Despite purging the Hound and its black seed from the cavernous chamber, no one had a desire to make camp in the muck surrounding the dark pool. The climb out, however, took most of the night.

Briene attended to Erin’s wounds with herbs and a thick paste that smelled strongly of mint. Not only did the medicines help to close the cleric’s many puncture wounds, but they seemed to provide some vigor as well. When Erin revived, she did so with a gasp and wide eyes, already trying to stand and fight. It took three of the companions to hold her down and assure her that the evil of the Hound had been vanquished.

Though Briene’s pungent paste could awaken Hilda, the young woman’s herbs could do nothing to heal her. Hilda’s skin was gray and sallow, and she had, thanks to the magic that had summoned their strange, winged stone ally, become thin and seemingly malnourished. The wizard smiled up weakly, past the healer to where Erin stood, with arms crossed.

“It’s as the witch says: Death follows us,” she croaked through dry lips. “But it’s not time to give my hair quite yet, is it?” Then the woman chuckled darkly, her eyes unfocused.

“What does all of that mean?” Haffoot asked, wide-eyed and looking at Erin.

“She’s delirious,” the cleric frowned, even as her companion continued to cough weakly and chuckle. “We must leave this Chaos-infested place and rest.”

With that, Erin stooped and began to haul Hilda up. Briene squealed in concern, and then Umur was there pushing the cleric away.

“There will be time to move her,” the dwarf growled. “But you won’t be doin’ the moving. Let Briene’s remedies work on you before you go bustin’ all of those wounds open again, lass. We do need rest, aye, but you most of all.”

They had thoroughly searched the cavern waiting for the Hound’s arrival, so knew that there were no hidden passages and that their only escape was the gaping maw above. Yet ascending was far more difficult than descending. To leave the lair would mean climbing a rope straight up for twenty paces before the aid of a wall, and then still another forty paces to the sinkhole’s edge. All the while, brackish water would cascade upon them, making it both difficult to see and grip the rope.

Haffoot, light and nimble despite her club foot, made the climb first, at first laughing at how she couldn’t imagine Umur scaling the rope, then grunting with difficulty, and, eventually, falling totally silent with concentration. By the time she made it to the lip of the sinkhole, Umur and Erin were already removing their heavy, scaled mail and murmuring strategies for how best to follow.

The dwarf went next, and the journey seemed to take forever. Haffoot was not strong enough to pull him, and he was too old and depleted from the day to find hidden reserves. Twice Umur stopped, looping the rope around his legs to hold him dangling over the black pool, cursing and panting, until the others were sure he would never move again. Eventually, however, he found his way to the surface, bellowing at Haffoot to stand aside and stop laughing at him.

After that the task went more smoothly. With both Umur and Haffoot pulling from above, Joane Cayhurst, then Erin, made the climb without incident. The cleric’s wounds had begun to seep red through the paste that Briene had applied, but Erin assured them all that she would be fine. She glanced skyward, a frown creasing her face, and idly touched the crescent moon at her neck.

The young healer Briene had insisted on staying with Hilda and vowed that the two of them would make the climb together. She wound the rope around the wizard’s hips and legs, tying competent knots she’d learned from her woodsman father. Then she scaled upwards, staying within arm’s length of Hilda in case she needed aid. It was a remarkable demonstration of care, especially given that both Joane and Briene had openly shown horror at Hilda’s magic. Briene’s noble heart and concern for the infirm, it seemed, overrode her distaste for what she saw as Chaos-touched powers. When they had successfully pulled Hilda’s thin, weak form onto the marshy ground surrounding the sinkhole, Joane gave her close friend a fierce hug while the others watched Briene with thoughtful appraisal.

Indeed, something about the ordeal below had created a confidence and resolve in the young woman that was undeniable. She returned Joane’s hug with a smile, chuckling at their utterly dirty and disheveled appearance. Then she turned to the others and said in a voice gentle but firm, “I know we’re all exhausted and wish to be out of this place, but we need rest. It won’t be a feather bed, Master Dwarf, but let’s see if we might find somewhere within these marshes to regain some of our strength.”

In the darkness of the early morning hours, with fog curling all around them, Briene led the group through the Sunken Fens and away from the sinkhole. The others followed, stumbling and fatigued and more than willing to have the woodsman’s daughter take point in navigating their route back to Hirot.

Eventually, she paused, pursed her lips, and nodded to herself. “This will have to do,” Briene announced, unshouldering her pack. “Let me see to Erin and Hilda, if you two might set up camp there, where those trees are huddled? It’s the best shelter we’ve seen, and the ground is as dry as the Fens provide.”

Haffoot and Umur exchanged a look, both with eyebrows climbing. Umur nodded gruffly while Haffoot stifled a giggle, and the two did as instructed. Joane followed them, providing her height and youthful energy to help make a competent camp. Briene, meanwhile, reapplied her remedies to Erin’s wounds and ensured that Hilda had consumed both water and food. Though the group felt far from safe, they spent the morning in quiet companionship, each finding small pockets of sleep and peace.

By the time they agreed to continue, Umur thought it was probably early afternoon, though it was impossible to tell by constant mists and lack of light within the Sunken Fens. Briene agreed, and thought she could find her way back to Hirot before nightfall and the closing of the palisade gates.

Of course, returning to the village conjured its own uncertainty.

“There’s as likely to be an armed force waiting for us as a parade,” Umur groused. “The Jarl’s pride won’t allow him to accept us as saviors, I think.”

“Perhaps the wedding will distract him!” Haffoot chided, cackling momentarily and then clapping hands over her mouth.

“You be quiet,” the dwarf grunted, elbowing his companion.

“And you two,” Erin interrupted, directing her words at Joane and Briene. As always, the two young women were together, though the healer’s attention was focused on navigating the moors. “What will you do, now that the Hound is gone?”

The group stopped and fell silent at the question. All attention went to the women of Hirot.

Joane glanced at the others and cleared her throat. “Bree and I have been talking. The only life waiting for me in Hirot is the Wolf-Spear. Ah, the inn, not the weapon,” she clarified, seeing the others’ momentary confusion. “But I’ve got no family anymore. Someone else can run it.”

“And I,” Briene sighed. “Am better here, in the forest, than with Father Beacom. The forest needs healing and protection, it’s clear to me now. Staying inside a palisades wall feels wrong now.”

“Which is to say,” Joane stammered, suddenly looking unsure. “We’d join you, if you’d have us.”

“At least until the Trollteeth,” Briene clarified.

“After all the danger you’ve faced with us,” Umur asked. “You’d face more? The wilds here are as likely to kill us as not before we even reach my homeland.”

“We would,” Briene nodded decisively. Even covered in two days of grime and mud, it was difficult not to be struck by her beauty.

“If you’d have us,” Joane added, blowing a stray strand of dirty red hair away from her face.

“Of course,” Erin said seriously. The others nodded in agreement. The two Hirot women blinked, surprised at the lack of deliberation.

Umur chuckled at their response. “Heh. You’ve kept us alive as much or more as we have you,” he grinned, nodding at the paste on Erin’s sides and the spear in Joane’s hands.

“Come on, then!” Haffoot whooped, jumping and throwing her arms wide. “Let’s have a hug!”

There, in the damp, warm mists of the Sunken Fens, the group met in a collective embrace. All except Hilda, who sat back and away upon a rotting, fallen tree to rest. From beneath her hood, the wizard grinned at the scene.

An hour or more later, Briene was not smiling. She stopped and squinted, her eyes scanning the forest around her.

“What is it, Bree?” Joane asked.

“This isn’t the way,” the young woman answered. “And something is stalking us.”

“What!?” Umur growled, reaching for his sword.

“Hold, Master Pearlhammer,” Briene said with a calming wave. “They have been stalking us for some time, always at a distance. I think it’s wolves, wild dogs, or jackals of some kind.”

“Well I like that not at all,” Haffoot said, turning and searching the mists.

“I had hoped that if we kept moving at a good pace they would eventually leave us be, but they’ve been remarkably persistent. In my haste and distraction, though, I took a wrong turn. I– I think this way should get us back to Hirot.”

“Keeping their distance or no, weapons out,” Umur instructed, unsheathing his longsword.

The group stayed close to one another, not speaking, as they followed Briene’s instructions through the tangles of brown briars, withered oaks, and marshy grasses. More than once, someone would swear they’d seen a pair of dark eyes watching through the swirling fog, but as soon as they’d turned, the eyes were gone. Sounds, too, came at them weirdly in the fens, making it impossible to verify if creatures surrounded them or it was simply the groaning, creaking branches combined with bird calls.

“I sense Chaos here,” Erin growled. Something loomed ahead, shrouded, and she stepped forward along the soft ground to meet it.

The mists shifted, revealing a skull pierced upon a tall, sharpened stake. The wood had been driven into the swampy ground, but it still canted somewhat to one side. The skull itself appeared to be human, and strange symbols had been carved into the white bone.

“What in the Nine Hells?” Umur gasped. He had fanned out next to Erin and faced another skull, almost identical to the first, though the symbols etched into it were slightly different.

As they moved cautiously forward, the group entered an entire field of skulls on stakes, watching them with empty eye sockets. The ground was uneven, but the stakes seemed to have been placed in a pattern, all facing outwards in rough, concentric circles, and at the center a larger skull that appeared to be something with horns, perhaps a bull. In all, more than two dozen stakes made the unsettling formation. More than two dozen, which meant a field of death.

“Who were these people?” Joane asked. “And who placed these here?”

“The important question is why,” Hilda rasped from behind, leaning heavily upon her staff. “Those are arcane runes. This is either a warding or a summoning. I would guess–”

Before she could finish her thought, the first creature leapt in a flash of fur and teeth from the mists.

It was as large as a medium-sized dog, with patchy, filthy fur and the features of a fox. It snarled and yipped as it leapt from the mists, jaws snapping at Erin’s armored legs. Before the cleric could react, others had leapt from bushes and from behind trees, all darting in to tear at the companions’ legs. While Erin and the others had paused to examine the strange skulls, it was clear now that these hungry, desperate jackals had maneuvered to surround them. Once the party had paused, the pack made their attack.

The creatures were everywhere, more than a dozen of them and attacking the companions in twos and threes. Umur, Haffoot, Joane, and Erin all cried out from sharp teeth that found flesh between armored plates and leather boots. Then they were gone, back into the swirling fog.

Frantically, the companions lashed out with their weapons. But though they fended off several jackals, the beasts leapt away and danced back, keeping their prey off guard and swinging wildly.

“Form up!” Umur bellowed. “Do not get separated!”

Hilda, grimacing, pulled back her hood. The black rectangle upon her forehead glowed blue in the shrouded swamp. Though she could feel the power pulling yet more of her strength, she embraced it and threw her arms wide, chanting.

A pulse of light swept out of the wizard in all directions, leaving her companions untouched but causing the swamp jackals to whimper and roll their eyes in unease. Though they continued to leap and gnash at them all, their conviction waned as an unnatural dread settled over the pack. It was only when one bravely leapt at the magic user and tore at her legs that the jackals seemed to regain some of their savagery.

Erin Wywood, meanwhile, clutched her crescent pendant with one hand and swept her dagger defensively with the other. A glow began emanating from her white, battle-scarred armor, making her appear like a small moon settled into the moor. The jackals danced away from the cleric, focusing their attention on other members of the party and giving her a moment to assess the situation. Everywhere she looked, furred bodies gnashed at legs or leaps away from wild swings of weapons. Erin’s companions were losing this fight, and badly.

The next moments were a frenzy of activity. Jackals darted in to tear and rip at the group of bedraggled adventurers, each of whom swung weapons in a desperate attempt to survive. The animals were desperate and clearly hungry, their ribs straining against patchy fur, yet there was something unnervingly intelligent about their assault as well.

At one point, Joane pierced a creature with the broad head of the wolf-spear and flung the corpse into another, smashing it against the trunk of a tree. Umur heard a sharp yelp behind him and turned, only to see an animal with one of Briene’s arrow shafts protruding from its eye socket. Yet amidst these fleeting, heroic moments, too many teeth found purchase. Soon all the companions bled from wounds on their legs and torsos, their attacks slowing and steps stumbling. Though the adventurers had thinned the pack of scavengers considerably, the jackals still outnumbered them.

Doom of the Savage Kings, Chapter 14