eyes, snapped her fingers over the dry branches. Sparks kindled, and she blew on them with a faintly self-satisfied air.

"Don't anybody make conversation," muttered the Phantom later, surrounded as he was by a less than talkative band of rebels.

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For several minutes, everyone seemed intent on doing just that. Kjan understood that no one was feeling especially conversational at the moment, what with the loss of Silvryn and the injuries incurred and the minor detail that they could quite possibly be going to their doom on the morrow, but did everyone really have to be so morose about it? He wasn't exactly feeling high-spirited himself, but he wasn't fretting, either. Certainly he was concerned about how they would go about getting the Heartshard without the necessary royal personage (and about whether or not a certain idiot still had the notion in his head that he was closely related enough to said royal personage to be an acceptable replacement), but it would do little good to worry about it at the present.

"Alright, that's it," he said abruptly, standing up and going over to where they'd stored their packs. He returned with several flasks of ale and began tossing one to each person (with the exception of Tomith, who managed to convey with a single glance that if a flask came flying in his direction, it would be flying in the opposite direction faster than Kjan could blink). "Everyone has to drink at least some. Honestly, I've never seen a more disconsolate lot. Keep this up much longer, and Dante'll be out of work." Raising his flask in a casual toast, he proceeded to demonstrate exactly how a highly experienced individual went about drinking.


Roughly five minutes later, Kjan finally gave up on the rock-hard biscuit that he'd been gnawing on for at least twice as long (in between drinking) and tossed it into the fire. It was more suited to serve as fuel anyway. "I swear, the first thing I'm going to do when this is all over is make it illegal to be in possession of anything remotely resembling military rations within ten miles of my estate," he muttered, digging through his pack to see if there was anything more edible left. He seemed to consider for a moment, then ammended, "Well, maybe not first, but it's fairly high on the list."

Right after finding out whether or not he was still going to have an estate, of course. Dying tended to have that sort of effect on one's affairs.

Ash had taken to tossing and catching his own biscuit with one hand, while his other hand was occupied with the more important job of holding his flask. Problems and the general air of worry around the camp hadn't been able to keep him from enjoying the ale. In fact, his own bad mood was lessening, thanks to the drink.

"Sounds like a wonderful plan." He said, aiming his words in Kjan's direction. He continued to the group in general, "If I never saw another biscuit in my life, I'd be happy. Food like this isn't fit to be eaten. My dad used to say food tastes best when you grow it yourself, when you work for it." Nodding firmly, he took another drink of ale. "After this is all done with, that's what I'm doing. I'll go back home and get back my dad's farm. That's what he'd want me to do, I'll bet."

Lapsing back into silence, he contented himself with staring at the fire and taking the occasional swig from his flask.

Dante had finished his first flask long ago, and was now working on his second one. Kjan was right - it wasn't nearly strong enough, and it was cold, but for now it did very splendidly. Especially when one hadn't had a decent drink in several fortnights. He leaned back thoughtfully, watching the others with a doleful air. Ash spoke so freely, so confidently. As if it was all just going to turn out happily ever after, like some ridiculous bedside tale.

"After all this is over, the only thing <i>you'll</i> be doing is decaying in some anonymous grave. Or frolicking about in the afterlife, if you fancy that sort of thing."

For some reason unknown to him, it didn't give Dante as much pleasure predicting their doom as it usually did. He supposed that it was the late nights and hard riding, finally taking their toll on his sanity. Idly he wondered how much longer it would have lasted if he would have stayed in the cartographers cabin, working day after day in lonely silence with his dried parchments.

"One thing's for certain," he said at last, "The first thing I'd be wanting if we came to civilization again would be a huge mug of the finest ale served, or even cider... steaming like anything. Whoever picked out this," he indicated his flask, "Wants for some better tastebuds."

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<center>
"The piano is able to communicate the subtlest universal truths by means of wood, metal and vibrating air."

There was no way on earth anyone could eat that biscuit. Jate decided that a small group of pebbles served as excellent targets, and spent a good while seeing how many he could knock over with each throw of the food. Four...no, six! New record! He squinted and aimed carefully, then flicked the biscuit. It went just wide of the pebbles.

"When this is all over...well, I don't quite like the prospect of hanging from gallows," Jate commented. "So to be true to Ash's spirit, I shall be sitting inside by a warm fire with hot food and very hot drink." He lifted his flask toward Kjan. "Cold ale. I commend you. Though," with a sigh, "I suppose it can't be helped. Anything is better than nothing." After a pause he continued. "Ah..civilization though...If we happen to pass by something that remotely resembles a place with food, I wouldn't mind risking death to stop."

The thought of risking death brought another subject to mind, and Jate fell quiet. The Heartshard. The Phantom seemed to think he was going to try for it. But how could he let his now self-avowed leader attempt potential death? At least the loss of himself wouldn't be a huge problem, they'd only need him if he ended up being royal and then the Heartshard would work for him anyway. Well, he'd deal with that when they got close.

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going on a journey through my old claims

The Phantom leaned back and crossed his legs comfortably, boots close to the fire. "When this is over," he began contemplatively, and realized that he hadn't quite thought that far. When it was over? Had he thought, subconsciously, that it would never be over? That he'd happily go on plotting rebellion until he was old and grey-haired?

Kjan, had he been privy to his leader's introspection, would probably have commented that the Phantom already had grey hair. It was true. Technically. "When this is over," the Phantom repeated, "I intend to tell wildly inflated stories of my personal heroics and sleep in a bed more often." He glanced around the circle, and added in the same lighthearted tone, "None of these fantasies involve a lovely girl or two, I notice. None of you planning on engaging in matrimony, then?"

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Kjan seemed to consider the question for a moment before shrugging dismissively. To be perfectly honest, he hadn't given the matter much thought before. Certainly he was aware that the rebellion would not last forever (as much as it seemed like it at times), and he had at least casually considered what would transpire in the event that they won, but the specific topic of marriage had admittedly never crossed his mind. He supposed he would marry someone, eventually, given the right circumstances. Maybe.

"Perhaps," he finally replied noncommittally, taking another swig from his flask. "My mother was dropping not-so-subtle hints about wanting more grandchildren even before I left. In the event that my family decides to speak to me again, I'm sure she'll have plenty of pretty, empty-headed, socially acceptable young ladies for me to consider." His wry tone and expression indicated precisely what he thought of that prospect, though he said nothing further on it. Also left unsaid was the fact that he really was getting uncomfortably close to the age at which one ceased to be an eligible bachelor and became a Dante. If the rebellion lasted much longer, the issue might not even be up for debate.

"What about you two?" he asked, directing his question toward the youngest two members of the party. "Got anyone special waiting at home?"

Almost involuntarily, a leer formed itself upon Dante's face. "Love. Matrimony." He drained the last of his ale from the flask, and coughed harshly. "I don't know what lies the lot of you have been fed on the subject, but I can guarantee you they are just that - <i>lies.</i> A pair of pretty blue eyes, and there you have it - all sensibilities or prior goals in life have just been sucked from you. Not to even mention the fact that the all-elusive lasses don't give a second thought to fancy a number of young men in a fortnight, and allow them all to swear their lifelong fidelity."

He stared into the fire morosely. "No doubt none of you will take my advice. Just another bit of Dante's gloom, eh? But I wouldn't wish love upon the most rascally of you in this group," here he looked pointedly at Kjan, "Because it will ruin you."

Their was a darkness in his eyes that defied the warmth of the fire or their close group. "Better let your fancies and dreams just include food and fine houses," he said, "If we live through this, you'll know the truth in my words someday."

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<center>
"The piano is able to communicate the subtlest universal truths by means of wood, metal and vibrating air."

"For once I have to agree with the raincloud there." Ash said, waving his flask in Dante's direction. "Maybe not for the same reasons, but marriage isn't for me."

Leaning back against his pack, he stretched his legs out and took on a tone of one well-versed in the subject. "First you meet a girl, right? Then you have to meet her family, and it's practically a guarantee that her parents won't like you. If you manage to work your way around that through diplomacy or elopement, then she'll start rearranging your entire life. First she forbids you to go to the tavern, forbids you to see any of your friends, and forbids you to smoke. Next she'll move every piece of furniture in the house around to her liking, and still complain about it. Oh, and she'll be spending all of your money, too. She needs new clothes, new dishes, new curtains... you get the idea. Then, then!" He paused to drain the last of the ale from his flask. "Then, she wants children, and your freedom is gone forever."

Shrugging, he finished, "Now, I'm not saying I don't mind a quick kiss now and then, but marriage? No, I'd rather have my life stay my own. That's been my experience, anyway, but don't let it stop the rest of you from doing what you want." He failed to mention his experience so far amounted to practically nothing.

"The question, however," said the Phantom lazily - or ostensibly so - "is that perhaps at a certain point you decide to pass on that kind of freedom."

He sat up and poked the fire with their designated poking stick, and then sat back again and folded his arms. "I admit I used to think the same. Hanging around nobles who view marriage as a sort of useful way to ensure that a particular house won't stick a knife in your back at the earliest opportunity isn't, admittedly, something to make a fellow particularly keen on the subject."

There was a brief pause, and then the Phantom turned slightly to raise an eyebrow fractionally at Dante. It was hard to tell, in the dim light, if there was the smallest of grins quirking up the corner of his mouth. "I was certainly never as jaded as our ever-cheerful companion over here."

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"The question is, are women a gift or the curse of the underworlds?" Jate laughed. "Though I suppose we'll never know that answer. I don't have a girl, I've yet to have one. So at the moment, I'm taking the course of bachelorhood." He streched out his long legs toward the fire. "Mind you, I don't think I'll miss out on all the fun of a dance and a kiss every so often," he continued, "but I don't think I'm ready to be tied down anyway."

He didn't have a clue as to how to behave with women. As Jate spoke to the others, he could only remember the flutterings in his stomach as he watched the ladies of the court at dances years ago. Self confident, they never gave a glance to the awkward younger son. The most attention he had ever received from a girl had been at about age six, running around the estates with the children of Byrun's tutor. False bravado had never really been his thing, but he was getting the hang of it. Why let these people know his failings?

"Besides, in case you haven't noticed, rebellion isn't that profitable of a business. I wouldn't be able to support a girl and kids anyway."

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going on a journey through my old claims