It took the Hand far less time to make their way back out of the Prison of Haranol than it had to penetrate it. When they arrived back at the large entrance chamber, they found the mules waiting patiently, Barbarian 55 still asleep, and the sun just beginning to rise in the east.

The storm was over, the winds now no more than occasional gusts, and the fine dust of the Blasted March was settling again to cover the dead land in a blurring blanket. Still exhausted from days of hard travel, possession by benevolent spirits, mind-merging, battle with a demon, more hard travel through a sand storm, mental manipulation by another demon, and the death of one of their own, the surviving members of the Hand of Fortune wanted nothing so much as to collapse into sleep for the next several days.

But grief and responsibility drove them to resist the temptation, at least for the moment. Mariala drew out the pieces of her magic parchment that were linked to ones in the possession of Master Vetaris, her ink and a pen. As she sharpened the quill, she pondered how to say what she needed to, as concisely as possible. With suggestions from Devrik and Korwin she finally put pen to parchment.

Corruptor imprisoned. Vortex stymied here. Farendol dead, resurrected, in coma. Erol dead, body possessed by Haranol/Sakal-Ur. Demon Lord free. Survivors exhausted, on verge of collapse. At least 1-2 days from nearest Gate. Please advise. –MT

Mariala knew that her mentor made a habit of checking her parchments each day as part of his morning routine; it should be no more than an hour or two before he saw her message. Although how long it would take him to craft a response, and what that response might be, she couldn’t guess. When they’d freed a minor spider-demon on a mostly-empty moor awhile back he’d been quite wroth… freeing one of the five most powerful demonic entities on Novendo… she couldn’t begin to imagine.

Well, she’d done what she could, for the moment. And whatever Vetaris or the Star Council might want of her and her friends next, she wouldn’t be able to do anything if she didn’t sleep soon. And the others needed to sleep too…

After advising her on the note, Devrik had left the building to patrol the perimeter and assess the possibilities for defense, while Korwin had set about making breakfast. Vulk had never left Farendol’s side since they’d laid him down on the cantor’s sleeping roll, and Toran was busy putting together some sort of travois that could be slung between the mules to carry the comatose Telnori.

After breakfast, they all gathered on the steps of the building in the bleak morning sun to discuss what to do next. Mariala had checked her parchment, but no word yet from Master Vetaris.

“We need to return to civilization as soon as possible,” Vulk insisted, continuing an argument begun over breakfast. “Farendol needs more healing than I can give him here, and the longer it’s delayed… Well, if we set out now, we might make the Gate before nightfall, if we push hard.”

“I understand, my friend,” Devrik growled. “No one wants Farendol to recover more than me, truly. But we are all on the edge of collapse, and frankly, you more than most – we’ve all seen what your healing takes out of you, never mind an actual resurrection!”

“He’s right, Vulk,” Mariala agreed. “You’re not thinking clearly. What good would it be to Farendol if we perish ourselves in these wastelands? And we might well do so, if we set out in this state.”

“And I can’t promise I can summon up more water without some rest,” Korwin sighed. “I tried while preparing breakfast, and I just can’t do it, my focus is shot… I, at least, wouldn’t dare to try any magic until I’ve had a good 10 hours of sleep.”

Vulk argued a bit more, but in the end he was too tired to keep it up… which he knew proved his friends’ point. Not that he didn’t surrender with ill grace, stomping off to check on his patient and roll out a second bedroll next to him, while the others pondered whether or not they could safely use Barbarian 55 for sentry duty.

“He has a name, you know,” Vulk flung over his shoulder as he walked away. “It’s Therok, try using it!”

Devrik just rolled his eyes as he finished cleaning his sword and re-sheathing it across his back.

“I know he still seems totally, um, smitten with our cantor,” he said as the blade snicked home, “but I don’t feel comfortable trusting our lives to him just yet.”

“I agree,” Toran said, pulling  a whetstone along edge of his own weapon. “Which is while I’ll take the first watch with him. My people are naturally able to go longer than you humans without sleep, and my Kahar-ün-Tem training means I can go days without sleeping, if need be.”

“That training didn’t seem to do much good last –” Devrik started to say, but then seemed to think better of finishing the thought.

“No, no… I admit, I wasn’t immune to the mental powers of an Elemental Demon Lord,” Toran purred sweetly. “Not like a bad-ass fire mage-warrior such as–”

“OK, that’s enough!” Mariala interrupted sharply, jumping to her feet. “We’ve agreed we need to rest, so let’s do it. Barbarian – er, Therok has had a full nights sleep, so he should be good for the whole day, with one of us always awake with him – Toran first, then Korwin, then Devrik, in four hour shifts. OK?”

The others agreed, and it was only as they were preparing to lay down that any of them realized she’d managed to leave both Vulk and herself out of the guard duty rotation…

As Mariala prepared her own sleeping roll she noticed that Grover, Erol’s beloved ferret, was curled up on top of one of the saddle bags. He had been asleep when they’d returned, and had darted about between their feet, obviously looking for his master, and had seemed confused when he couldn’t find him. She made the chirping sound she knew attracted him, but he just raised his head to look at her, then heaved a sigh and lowered it onto his forepaws again and closed his eyes.

Mariala shrugged, feeling bad for the poor creature – however much she would miss Erol, Grover would certainly miss him more. The two had been inseperable, and gods knew, the little beast had been useful more than once in battle. She wondered if he would come to bond with her, when his master failed to return…

The last thing she did before sleeping, fighting off her drooping eyelids with an effort, was check her parchment. And there was the reply from Master Vetaris:

A disaster to be sure! Will need full details soonest, but Council forces have already been set in motion. Will send medical help to nearest Gate, day after tomorrow. Rest, recover, travel by night. Condolences –V

Good, she sighed, tucking the sheet away again… no urgent call to action, good… In seconds she was asleep.

♦ ♦ ♦

She dreamed of Erol.

She stood on a vast, dark plain, under a dark, starless sky. In the distance she saw a figure, and as she watched it seemed to come closer without actually moving. She realized it was Erol, and she felt a great grief wash over her. He seemed to recognize her, but looked puzzled, even confused. He seemed to be trying to speak, but she could make out no words. Then he was suddenly receding from her again, and she called his name, but he was gone…

If she dreamed any other dreams that day, she didn’t recall them…

♦ ♦ ♦

By the time the sun was touching the western horizon everyone was awake and preparing to set out. Devrik and Therok had fixed a hot meal, which they ate quickly, and Toran and Vulk had secured Farendol between the mules in the sling travois the Khundari had rigged. It meant that as much of the load from the saddle bags as possible had to be split between the party, but it wasn’t an intolerable burden for anyone.

Mariala was gratified when Grover ran up to her and leaped onto the top of her pack, settling himself there with a deep sigh. He had been rather frantic earlier, when they’d been distributing the contents of the saddle bags, running around and nipping at hands. But he seemed calm now, if still a little depressed. Of course she was probably projecting that last emotion…

The day’s rest had certainly gone a long way towards renewing everyone’s bodies, but their reserves were still dangerously low – it was a surface recovery, and more physical than emotional. Through the long hours of the night, putting one foot in front of the other, they all had plenty of time to remember and mourn their fallen friend. Only the physical exertion prevented them from dwelling too much on their grief, Vulk suspected.

He himself was more than a little distracted from his very real, raw emotions over Erol’s death by the needs of Farendol. He couldn’t understand why the Telnori hadn’t yet regained consciousness. Certainly Vulk had learned his lesson after that horrifying revival of Ser Andro Valador, as the man immediately died again of the painful poison that had first killed him – this time Vulk had healed enough of the physical trauma to ensure the Telnori wouldn’t simply expire again from his wounds.

And clearly that had worked, as Farendol’s body breathed, his eyes were reactive to light, his temperature and color were good – perhaps Vulk had missed some internal damage – Kasira knows he was working in the heat of battle and panic. Maybe the interruption in his healing efforts when Erol – the demon – had attacked had caused him to miss something crucial. Or maybe the Druid was in some sort of healing Telnori trance. Actually, as he thought about it, lat last idea seemed more and more likely…

♦ ♦ ♦

When the sun rose the next morning, the tired group could see a distant line of green ahead of them, beyond the shifting gray dust of the Desolation. No more than another half-day’s march Devrik  and Toran estimated. After a shot stop for a cold meal and a rest, everyone agreed that they should press on. Hopefully help would be waiting for them at the Gate, or would at least be there not long after them, as Master Vetaris had promised.

It was not yet midday when the group found themselves once again standing before the Gate in the ruins of the once-proud city of Xaranda. They had left the Blasted March slightly south and east of where they’d entered it, and so arrived in the dead city without passing through the burned-out shell of the hamlet of Helathor, where all this had begun – was it really just four days ago?

No one was waiting for them, so Korwin oversaw the setting up of camp and the preparation of a hot meal, while Devrik and Toran scouted the area. After eating, Vulk and Mariala volunteered to take the first watch while the other slept, including Therok.

The sun was well on its way toward the western horizon when Devrik and Toran, who were on guard duty by then, and Vulk, who was up checking on his patient, saw a figure materialize within the circle of the Gate. Silhouetted against the late afternoon sun, he seemed an imposing figure – of average height, but solidly built, stocky even, silver-gray hair flared in a halo around his head, one hand holding a tall staff and his dark traveling cloak thrown back over one shoulder.

He peered down the slight slope at the three men and the camp beyond them and raised a hand.

“Hail, friends!” he called, in a surprisingly light, if pleasant, voice for such a hefty body. “My name is Tarbol Arbitar, and I’m here to–”

His last words were cut off as he took a step forward, caught a booted foot in his cloak, stumbled forward, almost regained his balance… and tripped over a stone, face planting in the grass at Devrik’s feet. The commotion woke the others, who craned to see what was going on.

As the three men rushed forward to offer assistance, the stranger scrambled to his feet, waving them off, tugging his clothes back into order and recovering his staff – a shepherd’s crook, actually. No longer framed against the light, it was obvious he was much younger than they had first thought, though both his shoulder-length hair and close-trimmed beard were silver-gray. His eyes were a watery blue, and his generous nose raw and red. His bulk seemed less muscle than… well, less than muscle.

He squinted myopically around, and seemed momentarily taken aback as he noticed the rest of the group gathered around, then cleared his throat and began again.

“As I was saying, I am Tarbol Arbitar, and I’m here to help!” he declaimed more than said. “Master Vetaris promised you a healer… and I am a healer, a cantor of Alea, of the Order of the Vigilant Shepherd.”

He threw back his cloak again, to reveal the coarse beige cloth of his tunic and trousers, little distinguishable from a well-to-do peasant’s garb if not for the white leather belt and the wheat-sheaf & crozier badge of Alea on his breast.

“Now, where is my patient?”