Brothers

Chapter Forty-Seven – Thomas Conway – Age 46

"Riders approaching fast from Stromgarde," Claira reported. "We may not want to be here when they arrive."

"All right," Thomas agreed. "Let us return to the cover of Thoradin's Wall." The despair of seeing his son cowering behind the naga earlier in the evening was threatening to overwhelm him. Nothing Percy had told him, prepared him to actually seeing his child tethered to that beast. It took every ounce of willpower he possessed to wait. The plan had been to tire the beast out first, hoping, as like a snake, it became more lethargic after it ate. At the thought of Percy, he wondered where the cowardly human had run off to. As agreed he had brought Thomas in shackles to Gilbert and used the gold he'd been given to wet the greed of the other man. Right before he had stepped into the cage Thomas had given Percy his promised payment and the man had eagerly run off before the battle.

"Sir, we have a problem," Truk said. "None of the griffons will let your son get on them … he smells like naga."

Foster stood silent, Carlin's cloak pulled tightly around him. His son's once imposing body had been whittled down to where his ribs now showed. Thomas had seen numerous scars covering the dirty flesh as Foster was led past him earlier in the evening. Nothing Thomas had done while in the service compared to the hell his oldest had suffered in the hands of his keepers. Foster found his father's eyes on him and Thomas was surprised by the resolve he saw.

"I bent, Pa, but tried my hardest never to break," he said. "I did what I had to … to survive."

"If he can't fly," Thomas said, "then the rest of you should. Foster and I will head toward the wall on foot. Hurry now before you're spotted."

"I'll stay too," Carlin said.

"Nay," Thomas said, "two are easier to hide than three. Go, we'll be there before dawn."

Carlin nodded, sitting down he slipped off his boots and offered them to Foster. "I'll get them back later," he said as he climbed barefoot behind Truk. Afterwards the dwarves took off into the night sky.

Thomas looked back toward the burning barn and saw numerous men and new ones arriving on horseback. "Can you walk?" he asked Foster who stood up after slipping on the borrowed boots.

"I can run," Foster said, "just point me in the right direction. I am in better shape than I look."

Nodding, Thomas pointed to the west and let his son take the lead. The darkness hid them from sight as they hurried through the countryside. They had barely made it away from the homestead when Foster stopped. "Are you okay?" Thomas asked.

Foster gestured to the body that lay at his feet. Thomas glanced down to find Percy, his throat slit. Before he could say anything his son said, "Too quick of an end for him. He deserved to suffer … the orcs must have got him."

"What part did he play in this?" Thomas asked.

Foster gestured to his back. "He's responsible for most of the scars on me; he was my first keeper's guard dog, handy with a whip … and branding iron."

Thomas swore. "That may be … but he was also the one that led us to you."

Foster raised an eyebrow. "Came for money didn't he? I tried to get them to return me for a reward in the first weeks. I wondered what became of him, heard from Nignath that old Arthur had been found dead a few months back. It was blamed on failing to pay up on his gambling debts."

"Nignath?" Thomas asked as he bent down and rifled through Percy's body. Finding the bag of coins he had given him he put it in his pocket.

"My …" Foster seemed lost for words.

"The orc maiden?" Thomas asked. Foster nodded. "Is she really carrying my grandchild?"

A range of emotions crossed over his son's face and he looked longingly the direction the orcs had disappeared. "Nay," he whispered, "she carries her child, and I will never be his father." In a louder voice he continued, "Let's keep going, we haven't put that much distance between us and the mess Gilbert left behind."

Thomas let his son set the pace and was surprised that Foster seemed to have spoken the truth earlier that his body was healthier than it appeared. He kept up a brisk pace as the immense wall started filling up more of the horizon. Eventually Thomas spotted Carlin waving to them from the ramparts; he stood above a decrepit stone stairs. Foster stopped at the bottom of the set of steps and gave them a dubious look.

"Can you climb?" Thomas asked.

His son nodded. "Just not sure they will support us."

"Go slow, stay close to the wall," Thomas said.

Foster nodded and started climbing up, about halfway up the step he put his foot on crumbled and he teetered. Thomas lunged and grabbed his son pressing him against the wall. For a moment he stood there, letting his pulse return to normal. "Pa?" Foster said.

"Careful does it," Thomas said stepping back and gesturing him to skip the broken step. "Don't want to lose you again."

They continued their way and made it to the top without any more missteps. Up top they were met with a large iron tub sitting on top of a low fire. As they watched, Claira on the back of her griffon appeared and dumped two buckets of water she held into the pot before flying back off.

"We found an old kitchen here in the garrison," Carlin explained. "We thought you might enjoy a bath," he said to Foster.

"A bath or you fixing to stew me?" Foster replied, eyeing the large iron vessel.

"Best we can figure it was used as a sink or something, but it can hold water. Well, after Harggan made a couple of quick fixes," Carlin said.

Thomas and Foster walked over to it and looked inside it was about halfway full of water, there were numerous leaves floating in the water. He also noticed it gave off a fragrant odor.

"I added some herbs I found, lad," Truk explained to Foster. "You're a bit … ripe."

Drakk flew arrived on the back of his griffon with two more pails of water which he dumped into the tub. "I'll go grab a couple more for him to rinse off with," the stout man said before flying off.

Slipping off the boots and letting the cloak fall, Foster revealed his scar back to his father. In the daylight he could see it fully. There were multiple lash marks scars crisscrossing his back, two letters Bs burnt into his flesh and what looked like a crude trident scar that covered the length of his back. "By the light," he whispered. His son looked over at him and realized what had caused the alarm.

"It doesn't hurt," he said as he slipped into the water. "Not anymore."

Shaking himself out of his stupor Thomas watched as Truk offered his son a bar of hard soap. Foster scrubbed his flesh until it started turning pink. Taking the soap from him Thomas used it to wash his son's long grimy hair, using a bucket of fresh water to rinse it out afterwards. It took two more washes and rinses before he was content, afterwards Thomas gently pressed Foster to lean forward and used the soap on his son's battered back. He could tell it made him uncomfortable and scrubbed it down quickly.

After the bath was done, Foster climbed out of the makeshift tub, shaking off the access water. Claira let out a gasp and his son glanced over at her, it took a moment for it to dawn on him her blush was due to his nudity and by then Drakk had tossed him a blanket which he quickly wrapped up in. "Sorry," Foster apologized, "it has been so long since I was allowed to wear clothing, I forgot how to conduct myself in front of a lady."

"It's alright, lad," she replied with a grin. "Put a bit more meat on those bones and I would even enjoy the show."

Thomas motioned for Foster to sit down and after looking through the bag he packed he found a comb. He eyed the long hair dubiously. "You're giving Nathaniel a run for his money with that hair, would you like me to crop it?"

"No!" Foster said a bit too quickly. "I mean, I'd like to keep it long for now."

"Here, sir, let me take over," Claira said. "I know a thing or two about caring for long tresses." She had a long auburn braid down her back. Leaving Foster in her care Thomas walked over to the wall and looked back the way they had come. In the distance he could still see tendrils of smoke from the fires of last night. There were no signs of pursuit.

"Here, lad," Agnar said offering Foster a straight razor and mirror. "Might as well get yourself cleaned up before returning to your ma."

"I'm not allowed to …" Foster's voice trailed off and he seemed to mentally shake himself. "Thank you, sir," he said taking them. Thomas watched as his son studied his face in the mirror, he wondered what he was thinking. Then using the razor sharp blade he made quick work out of the long stubble on his face. As he was done shaving, Claira finished with his hair, pulling it back into a ponytail.

Going back through his pack, Thomas found the outfit he had packed from Foster's old things and offered it to him. His son glanced at Claira who winked and turned her back. The clothes hung loosely on Foster's gaunt frame. He touched the fabric and for the first time since he'd been returned to him, Thomas saw his son smile. "I'll have to eat some of ma's good cooking to fill these out again," he said. "It feels nice to wear clothes again; it makes you something less than a man …"

"You survived a year in hell," Carlin said interrupting him. "If you ask me that makes you more of a man than most."

Thomas patted his son on the shoulder. "Let's go home, son."

"I can't go home," Foster said surprising him. "Not without my brother or at least knowing he is safe and loved. I can't go back to Ma without that … please."

Thomas nodded and gestured to a griffon nearby. "Then let us be off and not make your mother wait longer than she has to."