Chapter 6: The Loyal Hound

ARAN – Campsite on the Sorral Plain, West Ekistair

Smythe was right; something was wrong with Kedron. The young arohim was twitching in his sleep, his face contorted in a painful grimace. Strained groans were slipping through his clenched teeth, as if he were in terrible pain.

“I couldn’t wake him,” Smythe told Aran as they knelt on either side of Kedron. “No matter how I tried. I think it’s his Meldin.” Aran had to agree. Berrigan had finally found Imella, it seemed, and Kedron was feeling her pain through the Bond.

Suddenly Kedron sat bolt upright, clutching at his chest. “Imella!” he gasped, staring at nothing with wild eyes.

Aran crouched before him, grasping his face and bringing Kedron’s gaze to his own. “He has her, doesn’t he?” he asked softly. Kedron didn’t need to speak, for Aran could see the answer in his dark eyes.

“We have to go to her!” The apprentice Paladin cried as he tried to scramble to his feet. Aran took his hands from Kedron’s face and put them on his shoulders, pressing him back down.

“No,” Aran said firmly. “I know you’re hurting, and so is she, but we knew this would happen. We stick to the plan. I don’t like Berrigan harming your girl any more than you do, but we need to bring him south. We can’t defeat hundreds of Heralds on our own.”

Kedron looked as if he would argue, but then he nodded sullenly. “It seems to have stopped, for now, at least.”

“If she’s pointed Berrigan in our direction, lad,” Smythe said. “Then he will start moving this way soon, and he’ll bring her with him. Be sure to tell us the moment you feel her getting closer, no matter how small the change.”

Kedron nodded again. He looked on the verge of tears, now. Aran felt nothing but sympathy for him. What would it be like if it were Jeira or Sorla or Elaina in Imella’s place, and Aran in Kedron’s, unable to help?

“Try and get some rest,” he told Kedron gently. “We’ll be in Rostin by tomorrow. You’ll get her back, I promise.”

Aran stood as Kedron lay back and wrapped himself up in his cloak again. He walked off a short distance, looking out over the grassy plain under an endless night sky. Aran realised he was looking southwest, the direction he could feel Elaina, Induin and Liaren. Smythe appeared next to him, the taller man’s gaze fixed toward the horizon.

“Tomorrow is key,” Aran’s former master said quietly. “Everything must play just right for it to work. We have to hope there are no Heralds in Rostin already.”

“If there are, there won’t be many,” Aran responded. “We have been hitting them from all sides, never from the same place twice. The Sorral Plain is vast, and we have them spread thin looking for us.”

“And what of Imella?”

Aran sighed. “I hope that she breaks quickly, to spare her as much pain as possible. We also must make sure we have enough time to be prepared for Berrigan’s arrival. It feels like Elaina and the Elves are moving south much faster now, which probably means a ship has picked them up.”

“Some good news, then,” Smythe said.

“Three more days, maybe four,” Aran murmured. “And the Heralds will be reeling from a blow they’ll feel for years to come.”

“Just promise me one thing, Aran.” Smythe turned his head to look Aran in the eyes. “When the swords cross, you leave Berrigan for me.”

Aran inclined his head. “As you wish, Smythe. Now take some sleep, if you want it. I’ll watch for a while.”

Smythe accepted the offer and lay down near Kedron, leaving Aran to his thoughts, and the endless night sky.

BESHOK – Chief of the Gor’dur Orcs – the Ergar Plain, Palistair

A naked Beshok eagerly followed the equally unclothed, statuesque Morgai as she led him away from the war camp and down into a lightly wooded gully, the darkness of the stormy night not preventing his Orc eyes from ogling her full, bouncing ass as she walked. Angular black runes decorated her skin, which was otherwise a grey so pale it was almost white. Beshok looked down to notice he was hard, his rampant cock sticking straight out from his body. He was small-statured, for an Orc, but nobody had mocked his size for many years; those who did learned quickly how dangerous he was. Besides, the size of his cock more than made up for any lack of height or muscle.

Idly, his hand drifted down to his turgid shaft and began to tug slowly as he followed the hypnotic sway of the Morgai’s hips. She had a good ass; nice and big, but firm, like a she-Orc, and her tits were so large he could see the outsides of them on either side of her body! He would enjoy fucking her again. He had fucked her before, hadn’t he?

His head felt muddled. He shook it back and forth, then glanced over at the Mor’elda walking beside him. Berenor’s gaze was also fixed on the undulating rump at the top of those long, ripe thighs, and his manhood was in a similar state. Beshok frowned at the ebony Elf. There was something unsettling about the dull cast to Berenor’s pale eyes, like he’d taken too many blows to the head. Surely, the King of Eredor had not always been this way? True, Beshok had never crossed spears with him in person, but Berenor had kept the Gor’dur out of Eredor lands as many times as Beshok had repelled the Mor’elda. Beshok grudgingly admitted he had an ounce of respect for the Mor’elda king.

The Morgai – ‘Shaelor,’ Beshok had heard her called – turned her head and winked at him, and Beshok’s cock throbbed, making him forget his current line of thought. “We go alone, from here,” she purred suggestively. Without looking back, Beshok waved a dismissive hand at his bodyguards whom were trailing close behind, not seeing the concerned looks on their faces as they halted. Berenor mirrored Beshok’s gesture, stopping his own retinue as Shaelor led the two rulers further downhill.

The grassy ground levelled out at the bottom of the decline into a spacious meadow surrounded on all sides by treed slopes. Something in the back of Beshok’s mind told him this terrain was unfavourable for some reason, but the thought vanished like smoke in the wind before it could take hold. Reaching the centre of the glade, Shaelor turned, her marvelous body now visible from the front, and she smiled at them, beckoning them both forward by crooking a finger on each hand. The fiery caverns of her eyes spoke of untold pleasures, forbidden delights.

When they were close enough, Shaelor placed a hand on each man’s cock and began to stroke them with deft, skilled movements. Beshok growled in deep satisfaction and heard Berenor echoing. Hungrily, Beshok reached out and grasped a massive breast, squeezing the soft flesh and pinching the stiff dark nipple at its peak.

Shaelor moaned appreciatively. “Now, there’s a good boy.” There was a flash of movement – faster than Beshok could follow – as she repositioned herself with lightning speed, until she was bent at the waist before Beshok and pressing that juicy ass back against his cock. Berenor she drew around in front of her so she could take him in her mouth.

Beshok grasped those wide hips and prepared to take her in the ass, but for some reason he found himself studying the gully again. Why did he feel so uneasy of a sudden? The confusion ebbed somewhat as his hips flexed automatically, driving the bulbous, olive-green head of his cock into Shaelor’s tight grey ring. Her body accepted him easily; she was built for fucking. How did Maloth ever let this creature out of his tent? If she were Beshok’s, he would treat her as the finest of all concubines, never to be touched by another man. The only female he knew whom was more perfect than Shaelor was Shenla. Now that woman was a gift from the Gods themselves. Thoughts of Shenla sent a crazed lust through Beshok’s body, and he began to hammer away at Shaelor’s ass, his heavy balls slapping against her wet cunt and her buttocks rippling as his pelvis slammed against them.

The black runes on the Morgai’s body began to glow a deep orange-red, fitfully at first, but then more consistently as Beshok’s pleasure mounted. Over Shaelor’s back, Beshok could see Berenor, his head thrown back in ecstasy, both hands tangled in his snowy hair as he bucked with the force of his climax. Beshok reached his own peak and his cock began to spasm inside the Morgai’s clenching tunnel, and his fingers dug savagely into the skin of her hips, though she only moaned with approval in response.

Beshok’s vision dimmed somewhat as he unloaded his seed, his balls feeling as if they were trying to turn themselves inside out. In the throes of ecstasy, he didn’t find it concerning that the other Morgai – Baelor – was approaching, leading Morin by the hand. Both of them were nude, too, and Morin had a vacant look, much like Berenor, and she stumbled every few steps, as if her legs didn’t work so well.

As Beshok’s pleasure abated, he ran his eyes over the pretty Queen of the Mor’tirith. She was too slender for his liking, though that had not stopped him plundering her pale white body repeatedly in recent days.

“I see you’ve begun without me,” Baelor rumbled with a voice almost as deep as a Noroth’s. His chiselled face bore an expression of amusement.

Shaelor pulled her mouth from Berenor’s obsidian cock to answer. “Yes, my love! There was just too much delicious man-meat! I could not resist!”

Baelor chuckled and pulled Morin around in front of him, her back to his chest. He began running his hands over her body as they watched the action unfold. Morin sighed in pleasure as his large hands cupped her modest tits, though the vacant expression never left her face. Something about that should have bothered Beshok greatly, but his mind seemed to want to focus more on the way Shaelor was grinding her ass back against him, insisting that he fuck her some more.

Unable to stop himself, Beshok once again began thrusting into her hot chute, this time racing straight to a blistering speed that filled the glade with the slapping of flesh. Shaelor took the pummeling readily, pushing back to meet his every thrust while never letting up on Berenor. Beshok had to commend her; not even his mate Morana could fuck like this!

Another climax approached; Beshok could feel his sack lifting, preparing to fire forth another deposit of his juice. Red rimmed his vision as he somehow found it within himself to pound at the delicious ass even harder. It was just as his cock began to erupt that Baelor looked right at him, the caverns of glowing light that were his eyes somehow conveying contempt as the Morgai smiled arrogantly and lifted his hands to either side or Morin’s head. Beshok knew what was happening, but he couldn’t summon the will to stop his body from seeking its pleasure.

Baelor twisted his broad hands, and there was a snap as Morin’s head turned past its natural limits. The slender queen collapsed to the grass. Baelor stepped over her carelessly, already focused on Berenor. The Mor’elda king still had his eyes closed when the Morgai grasped his head in the same fashion as he had with Morin. Berenor’s eyes came open at the touch, but there was no saving him. Another snap, and he was down, his turgid cock pulling free of Shaelor’s mouth as he dropped.

A wild roar left Beshok’s throat as he tried to summon the will to pull free of Shaelor’s ass. Somehow, he managed, getting enough control of his body to push her away. Breathing hard, he raised his hands and prepared himself to fight. The two Morgai stood facing him, identical smiles of contempt on their otherwordly faces. They stepped forward as one, two angels of death, one beautiful as a goddess, the other the epitome of manhood.

Beshok knew he was going to die. Worse, he still wanted her touch, still desired her lush body even as she looked at him as one would consider a roach to be squashed. Together the Morgai reached for him.

“Wait!” a voice cut through the clearing, stopping the Morgai dead. Beshok knew that voice. Shenla! He turned his head to see the only woman that could put Shaelor to shame, swaying confidently across the grass. She was garbed in a way only Shenla could manage, with a short fur skirt that barely covered her bald pussy, let alone any of her rose-red thighs. Her chest was marginally covered by a matching fur top that supported her magnificent breasts while leaving plenty of mouth-watering cleavage exposed and her flat midriff bare. Knee-high animal skin boots completed the outfit, making it the strangest – yet most appealing – attire Beshok had ever witnessed on a woman of any race.

“He is mine!” Shenla commanded as she approached. The Morgai stepped back obediently.

Beshok found himself unable to speak with Shenla before him. She smiled, and lust crashed through his body, making him gasp. His cock felt like it was about to burst! All concerns fled from his mind as she grasped his shaft with one hand and tilted her face up to him, her dark lips parted in expectation of a kiss.

Beshok’s lips met hers eagerly, desperate to once again taste her charms, but she quickly pushed him back, a confused look on her beautiful face. “Something is wrong!” She hissed. Beshok stepped forward dumbly, aching to touch her, but she shoved him with a hand and sent him flying backwards several feet through the air until he crashed to the ground.

“Can we help, Mor’tari?” Baelor asked as Beshok pulled himself to his feet. The fall had cleared his head somewhat. Mor’tari? Was that not Elvish for ‘Lady of Shadow?’ Beshok’s Elvish was patchy, to say the least. He was better at killing them than talking to them.

“Quiet!” Shenla growled. She was studying Beshok, her brow drawn down in a frown. She looked beautiful even still. There was a red blur as she shot forward, faster than Beshok had ever seen something move, so fast his eyes could not track her, and again her lips were on his, her hand fondling his cock. Beshok growled pleasurably, but was cut short when she released him, her face a thunderhead, matching the roiling black clouds above that never seemed to break.

“I cannot Bind him!” Shenla screamed, her face a mask of rage, as close as she would ever get to ugly. “Hold him down!” she demanded of the Morgai while pointing a black-nailed finger at Beshok. The Morgai moved with alacrity, seizing an arm each and bearing Beshok to the ground. He struggled, but their strength was amazing!

His thoughts tried to organise themselves. What was Binding? Was it what Maloth did to those women in his harem? Beshok liked fucking, but he was no sex slave! Still, his cock refused to yield, standing up straight and proud and pointed at the stormy sky above like an olive-green tower.

When Shenla stepped over him, she was naked save for her boots. Beshok looked up at her flawless, voluptuous body, his prick twitching with anticipation. “Now,” she said sweetly as she smiled down at him. “We need to make this work, Beshok, otherwise I will be most displeased with you.”

Beshok had no clue what she meant, but he stopped caring as she lowered herself down until her sweet, smooth cunt was swallowing his meat inch by glorious inch until her ass was resting on his thighs.

“Now, Chief Beshok,” she purred as she languidly circled her hips. “I want you to do something for me.”

“Anything,” Beshok groaned as she brought his hands up to her monumental chest and pressed them against her tits.

“Come,” Shenla said. “Hard.”

Beshok roared as he was swept away by the most intense pleasure he’d ever felt. His cock flexed violently inside Shenla’s body, spewing forth a torrent of seed that his loins should not have been capable of. His toes curled until the joints cracked, and every muscle was taut, straining as he gave Shenla everything he had, and more.

Beshok was mindless with rapturous pleasure, so he didn’t see as his bodyguards, four of his best Orcs, came crashing from the trees with spears ready, only to be torn apart by Baelor. One of his guard was female, and Beshok didn’t notice when Baelor casually tossed her to the ground and tore her clothing from her body before using her for his own pleasure.

Berenor’s guards followed soon after, screaming in bloody rage when they saw the body of their king, but Shaelor was there to meet them, killing three with swift strikes of her bare hands before saving a fourth for the same purpose as her fellow Morgai.

Eventually, Shenla rose, her pussy releasing Beshok’s cock. He half expected a flood of come to spill out, but strangely, not a drop escaped her rose-red lips. She looked down at him with disappointment. In the background, the sounds of the Morgai rutting with their unwilling victims floated around the gully. “If you cannot be mine,” she said quietly. “You will die.” Beshok could only stare at her, his thoughts floating like wisps of cloud, out of reach.

She turned her head to look behind her, to address the Morgai. Beshok barely had the energy to turn his head to look at them. “Bring the dead Tar’elda scouts,” she ordered them.

Baelor looked up from where he was pounding the Orc, who at first had fought him, but now was clutching his shoulders as he plowed her. With a grunt, his back arched, and the Orc cried out as he came inside her, the angular black runes on his body flaring to life. Immediately after, Baelor rose to his knees so he was straddling the Orc, and shockingly, delivered a swift blow to her throat, crushing her windpipe. The Morgai stood and walked away, leaving her to suffocate as she clutched at her neck.

A tear leaked down Beshok’s cheek as he watched, unable to move. “Ashga,” he whispered. Her name had been Ashga, and she had saved his life, once.

Shaelor finished her own sick fun in a similar way to her counterpart. Once the Mor’elda had come inside her, she simply reached down from where she’d been straddling him and twisted his head until his neck snapped, before hurrying after Baelor.

The last thing Beshok saw was Shenla’s perfect face as she leaned over him and her hand closed over his throat.

ARAN – Village of Rostin, Sorral Plain, Ekistair

The arohim had ridden through the day, starting before first light, and It had been an hour since the sun had dipped below the western horizon, allowing the party of three to continue their travel under cover of darkness. The waning moon was a sliver in the eastern sky, the points of the crescent facing toward the heavens. There was no wind, tonight, and the tall grasses blanketing the land were still save for the rustling of rabbit or fox or countless other fauna that called the plain home.

They rode at a walk toward Rostin, the southernmost village on the Sorral Plain, just north of the northern edge of the Emerin Forest surrounded by farms and boasting maybe three dozen small houses and an inn. Aran could see warm lights glowing in the windows beneath the low-hanging thatched roofs as folk settled in for the evening. It reminded him of Korrin, and of his mother. He wondered what she was doing, at that moment. Was she well? He felt ashamed that he hadn’t thought of her more often, but the sheer magnitude of his responsibilities had pushed her to the back of his mind. He hoped she was safe and well. ‘Aros protect her,’ he whispered in prayer.

Earlier, Smythe had ridden a wide ring around the village, checking for Herald activity. He’d found no discernable signs, and so the three travel-weary men were looking forward to a night in a bed, or at least a loft. Anything but sleeping on the ground again. Their horses could do with a long rest, too.

The village was quiet, the streets empty as they entered the village square and dismounted at the hitching post in front of the inn. Rostin did enough trade in produce that merchants often visited, warranting the need for two-story inn on a large, square foundation with a dozen chimneys thrusting through the thatched roof.

Aran stroked Strider’s nose affectionately as he looped the stallion’s reins around the post, careful to keep him as far from Thunder as possible. “You’ve done well, friend,” he told the horse. “Have a rest for a while. I’ll be back soon.”

Wide timber steps led up from the street to the inn’s entrance. The double doors were closed, though light spilled onto the street from the windows on either side. A sign hung above the doors, depicting a man and a dog walking somewhere together. It read ‘The Loyal Hound.’

Kedron spoke suddenly as Aran put his boot on the first step.

“No noise,” he muttered, his dark brows drawn down slightly as he looked up and down the dirt street.

Aran turned back. “What do you mean?”

“It’s too quiet for this time of evening, Master. There’s no noise.”

Aran realised the younger man was right. No voices could be heard in the surrounding houses, and no laughter or music was emanating from the inn’s common room. He was tempted to expand his vala, but it was too risky. “You’re right, Kedron, but it can’t be Heralds; Master Smythe checked thoroughly. I suggest we go and see the innkeeper. Maybe he can tell us what’s going on here.”

Aran started back up the stairs with Smythe and Kedron following. As he reached the doors, the right one came open before he could knock, and a round, balding head with a big nose appeared. “Praise be to- Oh. What do you want?”

Aran smiled warmly despite the abrupt greeting. And what had he been about to say before he stopped mid-sentence? “Good evening, sir. My companions and I were hoping to rent rooms for the night.”

The man in the doorway looked them over carefully, his eyes lingering on their swords. He seemed tense, for some reason. After a moment, though he relaxed a little. “Well, you don’t seem like Heralds, so I suppose you can come in, not that I could stop you if you were. I’m Ari. Ari Crawford. Welcome to the Hound.”

“Heralds have been here, Ari?” Aran asked quickly.

“Aye,” the balding fellow answered, pushing the door all the way open to reveal his stout frame. A clean white apron was tied around his waist. The innkeeper, then. “I apologise for my rudeness at the door, but I thought you were them again, see? I was halfway to praising the Light of the Dawn – that’s what they insist we do – when I saw you weren’t Heralds. About three times they’ve been through, saying they’re looking for some men.” Aran tensed, and sensed Smythe and Kedron do the same. He shared a glance with them, shaking his head a fraction to tell them not to act yet. “They walk around asking people questions about some Order of Rosh or some such,” the innkeeper went on. “They’ve even searched through the inn, here. Made a mighty mess, they did.”

Aran used a trickle of his vala to align with the portly fellow, and was pleased to find he was a kind soul. “Well, I hope they find those men,” Aran said casually as Ari led them into the common room, a spacious area with benches lining the walls and a small raised platform at one end for a performer. The platform was currently vacant, but there were a handful of patrons occupying several round tables dotting the floor. “They’re probably vagrants if the Heralds are after them.”

Ari snorted as he waved them to a nearby table. “I doubt it. Meddling bunch of fools if you ask me. Harassing honest folk for no good reason.” One of the patrons, a man in farmer’s clothes who was hunched over his mug of ale, turned his head to look up at the newcomers briefly. “We don’t like them much around here,” Ari said, lowering his voice as Aran and the others sat. “Though one or two villagers seem to think the Heralds are here to save us all.” Ari shook his head at that, setting his chins wobbling. “But listen to me prattling on like an old woman!” His expression brightened, his round face splitting with a warm smile. “You’re no doubt thirsty, good masters. Ale?” At three eager nods, Ari turned toward the door that led to the kitchen. “Lena!”

The door swung out and a pretty young serving girl came through. “Yes, Ari?” She asked, smiling warmly. She had big, dark eyes and full lips, and her raven hair was tied back at the nape of her slim neck. The bodice of her dress had a modest neckline, but it couldn’t hide the generous bosom nestled inside. Aran felt Kedron’s vala surge to life at the arrival of the girl, but before Aran could kick the apprentice beneath the table, Smythe clapped a huge hand on the younger man’s shoulder and squeezed hard enough to make him wince. All the while, Smythe just grinned jovially, as if he were being affectionate.

“Three ales, my girl, for three thirsty men,” Ari told her, and she hurried off at once. “I’m sure you’re hungry, friends,” he said, turning back to the table and wiping the edge of it with a corner of his apron. “I’ll get the cook to do up some fowl for you, if that’s to your liking?”

“Fowl sounds wonderful,” Smythe said, his hand still gripping Kedron’s shoulder. “I feel I could eat two or three all to myself!”

Ari chuckled. “I’ve no doubt you could, good master. You have the arms of a blacksmith about you. Where do you hail from?”

“Beringard,” Smythe said without a blink.

“A beautiful city,” Ari said. There was a fond light of remembrance in his eyes. “I was there in my youth, all too briefly I’m afraid. Tell me, friend,” the portly innkeeper whispered as he leaned closer. “Do the Beringardian women still favour the same fashions?”

“Aye,” Smythe replied with a wink. “They seem to grow more daring by the day, in fact.” Aran made a mental note to ask Smythe about Beringard later; the big Paladin had never mentioned the place before. Aran knew it was a provincial city in the north west of Ekistair, but he knew little of their customs.

Ari’s eyes bugged, and he chortled softly. “I don’t see how that’s possible! One scrap of fabric less and half of them would be arrested for indecently displaying themselves!”

The serving girl – Lena – appeared then to deposit three brimming mugs of frothy ale on the table. She gave them all a warm eye, but her gaze lingered on Kedron a moment longer. Wisely, Kedron kept his eyes on his mug, though his face reddened.

“Thank you, Lena,” Ari said kindly. “That will be all.” When Lena had gone, Ari announced he was going to see to their horses and waddled off.

“Nice fellow,” Smythe whispered, taking his hand from Kedron’s shoulder and putting his elbows on the table. “But I thought he’d stay and chat all night.”

Aran glanced around the common room, but the three other patrons appeared absorbed in their drinks, and weren’t paying much attention to anything else. “We may not be safe, here,” he told the others softly. “As soon as I heard Heralds had been around, I wanted to leave, but we couldn’t have done so without causing a stir.”

Smythe nodded. “We got lucky with Ari, he seems alright, but if the Heralds are passing our descriptions around – which they most likely are – then it’s only a matter of time until we’re recognised here.” He grunted sourly. “If I could tell the difference between the hoofprints of a Herald’s horse and any other horse, I would’ve known they’d been here before we came.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Aran said. “We’ll just keep our heads down. We’ll eat in our rooms and be gone at first light.” His gaze went to Kedron, who had gone pale. Sweat was beading on his brow and his hands were trembling around his mug. “Kedron? What’s wrong?”

“He’s hurting her again,” Kedron groaned softly. “She’s in so much pain!” A tear leaked down his cheek, and he uttered a stifled cry. One of the nearby men looked over curiously at the noise.

“Shit!” Smythe muttered. “Not bloody now!”

Aran hurriedly made and discarded several plans. They had to get Kedron out of sight. Now. Ale forgotten, Aran caught Smythe’s eye and nodded toward the stairs at the back that led up to the next floor.

Smythe quickly stood and picked Kedron up right out of his chair. “Lad can’t handle his ale,” Smythe said with a barked laugh at the strange looks they were getting. The other patrons chuckled as Smythe started for the stairs with Kedron slung over his shoulder.

There was a hallway next to the stairs that led out to the kitchens, and that’s where Aran found Ari, giving instructions to Lena and another serving girl. There was a cook too, a middle-aged woman working hard over a hot stove. They all looked up as Aran burst in. “Ari! Our friend has taken a turn and we need a room now!” There was no time for manners.

Ari leapt into action, bustling from the kitchen and heading for the stairs. Aran followed the rotund fellow up to the second floor where Smythe was waiting at the landing. “This way, friends, this way,” Ari waved them down the corridor behind him, the walls lined with several doors on each side. Ari asked questions about Kedron’s illness, and made several suggestions about methods to ease his discomfort, but Aran hardly heard him. He had seen what Herald torturers could do, and he didn’t think Imella would last long. His thoughts were interrupted by a piercing howl from Kedron, who began to spasm wildly on Smythe’s shoulder. Ari dropped the set of keys he was fumbling with in surprise.

“Quickly, Ari!” Aran urged as kindly as he could.

Finally, Ari got the door open and Smythe darted inside to lay Kedron down on one of the two beds inside. The young arohim twisted and writhed with the pain, but his clenched jaw prevented his screams from being too audible.