Early morning, Camelot:

They whispered words and promises beneath the covers in the grey light of another dawn. A kiss, a caress, a last desperate embrace in the bed they shared, and then one threw back the covers to don a well worn uniform while the other silently watched. Loud clattering and raised voices from below told of preparations for a journey. The one dressing reached out and buckled a sword belt around the waist, then picked up bow and quiver of arrows, and finally looked back at the figure still sitting on the bed. They kissed once more.

"I love you, Shurrukai. Be safe, and give the children my love."

Skye Blackthorn nodded. Her voice was low and sad as she whispered her goodbye. Then she turned and walked out of the room, leaving Ian sitting alone, consoled only by the fact she was going to be safe with the children in Ireland. He wrapped himself in the blankets and lay back down, but sleep still would not come. Not when his wife's presence still surrounded him.

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Late morning, Isle:

"Did not!"

"Did so!" Two pairs of piercing blue eyes stared at each other over a small child's tea set.

"HE DID SO!!!"

Identical faces framed in silver hair scowled at each other, but as the door to their room opened the expressions vanished to be replaced by complacent, tranquil looks. A surly fat human woman stomped in to glare at the girls.

"Who did what?"

Kara exchanged a brief look with her sister, then stood up. "Our Uncle Yarrow said we were to marry mighty warriors like the elven heroes in the stories, Mhairi!"

The servant blinked, then began to laugh, laugh so hard she shook as tears streamed down her face. She wiped them away with her apron. "No more yelling!", she said, shaking a pudgy finger. The girls waited until Mhairi had waddled out, then Dara leaned over to hug her sister, whispering in her ear.

"I heard him in the dream, too. And he WILL come..he said he would! He is our father, and he will come to take us home."

In a room downstairs, Yarrowvathallion looked into a crystal at his grand nieces' whispering images.

"Oh, do hurry, nephew. I so love family reunions."

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The Lost: Part IX

In the early morning hours just before the dawn, a shadowy figure appeared in Altonbury Wood. Clad in worn black leathers and cloak, his great war bow in hand and arrows and longsword slung across his back, Ian loped easily along a small path towards the bridge leading to Wiltonshire. Every once and again he would stop and look at sets of boot prints in the frozen over mud and pick out characteristics to identify the imprint. When he had finished, he would nod to himself, stand, then move along until he found another set to examine.

Ian wasn't sure what he was looking for, but the frustration of little or no information about Bornek's supposed death had at last worn his patience down, and this morning he'd decided there had to SOMETHING he could do to end this situation. He'd summoned an entrance to the Road and here he was, poking about the woods like a restless wolfhound. Even so, he would not have much time. A storm was in the air, and no doubt what little sign had not been trampled underfoot by searchers would soon be covered by a fresh blanket of snow, and then even his half-elven abilities would be of little use. He pressed on, and hoped there would be enough time.

Truth to tell, he really didn't expect to find anything. But there was a great hollow spot in his heart at the moment. His family was gone: Skye, Ashe and the children safely in Ireland, and Corwin ... well, it had been so long since he'd seen his brother it seemed he'd been gone for years. Despite the reassuring touch of his faint presence in the Soul bond from so far away, Ian still missed his brother and the quiet conversations over whatever problems they faced. He hoped the negotiations that delayed the return of the Lord of Amber ended soon. For now, the only thing that helped ease the ache in the half-elf's life was to throw all his energies into the matter of hand: the deaths first of Barrensi and then of Bornek.

Morning passed quickly as he investigated a dozen trails and clearings along the way to Wiltonshire. A short stop was made in one of the latter around midday to wolf down two journeycakes and half a waterbottle. He tied his blond hair back with a strip of leather to keep it from falling into his eyes when he crouched over some foot print, and then set off again. He trotted silently along , almost part of the shadows in the deepest part of the wood. An hour was spent following the spoor of the bear Dark Hunter had mentioned to a cave, then backtracking back to the main trail to leave some markings so his men could later come back and find the cave. That gave him some small satisfaction that this trip was not a total waste of time.

It was short-lived once he reached the spot where Bornek had supposedly been killed. After two hours, all Ian had to show for his efforts were some muddy footprints and the discovery of the spot the ambushers had lain in wait. He cursed himself silently for a self-indulgent fool as he looked across the bridge that marked the boundary with Wiltonshire. The answers were over there, probably at the Stag's Inn, and he was going to get them, one way or another. He swiftly unslung the bow from his shoulder, nocked an arrow, and in one smooth motion sighted and fired, driving the shaft through a wooden post at the opposite end of the bridge. The black arrow was his notice.

Whoever was behind this had best beware.

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The Lost: Part X

On the muddy road to Wiltonshire, an old farmer swore softly to himself as he looked at his cart. "Damn weather.Snow one day, then warm as a baby's bottom the next. Well, Daisy, nothing for it but to get the wheel back on and get you to Wiltonshire! Won't be a few moments, love." He climbed slowly down into the muddy road and walked back to where his right wheel lay by the rut that had jolted it off its axle. "Aye...a few dollops of grease and replace the pin and we be off again, Daisy!" He righted the wheel and slowly rolled it back to lean against the cart.

Half an hour later he leaned winded next to it. "No use girl. I'm too old. Time was I could have lifted this like a leaf." He wiped his sweaty eyes, then froze as a voice spoke softly nearby.

"You look like you could use a strong back, there, granther. What say I lift the cart, and you slide the wheel back on?" A tall man in worn black leathers sat a few feet away on the more solid side of the road astride a great bay warhorse. "There's a sapling here I can cut down and we'll use it as a lever, hey?" The farmer nodded cautiously, not sure this was not a ploy to rob him, but shortly after the wheel was back on the cart and he was resealing the pot of grease he kept on hand for such accidents. "Thank'ee, m'lord. I promised Daisy I'd get her to Wiltonshire this day to her new home. She's a delicate thing and I fear a night on the road would have undone her health."

The rider nodded gravely. "Aye, I can see she is of fine breeding."

"Aye..born and raised on our family farm. My wife loves her..but, well.." he wiped tears now from his eyes, "we have so many mouths to feed, and we couldn't feed all..so..Daisy must go."

Ian Blackthorn looked at Daisy, then back at the farmer." I think I may be able to help. We have plenty to spare at Camelot."

The farmer's eyes widened. "You hear, that, Daisy? Camelot!" He did a little jig in the mud. Blackthorn laughed, then held up a hand. "But first we have a stop to make in Wiltonshire."

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Mad Henry was a happy man. Never one to look too closely at the morals of his clientele, the innkeep did not question his most recent group of steady customers where they had gotten all the coin they were spending on his ale and provender. As long as they had it to spend, why not here? All he cared about was keeping all the tables, chairs and dishes whole; what good would the money do if he had to replace everything? So, Mad Henry was understandably perturbed this eve. The ruffians seemed unusually boisterous, even for them, and he was sure at least one brawl would break out unless he kept a close eye on the common room. He took up a position on a large crate in the middle of the room and glared at the bandits while occasionally hefting a mallet to point at someone who seemed to be near stepping over the line. So intent was he on the ruffians he hardly noticed the old man slip in and sit quietly at the back, just listening to the loud conversations.

"...And he never saw it coming! I tell you, Hunter was furious! They just hauled him off to the dungeon! And he'll be sick of slop by the time that fancy pants barrister gets here from London! He's a slick one, he is that...." The speaker, a thin man with an ugly scar across his face, broke off speaking as he noticed the old man.

"Hey you! What do you think you are doing?" He motioned to his companions, and they slowly surrounded the old farmer's table.

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The Lost: Part XI

The farmer did not seem frightened as the ruffians stepped closer to him. "Just don't hurt my Daisy!" He gestured towards a rope he held that led out the doorway into the dark street. "She's sleeping in my cart, and I'd not have her frightened. She is a rare flower, my Daisy is!"

"Hear that, boys?" Scarface grinned as he looked at his men. "She's a rare beauty and all alone out there in the cold! Shall we bring her in?"

"AYE!"

"See that, old man? We'll take care of your daughter for you!" He held his hand out for the rope, then grabbed it away as the old man protested." Don't try my patience, gran'ther." He gave a hard yank on the rope. "Come give us a kiss, Daisy!"

"But ...but.."

"But what, you doddering fool?"

The "old man" looked up, and Scarface took a step back. This was no doddering fool. Bright blue eyes looked mockingly at him as the man stood to tower over all there. "Daisy is not my daughter. She's my .." The rest of his words were drowned out as Daisy responded to another hard tug and a two hundred pound angry sow came bursting through the half opened door and bowled a wench with a tray of ale mugs over. As the air rained ale, the farmer grabbed the nearest man, turning as he drew back his right arm for a punch to the jaw. His elbow connected with the face of one ruffian behind him even as he followed through with the blow. As soon as it landed, the "old man" whirled, kneed a third man, backhanded a fourth and then pinned a fifth to the wall with a dagger through the arm. Tossing one side of his cloak over his shoulder he drew a longsword from the sheath on his back and turned his attention to the rest of the room.

Daisy had cut a wide swathe. The common room was littered with overturned tables and chairs, mugs and broken plates. Mad Henry lay moaning on the floor, his crate perch smashed, a growing bump on his head from where his mallet had struck him as it landed. He soon had other worries as Daisy, perhaps attracted by the stew that had landed as well on Henry's head came over to snuffle at his face and then other body parts. Blackthorn laughed as Daisy snorted in distaste and turned to root among the carnage for better smelling and edible things. "Get up, innkeep! You're not hurt that badly, so stop squealing like a stuck pig."

"GRUNT!"

Ian nodded to Daisy. "My apologies, m'lady Daisy. It would be insult to you to call him that, I agree." He turned his attention back to Henry who he now gripped tightly by the scruff the neck. The elven mail and gauntlets were now visible to the man, revealing the reason his blows had been so devastating. But most of Ian's face was hidden by the chainlink veil fastened to his helmet. Slanted blue eyes stared coldly at his captive as he turned him to look him full in the face. "Now, innkeep, I will ask you some questions, and if you know what is best, you will answer me truly."

Fifteen minutes later (and two blows to the head with the flat of the sword to two men who had the bad manners to try to resume the brawl) Ian knew little more about the Bear Man than he already did. He released the now very sweaty Henry, then grinned. "You and your friends are most fortunate I was with Daisy. She is quite delicate and excessive bloodshed makes her ill. So, you all will live." He dipped a rag in some now unidentifiable mess on the floor and then used it to draw the runes for the elven name Firnadan on the wall.

Ian wasn't sure if there were any around here that knew of the "Dead Man" from the wars on the Continent, but eventually someone would tell Henry what it meant. And since the Otters kept the name active as a signature when they needed it, it would not be connected with him. "Don't push your luck." He retrieved Daisy's rope, then with a mocking salute left Henry to slump limply to the floor and survey the damage.

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That night, at a small farm outside of Camelot, a visit from Ian left Daisy comfortably ensconced with a retired veteran who was glad to promise to give Daisy a home for life as a favor to his old commander. The last Ian saw of Daisy she was happily making the acquaintance of the resident boar, and no doubt it would not be long before he would have to stop eating roast pigs.

After all, it would be bad manners to eat the child of a friend.

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The Lost: Part XII

"Whose horse is that in the stable?" The tall blond man stood in the doorway of the tavern and looked about the dimly lit room. A second man of equal height but with black hair flanked the speaker with a wolfish grin. Heads turned and regarded the pair with jaded eyes. The tavernkeep gave the two a disgusted look. "Rolf, nearly every man here has a horse in the stable. Which one are you talking about?"

Rolf scowled. "The big one, the bay stallion nearest the door."

"That would be my horse." A figure seated in the far corner of the room waved his hand nonchalantly. "He's not for sale."

"And who said anything about buying it? I TAKE what I want!" He turned to his companion, who, by the resemblance to Rolf had to be his brother. "Go get him. I'll discourage this one if he tries to stop you. If know what's best for you, stranger, you'll just sit there in your corner and be glad Bjorn and I are taking only your horse and not your life. Just sit there and we'll be on our way." He set his hand on his swordhilt and glared menacingly as his brother ran out for the horse. He frowned as the stranger murmured something that was lost in the sudden slam of the tavern door. "You say something?"

"I said I wouldn't do that if I were your brother." The stranger stayed seated, took a swallow of ale and looked calmly across at Rolf. "That's a trained war horse. It's smart...probably smarter than your brother."

"Big words, but my sword is bigger. Do not force me to use it to make you hold your tongue." He smiled as loud thumps and curses from outside cut short the stallion's protests and were followed by quiet. "There. So much for smart horses." He gave a triumphant laugh as the tavern door opened and he turned to greet his brother, then frowned as a pale and trembling stable boy rushed inside. "Where's Bjorn?"

"He killed him!" The boy flinched as Rolf took a step closer. "I tried to help , really, but I never seen a horse like that! He would nae let Bjorn saddle `im, and when Bjorn boxed `im in the head, he turned and kicked him...one kick, and his face..." He broke off as he saw the look on Rolf's face, then darted over behind the tavernkeeper for shelter." It weren't my fault, Rolf!"

The big man started after him, then stopped. He turned and pointed his sword's tip across the room at the man in the corner. "YOU! You killed my brother!"

The man who had said his name was Ferret when he entered rose and gave a low laugh. "I told you Horse was smarter than him. Now, I think, he's smarter than you are as well." He drew his own sword from the sheath on his back. "Go home, boy."

But by that time, Rolf was already rushing across the room at him, sword ready to strike.

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