If you have not read part 1, you may wish to follow from that point.

Going East, Part 2

Eagungad’s Last Secret

By Mitchell Phelps

Day 13 of the month of Redleaf.

Today was good. A little warmer than bitter cold, in fact, and that’s excellent for the merchandise indeed. Still too cold for me.

Maka has, again, been proven to be a fool. It’s those bewildered eyes; brown and dull, like a northern tree’s bark, and they contain every bit of intelligence. They dart about like I speak in a foreign language, desperately seeking meaning in the air around me as though there is none in what I am giving him; Does he not understand what I am doing in my reprimanding? He may just prove a liability.

It hurts to write that. I don’t want to have to kill him. But I’ll do what I must; If he slips up and our merchandise is discovered we’re all dead anyhow, Maka included.

And then there’s the Troll. He won’t tell me where he is from, tribe or anything. I don’t like him; he’s slow and stinks of long journeys. Not that we don’t: Bastet knows how long I’ve been without soap and bath. The Argent river is disgusting.

But the Troll – I’m not even going to try to spell his name – the Troll won’t talk to me, or to any of the crew. Funny thought: perhaps he’d talk with Maka. It’d fit with the hellish luck I’ve been having, wouldn’t it?

And to make this even worse, the Troll hides something. I don’t know what it is, maybe something illegal? He’s lucky I can’t approach the Queensguard to determine his bounty until I sell the merchandise and erase its evidence. How do I know he has a bounty? I caught him sneak into his bag. He was not looking for weapons, thank Bastet’s fine mercy. The idiot was reading a letter, I kid you not!

The Troll was frightened by the letter. It was hand-written in steady ink, with fancy paper, and stamped in Zobeck. Ladies handwriting; his Mate perhaps? But who knows. I haven’t replaced Telk-Skar since we unloaded his rotting corpse into the river miles before, meaning we have no one among us who reads Zobecki trade tongue. Fancy that!

Well, the Troll can read it, and its scary stuff. I’ll just kill the Troll in the morning, that’s what I’ll do.

Him and Maka, too. Those idiots.

-#-

Heaving intensely, Eagungad allowed his exhausted, dead weight to drop behind a short ledge. Hiding himself from his pursuers, he re-read the letter Bellwise sent again. I can’t believe this is happening! thought Eagungad. The Amazons of Perunalia (the land they had recently crossed into) seem to not have found him. Quite amazingly; it seems Eagungad was the last person to learn he, himself had a bounty — and that Lark Grae, of all people, was on the case! He had very little time, he was ducking into the Argent river when blood hounds howled in the distance; it was like a knife was thrust deep into his stomach upon hearing that sound.

A smell like tar crossed him momentarily. Focus! — he willed with iron resolve to not let his mind wonder. Nol was carrying illicit narcotics, as it turns out, “was” being operative. The Amazons made very sure of that. He did not know where Nol was at that time, but he knew most of the others were dead.

Now he was in the open. Trees fell away to the pure Rothenian Pasture; grand, open skies and long grass forever. The wind brought a chill, but that paled against the chill brought to him by a stray arrow whizzing by. Behind Eagungad, at the tree line not more then half a mile back, the search party spotted him.

Eagungad did not know if this advent was Lark’s doing, or if he was merely to be killed for associating with Nol.

Eagungad hadn’t felt this tired since the Shadow Realm Incident, when the shadows themselves came alive as bears to chase him for sport. It struck Eagungad, as he ran, that if they knew what became of Lord Maywyrd, perhaps they wouldn’t kill him— But then there was Lady Sheerah, who was still a problem.

More arrows struck around him. The wind-chill caught up. Horrified, Eagungad realized he was slowing down.

As night set in, Eagungad lost his pursuers. He did not think he had gained such a lead, but clearly, he got enough of one. Dropping a winter blanket and bedroll, the sweaty, aching Orc slept painfully cold in the open night air, he dared not to build a fire and give away his position.

The night passed with agony. The seconds were hours, the hours like years. Eagungad wouldn’t sleep well that night.

Finally, dawn. The dew needled into him as he regained consciousness, the frosty air stinging in his throat. He legs were numb, his feet felt like they were warping into terrible knots, and this cramping was every bit that painful.

As Eagungad struggled to stand, He turned to the east, and there it was. Brownish orange stones encircled an old ruin, reddish moss overtaking that: The Golden Cairn. The old woman’s words echoed in his head – “You will find it there.”

“What do you think is at the golden cairn, wretch?” the husky male voice came, startling Eagungad. Eagungad heard the click of a loaded and readied crossbow and turned to see it aimed at him. Its wielder was a worn, greying man.

“—Lark Grae?” Eagungad muttered, to himself primarily. He didn’t need to, however. He knew it in his soul.

“The one and only, you filthy little maggot. Tell me – Eagungad, is it? – What’s at the cairn?”

“I dunno.” Eagungad stammered. He felt a push from his soul – Well, not his soul, but close. His final trick wanted out. Eagungad didn’t want his secret out now and didn’t want more to-do with killing.

“Yes you do, Eagungad.” Lark’s fingers inched on the trigger-mechanism of the bow. Eagungad was petrified. “What’s over there?”