Hellrien loaded the chamber of her pipe. There were three things that made her interested in this case. Firstly there was that poor unfortunate Eglain couple and the horrid torture they had had to suffer. Secondly the strange jewel the woman had carried around her neck as a pendant, a pendant that had since disappeared. And finally the peculiar tracks.
Her subconscious kept milling around certain disconnected sentences. ”…small camp, notorious safe haven for fugitives from Bree-land… law-breakers, thieves, brigands, and occasionally treasure hunters, running from the law or whatever they are running from…”
Hellrien belonged to the same breed. It made no difference whether she was part of a partisan group sworn to fight the darkness from Angmar or a common sellsword, she could have just as well be one of those fugitives herself. It was just fate tossing coin. That camp held almost morbid allure on her. She knew fairly well what kind of people she would find there. Whores, thieves and murderers – people like herself. People who lived in the fringes of society. Many of the Eglain had mentioned this camp to her. They presumed the folk that dwelled there might know who was the westling woman who walked with the Créoth.
Was it just an excuse for her going there? Was it really that simple? Or did she miss those days as a vagabond, when she was only accountable to herself?
No! She was past that phase of her life. She had left it far behind, like so many other things.
Only the allure of jewels and riches draw her there now.
The Eglain were now aware that something queer was going on in Garth Agarwen. They would reinforce their defenses and increase their patrols. They were ready and prepared. There was not much else she could do for them, and not much she could find out by hanging around Agamaur.
She sat up, and the blanket fell off her. A warg howled at the moon somewhere in the desert. It received a response from a remote ridge – a tedious, cold growl. Hellrien stirred. She reached out for the hilts of her swords so that she could feel their cold, soothing touch in her hands. A peculiar anticipation came over her. She hated herself for this emotion. It was evil and primitive. She had left many dead behind her, and she would kill many more before meeting her own end by a cold, slashing steel. Her path had cleared up to her long time ago, and like a mindless animal guided by instincts she would have to follow that path to her death. That was a sellsword’s fate. She understood and accepted the consequences of her lifestyle. She remained seated and rubbed her palms against each other. It was a cold night, and her fingers were getting numb. And her whole life depended on those fingers.
