It was something amid the corpse leavings. It must have been. While he was healing, it had crept into him somehow.
And just might be stealing Brorn Hallomond from himself.
He cursed loud and long, standing there alone in the forest, then turned back to the casket and bitterly thanked the boneshards and dust therein.
For stealing his life from him, perhaps.
He strode away, hoping his clothes could hide his skeletal limbs when things got that far.
He doubted that war wizards would let him see the Royal Magician or anyone else when they saw a walking skeleton heading their way.
Alaphondar leaned forward across the table. The Royal Sage seemed as calm as evet, but the gentle, reassuring smile he put on his face made Rhallogant Caladanter, sitting on the other side of the table, shake in his manacles.
"Be at ease, Lord Caladanter," rhe sage said. "You've been most helpful thus far, and the Crown is pleased. Thus far. You are here today merely to answer another question, if you can."
He paused to give the young noble a chance to rush in and fill the silence, and the terrified Rhallogant Caladanter obliged. "I–I'll do anything! Ah, say anything! I will!"
"That'll be helpful," Dalonder Ree muttered sarcastically from where he stood lounging against one closed door out of the room.
The lady in battle leathers whom everyone addressed either as "Dove" or "Lady Dove" leaned against the other closed door.
"The… gentlesir in whose company you were found had some aims in life, some things he was striving to accomplish. Did he speak of them to you, at all? If he, say-to speak entirely in fanciful 'what ifs'-ran away from us, right now, where would he go, do you think?"
"I… I- Yes, he did, but I know not," Rhallogant babbled. "He… he… oh, let me think!"
"Please, be our guest," Ree murmured. "There's a first time for everything."
His fingertips burned briefly. A counterspell. Drathar flung the dagger down, cursing.
Oh, 'twas a knife, and a good one. Useful enough and beautifully balanced for throwing. Plain, too; not traceable. Yet it held not one shred of a means of tracing her or working magic on her from afar. Of course.
Drathar threw back his head and went on cursing, loud and long, snapping out the words rather than shouting them. Beasts lurked in these wild woods, and he wasn't seeking to battle one just yet. Retrieving the knife-at least he knew it was clean, so they couldn't spell-trace him through it-he started walking along the game trail to keep his passage as quiet as possible.
It was too cold, before dawn, to sleep anyhail, even if he hadn't had a raw pain high in his chest, just in from his shoulder.
How had that bitch of a she-thief known he was there? He'd watched quietly from cover, not moving except to rise a little out of his crouch to see better, and not working any spells. How had she known?
Well, whatever the reason for that, she had, and this changed things. She had to be taken down, even before the spellhurlers and the ranger.
"The gauntlets," he told the darkness around him with an angry hiss, "are off."
He was half-expecting to hear an angry, answering hiss, but none came.
"Dead," Pennae said in grim satisfaction. "The displacer beast, I mean, not the man out there whose bidding it was doing. He got away. For now."
"So," Semoor grunted, feeling his ribs and wincing, "are we great heroes? Or do children in the Dales wrestle down displacer beasts?"
"It certainly looked fearsome enough," Doust said. "And I'm not going to be able to wear this armor again until we hammer it out."
Semoor grinned. "Give it here. I'd welcome something to batter flat, about now."
No,"Islif and Pennae said in unison, severely.
"You want to make enough noise to draw things to us for more than a day's travel all around?" the thief added. "Know how far that sort of sound carries?"
Semoor gave her a bright, idiotic grin. "Evidently not. Farther than your curses?"
"How's Jhess?" Florin asked. "I think she took the full force of whatever spell she sent at it. Something made the spell turn back on her."
"That would be the work of the wizard who was watching," Pennae told him, joining him as he peered down at Jhessails sprawled, unconscious body. "Who I don't think is a war wizard."
"Doesn't seem like their style, no," Islif agreed. "So, what other foes do we have?" She shot Pennae a look. "Just how busy have you been, separating nobles from their coins?"
The thief shrugged. "No busier than we've all been, getting them separated from their heads by war wizards as they get caught doing treason, time and again. I doubt most of them care overmuch about us, if they think of us at all."
"Well." Semoor sighed, "Someone is thinking of us. Right attentively, too."
"Let's hope he's tasted enough battle for one night," Pennae said, looking at Doust's ribs. "This ledge and slope here is probably the best camp we'll find for defending in the dark against anyone who can't loose arrows at us."
She looked up at Semoor. "Heal your friend, here. Tymora shouldn't mind. He certainly took his chances."
"What about Jhess?"
"Let her lie in peace for now. At dawn, the two of you may need to be healing her. I didn't recognize the spell she tried to use-did either of you?"
The priests both shook their heads.
"Well, sit on either side of her and keep watching her. If she turns cold or doesn't rouse, start with the healings right away. Or we may be down one mage."
"Is she that bad?" Florin asked grimly, planting his sword and going to his knees beside the still, wan-faced Jhessail.
Pennae shrugged. "Don't know, not knowing the spell she tried. All we can do is wait and see."
"Why not cast the healings right now?"
"Because it's not morning yet, Florin," the thief said. "We don't know when we'll be attacked next. One of us may end up needing them more urgently than little Flamehair here."
Florin nodded and turned to face the night, where they could already hear beasts moving. The creatures were heading for where the corpse of the dirlagraun lay. To feed.
His left arm, leg, and the left side of him were all covered in bone now, and most of his face, too. His hair was falling out in great, dry, crumbling handfuls.
Brorn had shrugged off most of his clothing at first, for fear it would melt or rot away when the bone-change touched it.
Yet it was back on, now. His spreading, creeping covering of bone was affecting only his skin. Beneath it, he still felt like himself- strong, agile, alive, not a brittle, light, dead thing.
It hadn't covered his eyes. Yet. It had done something to them, though. He could see keenly in the night-gloom, walking among the trees as sure-footed as on a cloudy day.
And half of him, stlarn it, looked like a walking skeleton.
He dared not go out to the road, where folk could see him. He probably shouldn't let himself be seen as he was now, in Cormyr, at all. In the Dales, they were backwoods farmers, simpler folk. His appearance might tetrify them, but they weren't of Cormyr, so he didn't care what they thought of him, so long as none of them got brave enough to start thrusting pitchforks or aiming crossbows his way.
What would happen to him when the bone covered him entirely? Would it start gnawing at his innards or growing across his eyes?
Was he doomed?
Not that there was a thing he could do to stop it.