~Dilora~

 

So.  By her calculations, Dilora was somewhere on the approach to Andor, and Four Kings was the nearest town of any note.  It was impossible to wear anything heavy on her shoulder, so she wore a light blouse and a shawl to cover the massive amounts of bruising she had sustained when she had hit the tree the day before last.  The previous day had been spent in bed with a headache that was two parts to do with the impact to one part brandy for the pain.  When that had cleared and Dilora stood to look at herself in the mirror, albeit in some pain, she noticed once more that the bruises had developed from her shoulder to her waist and down onto her rump and thigh.  In short, most of her back was covered in ugly black and blue bruises.  Her arms and legs were scabbing over; hopefully the attentions with the brandy bottle on her outside had countered any infections in time.  She had not slept; so blue bags underlined her eyes.  The headache would not go away.

 

Thinking the only way to solve this would be to see a Wisdom or a Wise Woman or something, Dilora had made sure Altie was securely hitched in the stalls and then climbed onto the wagon seat.  Her remaining weapon, the knife she had gripped all night, was still clenched in her fist even as she held the reins.  She felt naked without her bow, but there was little she could do here.  First thing was first; she had to get her hurts seen to.  She had broken camp after a little breakfast to stop her falling out of the seat, and left the little clearing behind her.

 

Memories stayed with her as the countryside rolled by.  Each time the wagon passed over a bump, Dilora was uncomfortably reminded of her rough treatment at the hands of that woman.  The hip flask also remained at her side.  Willowbark was one thing, but it did not help for all pains. 

 

There was not a hope of her taking any revenge.  The woman had overpowered and captured her, interrogated her and then thrown her through a window against a tree.  The hut she had been questioned in lay in ruins; that was not the behaviour of someone easily approachable, and the fact she had used the One Power made it especially difficult.  Sketchy memories floated through the pain and pinged at her awareness, like an itch just out of reach.

 

She did not like being called Aes Sedai.  And she really did not like wolves for some reason.  Maybe…

 

If maybes were treasure, then she could retire.  The wagon hit another bump and Dilora called out in pain.  Her shoulder had connected with the back of the wagon seat.  She drew rein and looked around before retiring into the interior.  Pulling back her shirt, Dilora saw in the mirror that the top of her shoulder was aggravated and red, and that using her left arm was becoming increasingly difficult.  Once again, she marvelled at not having any broken bones, but it felt like there might be something wrong there, in her left shoulder.  Light, but it hurt!

 

Pulling the delicate fabric back over her shoulder gently, Dilora felt tears roll down her face.  She felt so vulnerable, the pain and the events were beginning to overwhelm her.  No!  I have to get to civilisation first, and then I’ll be able to cry!    Pushing away tears from her eyes and swallowing the rest to prevent them from forming, Dilora found a boiled sweet from the bag on the side and popped it into her mouth to give her something to do.  Perhaps she should make medicament candies for those that preferred their medicines sweet – the nobility would pay a pretty penny for something like that.  Pleased that her mind was beginning to work in merchant circles again, Dilora went outside and sat on the wagon seat.

 

Altie looked over her shoulder at her mistress, and Dilora wondered if she saw concern in those liquid brown eyes.  Forcing a smile for her horse, Dilora clucked and twitched the reins to get the old girl moving.    Just as though her oldest friend shared anxiety for Dilora’s health, Altie stepped lightly and covered the ground quickly.  Tears were approaching again.  Light!  What was happening to her?

 

She did not see the group of bandits, twelve of them, standing on a small hilltop a short way away.  The ground around her erupted in thunder, and the men started to run towards her wagon.  Dilora drew rein and grabbed for the knife, holding it in her right hand, as the left was useless.  “Hand over your money and we might not harm you” came the call.

There were things that Mehrin could handle.  Standing in nothing but his skin and staring down a charging army, no problem.  Killing a man, no problem, as sad as it was to say.  Trying to help a woman who had watched a near-identical twin of a man that she loved- at least Mehrin hoped she still loved him- kill her mother after killing her father was another matter all together.  The past few weeks had been spent in near silence, Mehrin drawing into himself to sort his feelings about this new brother of his, while Drea...  Mehrin glanced over his shoulder at her as he led his horse.  Drea had looked better in her life.  Her eyes were dull, dark circles forming beneath them.  She hadn't been sleeping well since they'd left Fal Dara.  The few conversations they had were short, soon trailing into silence.  Both of them, it seemed, had their own demons to deal with, and neither of them could really help each other.  That hurt Mehrin more than anything.  Drea was in pain, and he couldn't do anything to help her.

 

Though a precise location was all but impossible to guess, Mehrin and Drea had passed through a village a few days before that had been flying the flag of Andor.  They could still be near the border, or they could be in the heart of the country.  They had chosen to go cross-country to avoid any prying eyes.  Ayrik had been hurt, but he no doubt had eyes-and-ears on the lookout.  "Going this way, we eventually have to cross the Caemlyn road.  We'll stay a few nights there, figure out where we're going.  Sound good to you?"  Silence was his only reply.  Mehrin sighed lightly, careful not to allow the sound to carry back to the haggard woman.  She had enough on her mind as it was.

 

********************

 

Night fell, and for the first time since Shienar, Drea slept.  Looking at her from his hard seat on the ground, Mehrin smiled lightly, though it didn't last for long.  His knowledge of herbs was limited, but he had asked about something to help Drea sleep at the last village, a deep sleep without dreams.  The Wisdom had provided.  It had still taken two nights before Mehrin could slip the concoction into Drea's meal, but it worked well enough.  His gaze returned to the fire, mind sinking back into thought.

 

Learning that he had a brother had shaken Mehrin pretty well, almost as much as learning that he had been responsible for the disappearance of his daughter from within the Citadel itself.  It had been Mehrin's idea to go to his father and mother to enlist their aid in possibly tracking down the child.  The hot fires of rage that he had felt that night in the Citadel had faded by the time they had reached their farm in the easternmost reaches of Andor, but the embers had burst into flame upon their arrival.  That flame had burned hot enough to sear even the heat away from it, and by the time the events of Fal Dara had passed, they'd faded into an icy cold fury.  Ayrik would not survive their next encounter...

 

The sound of heavy pottery breaking drew Mehrin's eyes from the floor, the movement setting every nerve in his body afire with pain.  The source was readily apparent: a person, cracked and reddened from what was probably an intense fire, staggering as if they were about to collapse.  Ayrik didn't give the person the chance, instead burying that rapier of his in the person's chest.  It was about that time that Mehrin noticed something else: he was no longer bound.  A cold smile spread over his face, and Mehrin stood, creeping quietly behind the man, waiting for him to turn.  And turn he did.

 

The shock on Ayrik's face had been priceless, almost as much as the compounded shock of realizing he could no longer channel for some reason.  Mehrin's fist made a satisfying smacking sound when it landed against the other man's chin.  As much as they had in common, Ayrik, it seemed, had a glass jaw.  The pace that Mehrin set on his approach towards the downed man was carefully calculated.  He was going to die, and there was nothing more to it than that.  "Brother!  Would you really kill me?  Your only link to the past?"  There was an edge of panic in his voice, tinged with something else, as if he had never felt panic before.  It was too rich.

 

Pausing only long enough to set a hand on the pommel of his claymore, Mehrin smiled coldly before responding, "You should have thought of that a long time ago, you twisted, evil little thing."  Panic spread, jolting the bastard away in skittering motions.  Mehrin kept walking, claymore held in one hand.  He couldn't even feel the weight of it.  Abruptly, a dark portal opened behind Ayrik, who threw himself through before the gateway closed again, leaving Mehrin staring at the spot where  he had been...

 

The bastard would pay.  For now, though, it was a long night with no relief for the watch.

 

*************

 

"Mehrin, we're at the road."

 

Drea's voice jolted Mehrin out of his light sleep in the saddle.  After so long, it was nice to hear her voice again, even if she was merely stating fact.  Despite the overwhelming lack of sleep, Drea actually looked somewhat human again.  More than just human; many of Mehrin's baser instincts began to voice their opinions, many of which involved a certain lack of clothing and some heavy breathing.  No.  No time for that here, and she still needs time.  "Well, Miss Raylin, it's nice to see you've rejoined the realm of the living.  We'd best get a move on; we're wasting daylight."

 

"I'm waiting for you, old man," she replied, a touch of her old self returning.  A good sign.

 

At first, Mehrin thought nothing about the wagon stopped in the middle of the road, but Drea, ever the eternal scout, apparently did.  She waved him to a halt, her hand instinctively flashing signals that Mehrin translated as if they were spoken.  "Bandits.  Multiple.  Dismount."  No problem there.  Dismounting, Mehrin unslung his claymore from where it hung on the black stallion's side.  Drea was soon on the ground beside him, the two walking quietly to avoid detection.

 

There was an even dozen of them, all armed with swords, spears, and other pointy objects.  Arching an eyebrow, Mehrin took a moment to examine the men again.  That wasn't right.  "No bows.  Amateurs."  The signal passed from him to Drea, who nodded.  It was a large number, but between the two of them, it would be manageable.  I hope...  They were close enough now that any movement would give them away.  A sudden sense of playfulness washed over Mehrin, who grinned at Drea for a moment.  She shook her head once at him.  "No fun."  Out loud he added, altering his voice to sound like a poor facsimile of a royal accent, "Well, well, well, what have we here, love?"

 

Again, Drea shook her head, though a faint smile played over her lips.  Something in her body language suggested that she was looking forward to whatever came.  Odd.  However, she did reply, matching his poor accent.  "I don't know, dearie.  It looks to me as if these bandits don't know what they are doing."

 

"Quite right."  Together, Mehrin and Drea approached the front of the wagon.  There was only one victim, a woman who looked as if she'd had better days even before the bandits.  Just her luck, apparently.  Walking past her, Mehrin lifted his broad-brimmed hat off his head, dropping it into her lap without so much as another glance in her direction.  "Here, hold that for me, would you?  I'll be back for it."  Then, to the man who looked like he was probably making the calls, Mehrin added, "So, how can we help you gentlemen today?"

 

The man blinked once in confusion, looking at Mehrin like he was some sort of idiot before replying, "You can start by giving up your money and any valuables you-"

 

"Tsk, tsk, tsk," Drea said, interrupting the man.  “You can’t be any more creative than that?  I mean, how many men do you have?”

 

“Ummm…”  The lead bandit evidently was not used to being addressed in such a way by his victims.  “T-twelve.  You’re completely outnumbered, and the wench on the wagon doesn’t look like she can help you.”

 

Mehrin chuckled.  “Twelve, you say.  That’s how many I count here.  You didn’t keep any of them in reserve in the event of a patrol?  Oh, well.  More importantly, none of them could come up with an opening line better than that?  That is sad.”

 

They’d gotten their attention, Mehrin could see that.  Drea could, too.  Before the lead bandit could speak again, Drea grinned and asked, “So, if you have all twelve of your men here, where are your archers?”

 

The lead bandit blinked and seemed to consider the question.  Eyeing Mehrin as he approached with a grin on his face and his claymore slung over his shoulder, he slowly replied, “We… we have no archers.”

 

Mehrin’s grin could not have gotten any larger.  Waving his hand slightly, he signaled Drea: “Wait for signal.”  Not waiting for Drea to signal back, Mehrin grounded the tip of his claymore in the road between himself and the lead bandit.  His grin took on a more sinister tone, which did nothing for the scar across his left eye.  “Glad to hear it.”

 

“Don’t be a fo-oof!”  The lead bandit never saw the gauntleted fist that sent him sprawling, and Mehrin didn’t bother to check if the blow had killed him or merely stunned him.  Kicking the blade of his claymore out of the ground, he set the blade to work, stepping into the nearest bunch of bandits.

 

From first contact, Mehrin could tell that these bandits generally relied on the threat of brute force.  They knew nothing of fighting in groups.  The heavy blade of his claymore began its slow and deadly dance, descending on the head of the first man to confront him like a hammer from the heavens.  The fool brought his blade up to defend, only to cry out briefly as the claymore drove his lighter blade down below it.  His cry was silenced instantly as the blade buried itself in the man’s skull.  “Amateur,” he muttered derisively, kicking the still-twitching body off his weapon and spinning back into combat.  For a moment, he saw Drea, a pair of knives whirling in her hands as she danced among the would-be thieves.  Though they were all still standing, it was becoming more apparent that they wouldn’t be doing so for very much longer.

 

When he turned back to the battle, five of the ten still in the battle had set themselves against him, though they appeared to have serious doubts about doing so.  “I’ll give you one chance.  Leave now.”  A few hesitated, but one man decided to throw himself at Mehrin while he was speaking.  With a sigh, Mehrin sidestepped, swinging his claymore at waist level.  A sickening squelch, and the man collapsed, screaming as he fell.  “Very well, then.”  Setting the blade to whirling again, Mehrin ignored the fading screams and stepped in for the kill.

 

It was a pathetically short battle.  Three of the four went down from their own stupidity, either trying to block Mehrin’s heavier sword or by striking their own allies in foolishly wide swings.  The remaining man turned and fled.  Grounding the blade, Mehrin watched the man run… only to gape in surprise as a knife blossomed between his shoulder blades.  Turning his head to the source, Mehrin found Drea in a ring of bodies, her face a horrifying blend of rage and shock.  The scars of what had happened… Drea had never come across as one who would kill a fleeing enemy.  Shock was beginning to give way to horror as Mehrin wrapped his arms around her.

 

“Light, what is happening to me?” she whispered into his chest.

 

Mehrin couldn’t answer.

 

Slowly, it began to dawn upon Mehrin that he was forgetting something.  Stroking Drea’s hair, he whispered, “Collect yourself, and I’ll see to our new friend.”

 

It took some careful stepping to avoid the bodies, but Mehrin made his way over to the peddler’s wagon easily enough, pausing long enough to slide his claymore into its back scabbard.  “And a good-” Mehrin took another moment to examine the woman on the seat a bit more closely- “Make that a better day than yesterday must have been to you, madam.  I’m called Mehrin Mahrvon, and my associate across the way there is Xandrea Raylin.  Are you all right?”

~Dilora~

 

Eyes tinged with pain and tiredness regarded the thing dropped so pleasantly into her lap.  A hat?  Oh, whatever, it could stay there for now.  Her arms did not have the strength to pick it up and put it on her head at the moment.  It wasn’t precisely fear rooting her to the spot; Dilora could not have defended herself against those brigands even in perfect condition, but she could have used her charm on them.  As it was, she looked as though she had fought a hedge, and the hedge had won.

 

Still, it was a good hat, if a bit battered and greyer in places from wear.  The leather was folded into shape, the sign of an expensive make at one point.  She shook her head resignedly.  Unable to defend herself except by a hat, Dilora let the reins drop and watched the unfolding scene.  The bandits were going down one by one at the pairs’ skill.  Her own skill with a bow would have been useful from a distance, had she a working arm to draw the bowstring to her cheek in the first place.  No.  She could not say she would have been any use at all, other than a hat stand.

 

She muttered as such under her breath while the older looking man wiped his sword.  The woman looked in dire need of a hug and a drink of some sort; Dilora’s cure-all.  There would be time for medicinal brandy (naturally) after they had moved away from this spot. 

 

The bandits finished, the man held the woman close, and Dilora surmised they were lovers.  He must have felt her eyes on his back, for he turned towards her and started to sheathe the massive sword to a holster on his back.  The woman stood there, numbly, and then began to follow.  He introduced them.

 

Mehrin Mahrvon and Drea Raylin.  Names that oddly stuck in the memory, Dilora decided.  She had one of those memories for names, but she doubted she would forget those that saved her life.  “Dilora Fashelle.”  Weakly, Dilora extended her hand to the man and then the woman, before adding “Peddler, if you could not guess.”  Her eyes flickered to the hat in her lap.  “Thanks for the timely intervention.  I would have been able to stop them – what am I saying?  I would have had more chance of dancing the Sa’sara on a tabletop in an Amadician tavern wearing nothing but a Great Serpent ring.”  Dilora shook her head.  “I believe this hat belongs to you?”