Strongjaw & The Dish

7

Though she had considered it time wasted, the gathering of the horses, of supplies, the pace they could now make was worth it. Speeding onward, blurring buildings into fields, then into the shadows of the thick trees of the Parchwood Forest.

She was forced by the nature of their mounts, to go far slower than she craved. The two gnomes shared a small bay, the blonde cleric rattling faintly with every thud of hoofbeats, the fancy bard behind her sneaking surreptitious sniffs of the pale hair and holding tight to her waist. The platter-sized feet of the plowhorse who had been conscripted to carry Grog sent showers of dirt up with every strike, its furry hooves shaking the ground as it bore its rider just to her left. The dichotomy of the small to the immense might have been amusing to her on any day other than today. Today, she only could think of the thousand ways she was going to make Vedmyer suffer.

The road lead on, but from it, several paths diverged. Any of them could have been his route of escape. Had he turned to the East or to the West? Was he fleeing inland? Toward the coast? She pulled the reins back and slowed herself and the others fell into line, each a little breathless.

"It's hopeless." She spat it between her teeth. "He's gone."

"Not gone. He's just not... here." The sweet-voiced gnome lady spoke. "We will find him though." Her smile was kind, but unwanted at the moment.

Trish didn't want to hear that sooner or later he'd be brought to justice. She wanted to have him here. Now! Her mind and body were both fixed on the fantasy of driving a dagger into him again and again and again. She pulled up sharp and dismounted in a single motion. "Let me know when the druid gets here then." A toss of the reins around a low-hanging branch and she stalked off into the woods.

Grog slid down far more slowly, watching the spot where she'd vanished into the trees. He felt too much. Fury, oh, that was there in great heaped up barrels. But so was sickness. His belly hurt. He had thoughts. They were fleeting like little fish in a clear stream that caught a bit of light and were gone before you could even tell what color they'd been. He wanted to catch them. Study them. Look at them until he could name them, but they were too quick. Too slippery. He found himself staring down at his hands as the fingers opened and closed.

"She'll be okay, Grog." Pike's tender voice came as she rode closer. Scanlan was off to the side of the road and she was alone on the back of the horse. He still had to look down to see her, but she was far closer than she'd have been on the ground.

He frowned. One of those 'fish thoughts' moving in his memory. "Shoulda cut his fucking head off when I had the chance." In a flash he saw that day. Winter's Crest in Whitestone. Two prisoners, but only one head rolled. If he'd killed Vedmyer then. Again, he heard those words. 'your fault... your fault...' echoing with venom in his mind, cluttering his thinking further until only the red-hot fire of rage could burn through it.

"Maybe." Pike nodded softly and it was quiet for so long he had to drag his eyes back over to make sure she hadn't vanished. She was still there, looking up at him with big eyes full of ... well Pikeness. Love and friendship and understanding that radiated like the power of her Goddess, all warm and golden. It always made him feel just a little better. "So you really like her a lot, huh?"

That was a change of subject, and he wasn't quite ready for it. He suddenly didn't quite know how to answer that. "Well..." he thought about denying it for a second. No. Maybe to one of the others he might pretend otherwise, but Pike knew him too well. "Yeah." he shrugged a little bit. "She's nice. She is good at fighting. She likes ..." he did stop then. He didn't blush, but he somehow didn't think it was right to mention how sexy Trisha was.