Exhaustion. Pain. Discontent. Discouragement. Aralim’s bedraggled travellers struggled to place each foot in front of the next. The guards’ training and conditioning gave them an edge, but that advantage was negated during their shifts of carrying Lerela’s stretcher. Devran complained about his shoulders of all things—it seemed his pack full of books was heavier than ever after half a month of double-paced marching. Aralim, with all his years on the road, might have fared the best, save for his relentless place at Lerela’s stretcher and the dull ache in his healing hand.
That was, of course, exempting the Aura. The Aura walked along without a single hesitation in his pace. He helped carry the cot whenever they would permit him, and didn’t seem to grow weary from it. It was usually Grendar, after a stretch of a dozen miles or more, who would insist that the Aura get a turn to rest as well.
Aralim reflected, one afternoon, that this was likely the least social of all his adventures. It was most unfortunate because Nilless had seemed so intent on that aspect of the journey. Nonetheless, they were all too weary for amiable conversation.
Six days had passed since their disposal of the bandit horsemen. Lerela’s condition was slowly deteriorating; she slept most days, fought an intense fever during the cold nights, and had developed a twitch in her left cheek. Those in the group who were educated knew that her chances of ever recovering to her former self were incredibly slim.
That morning they paused on the highway at the signs of a skirmish ahead. The sunlight, palely masked by a thin layer of white and grey clouds, shone off of distant weapons. The clanging of swords sounded like birds. “Not again,” murmured Nill. They had not noticed the bandits since their own skirmish, but it seemed the entire Crimson Highway was being harassed.
“Let’s head north of the road this time,” Aralim suggested.
Grendar nodded approval. “It looks like they are fighting another group—maybe bandits or merchant guards—not just killing off travellers.”
Fortunately, the small battle lasted until they had passed several miles north of the skirmish. The rolling fields of the savanna were dotted with trees now, and they eventually returned to the road without being detected by the surviving warriors. Whether it was bandits or Highwaymen, Aralim’s group preferred their own company now.
At their slow, stretcher-laden pace, they would not reach the Eye of Maga for another week yet. Aralim was already picturing the stone battlements and tall lake-side castle. He wasn’t one to crave such comforts as a feather bed, but these days even laying down at all was not something he took for granted.