A er giving Bren the skin full of the liqueur, March laid out the cloak and began cu ng it into strips. A er that, he gently took off the blood soaked pieces of the shirt he had ed around Bren’s leg. The cut looked like a long black gooey line. March wished he had a way to s tch it up, but the nearest needle was back over the ridge with their other gear. He thought about leaving Bren here and making the trip alone, but thoughts of what

could happen to his friend lying defenseless in the cave made up his mind for him.

“You pouring, or me?” March asked, poin ng from the wine skin to the gash.

“I’ll pour it,” Bren sounded reluctant. “You have to hold my leg s ll so I don’t pull it all back open if I jump.”

“All right,” March couldn’t help but laugh. “But you’re such a giboon. I ought to just leave you here, take all this stuff and go buy myself a castle.”

Bren tried to laugh, but the an cipa on of the pain to come kept him from it. March put one hand on Bren’s knee and the other on Bren’s hip. Then he nodded that he was ready. Bren took a big swig from the skin. Then, before he lost his resolve, he poured a generous amount of the liquid down his thigh just as he swallowed.

To March’s surprise Bren just looked at him stupidly. It seemed as though he wasn’t feeling any pain at all. Then, Bren’s face slowly flushed pink. It quickly graduated to a bright reddish color. Soon it looked as if Bren’s head would burst. Then the scream came.

It was long and loud, and it was followed by several quick sharp huffs that sent spi le flying from Bren’s mouth in every direc on. He looked pleadingly at March and started to scream again, but mercifully his eyes rolled back into his head as his body succumbed to the pain.

March wasted no me. He first padded the wound with a folded piece of the cloak. He bound it once more with strips so that it wouldn’t pull open on its own. Then he bound it again with a second layer of strips. A er pu ng the sword back in the scabbard, he laid it along Bren’s wounded

leg. He made sure that the ball of the hilt was ju ng just past the bo om of Bren’s boot heel. He was glad to see that the p of the sheathed blade was above Bren’s hip, nearly at his armpit. He strapped the sword to Bren’s leg with more strips of the cloak and some lengths of rope. He ed a fancy knot around Bren’s foot and the hilt, so that the sword couldn’t come sliding out of its scabbard. Finally, he slipped the thick leather sword belt under his friend’s waist then buckled it ghtly around Bren and the sword’s blade. He hoped that most of Bren’s weight would be on the tempered steel and not on his leg.

March took a moment to rest a er his labors. He wanted desperately to be back over the ridge and in their camp before dark. He rounded up everything he could find, including the coins from the floor of the cavern.

He put them all into the backpack. He strapped Bren’s bow and quiver around his shoulders, and took the me to remove three of the arrows from the body of the beast. Then he decided to take some proof of the kill.

With his skinning knife, he cut the fore claw off of the creature, and a er wrapping it in what was le of the cloak, he forced it into the pack. He shouldered the load, and a er a quick look around to make sure that he had go en everything, he went to wake Brendly.

It was a slow tedious climb. The sword splint was awkward, but it worked.

Bren was more or less just stumbling from tree to tree. He clung to the lower branches and used his muscled arms to keep himself from falling all the way down.

March was carrying the packs and finding that keeping the bow ready was a chore all by itself. His ruined palms wouldn’t close around the grip correctly and even the slightest squeeze of his hands caused extreme pain.

To make things worse, he could feel the icy burn of his skull where his scalp

wasn’t covering the bone anymore. He would have just fallen down and cried if it weren’t for the heart wrenching determina on Bren was showing by just keeping himself upright.

Ever so slowly they con nued the journey upward, figh ng their pain as they climbed. They stopped to drink from the wine skin and to eat some dried beef but found that it was a mistake. The short reprieve allowed their bodies to relax but caused their wounds to s ffen. Bren felt far worse than he had when they had started from the cave. March didn’t feel much be er. The strong content of the skin, that the skeleton had so generously preserved for them, did very li le to ease their suffering, but Bren found himself wan ng more of it. March let him finish what was le before they started back up the mountain.

They climbed some more and eventually the ridge came into view. Bren used the sight of it to strengthen his resolve. He used all that he had le in himself to get there.

March wasn’t far behind, but blood loss had him feeling dizzy. He was sure that the s cky wetness that he was feeling running down his back was as much blood as it was sweat. A glance at the sun told him that they probably wouldn’t make it back to the camp by nigh all, but since they would be within the kingdom’s boundaries, and traveling downhill, he felt that their chances were good of ge ng there alive. That is, if he could keep from passing out. He was sure that Bren was having a harder me of it. It amazed him that Bren hadn’t done much more than grunt and wince on the way up. Bren had to be in incredible pain. March’s wounds were superficial in comparison.

“Well that was the hard part!” March managed to say between breaths as he gained Bren’s side at the top of the ridge.

Bren was holding desperately onto a branch to steady himself and he was gasping for air. He managed a grim smile.

March plopped down heavily onto a rock and began rummaging through his pack un l he found his water skin. A er taking a long drink, he handed it to Bren’s trembling hand. Bren finished it off then he playfully tossed it at March before he started down the mountainside.

“We're not stopping here,” Bren called out over his shoulder. “And you’d be er hurry up and lead, because if it’s up to me, we are going straight down into the valley.”

March reluctantly got to his feet and started a er his friend. He was completely amazed at the way Bren was handling the pain.

It was dark when March finally found the camp. He wouldn’t have found it, if not for the many tracking and hun ng lessons he’d learned from his father and two older brothers over the years.

The stars weren’t very bright this night, but the moon would be up soon.

He’d use its light to check Bren’s wounds.

Bren was in a bad way. Several mes, on the last por on of the trek, he had stumbled into trees and shrubs. Once, when his red arms wouldn’t hold him up any longer, he had fallen into a s ff-legged heap on the forest floor. He was stretched out now, under the shelter March had made for them the previous night. March made him drink the remainder of their water, and then helped him eat some dried beef before le ng him pass out.

As soon as he got a fire started, March was going to range out in the darkness and find the pool of clean water where they had seen the stag.

He had to be sure that the fire wouldn’t burn out while he was gone. If it did, every hungry creature in the forest would be a er Bren like ants on a piece of sweet candy. All they would have to do to find him was follow the blood trail they had le throughout the day. The fire would also help March find his way back from the pool. The fire roared to life, and while stoking it to the size he needed it to be, March felt its warmth sink into his aching bones. He fought, but to no avail. Before he could leave, he too fell into a deep, much needed sleep.

March woke to the sound of Bren’s agonizing moans. Somewhere beyond the mountains, the sun was breaking the night, giving him just enough rosy light to see by. The morning sky was glorious and filled with color, where it could be seen peeking above the mountain tops. March couldn’t enjoy it though, because he knew they desperately needed water.

The air was thick with a sense of urgency. Bren was fever stricken. His red body was now figh ng infec on. What Bren really needed was the care of an herb master. March was tempted to make a li er and drag his friend down the mountainside. He wondered if the me he spent going and ge ng some water would allow the infec on to get into Bren’s blood. He’d seen that happen once when a copper miner who had been cut on the arm had stayed in the mine too long. The Herb Master had had to cut the arm off, but the miner eventually died anyway. All of Prominence Village had been forced to endure his screaming torment un l he finally died.

The gravity of their situa on weighed heavy on March. If he made the wrong decision it could cost Bren his leg, or worse. He was so concerned with Bren that he completely ignored the pain of his own wounds. He made the decision to make the li er and drag Bren to the stag’s pool with

him. There he could wash the wounds, and boil water to clean the bandages.

Methodically he went about making a li er out of the oil cloth they had used for their shelter and some limbs he cut from nearby trees. He had made several li ers in his life. It was the easiest way to get a big buck down the mountain. He and Bren had used them a few mes when they were younger, before they were strong enough to spit a carcass and shoulder it down.

The sun was above the peaks by the me he was done making the travois-like device. He was weak and dehydrated, but he packed all their gear onto it with Bren and then gripped the two poles. His split hands were s ll bleeding and raw, but he started off anyway. Inside March there was nothing le except sheer determina on and love for his friend.

It was midday and the sun was high and hot when they finally arrived at the pool. March spent a few moments picking the splinters and dried bark out of the gashes in his palms while cleansing them in the cool water. Then he focused all of his a en on on Bren.

By nigh all, he was a li le more confident in Bren’s chances. He had thoroughly cleansed away the dirt and grime from his friend’s wound. He had forced it to bleed and then opened the cut wide enough to cut away all the yellowing pussy sec ons that had formed there. He even s tched it in several places but he wasn’t sure if he had done it right. They s ll had a long hard journey ahead of them. March could only hope that he had done enough.

The wound was staying closed, but Bren s ll had fever. March hoped that his condi on would change if they rested through the night. He had made

a broth by placing the last of their dried beef in the pot and boiling in some gable roots he found. Bren woke just long enough to drink a good por on of it. He was pale and weak from loss of blood and couldn’t manage the strength to speak. He did manage to drink most of the aroma c liquid down. Then he was off again, back into a fi ul slumber.

March figured that if he rested for a while he could get them down into the valley by the following a ernoon. There he would break apart the li er and burn it before the sun went down. If a farmer or shepherd didn’t respond, he would run like the wind and return with a cart or a wagon. He was determined to have Bren in Prominence proper by dawn. It was a sound plan and it relieved him to have at least that much.

While Bren tossed and turned, March fingered the medallion he had found. He wasn’t certain, but at one point he thought that it might have been causing his palms to ngle. It wasn’t long before he too fell into slumber. He slept heavily and had vivid dreams that eluded him when the sound of a curious scavenger woke him in the predawn light. When he reached over to shake Bren awake his heart slid up into his throat. Bren had died in the night. His body was cool and s ff.

5

“By the Gods, NOOOOO!” he shouted at the s ll darkened sky. A cluster of startled birds exploded from a nearby tree and sent his heavy heart to hammering.

“There’s a way to save him,” a small steady voice said from behind him. “All you have to do is pledge your soul to the Conflic on.”

March whirled around and saw the impossible. The white stag was standing there looking at him, its dark eyes plainly visible against its luminescent white fur. It wasn’t the stag who had spoken though. Si ng on the stag’s back was one of the fabled elvish. The fair skinned, silvery haired, creature seemed to be slightly unse led by the fact that March was twice his size, but he met March’s gaze with his wild amber eyes.

March’s emo on surged. “You’ll save my friend if you can, or I will-- I’ll--”

“You’ll do naught other than pledge your soul to the figh ng of the Conflic on,” the li le man said flatly. He was wearing a sort of cloth that looked to be made out of ny rings of the same strange metal as the medallion. And, what March had first mistaken as fear had suddenly turned into snarling defiance. “You’ll swear to fight against the Conflic on, or I’ll take that medallion. Then you can drag your friend’s corpse home to his mother.”