This is the beginning of a new series. I have no idea yet how long the books will be or how many, I just know there is no way I'm going to be able to do it in just one. Please to let me know if you want more. I'll post as I can. This particular book has no title yet, so if something suggests itself, please tell me. The series will be titled 'DragonLade'. But I had to change the book title cause I want to save it for a later book
This is a story of dragons and goblins and... well, it begins with a young elf playing the knight errant and his magical sword... well, it doesn't begin with him. There's a mini-story prologue first, but you need that little fairy-tale to begin. This is mostly a tale of the elf, Gilderoth, and his adventures with the vargren (an anthromorphic wolf-man). (and his side encounter with the fey... sorry, China and Vicious have now turned my milk sour and hidden my spatulas because I forgot to mention them.)
The fire crackled loudly in the pit as the broad logs settled. The night sky filled with sparks that swirled away like frightened fireflies in the updraft of the cave. Those that huddled in the warmth and safety of the fire's light, shivered as the grizzled vargren tapped out his pipe. He chuckled, wrinkling his snout against a waft of smoke while he stretched his furry old bones towards the fire. "I guess no one'll be fallin' asleep on watch tonight, eh?" "Father, why do you always tell scary stories to the children just before bed?" snapped Velana, her silver-tipped fur shining almost gold in the firelight. She pulled the youngest, a frail white pup of four years, close to her heart. The child whimpered into the bodice of her wool dress. The others watched the pair in silence, none willing to be noticed or interfere. He grunted, putting his pipe away. "We are strangers wandering strange territory and a long way from the White City or any village between here and there where we may be called friend and allowed to stay. We need to be on edge and ready for anything." "But if no one sleeps well, like as not you will never make it without losses," came a strange, deep voice. Everyone jumped at the sound. Swords were drawn as they turned to face the dark, unexplored throat of the cave. The alpha growled low to the wolf next to him. "I thought you said nothing living was back there." "There were no signs of any life, not even old life," he whined back, keeping his voice low. "Not even bats." "That in itself is a bad sign, Cowel." He raised his voice, barking to the darkness where a pair of eyes gleamed, reflecting the firelight back at them. "Show yourself, stranger, and we may talk. Prove yourself friend and perhaps you may join us at the fire." The laugh was ominous, echoing deep in the belly of the caverns. The cubs hid themselves beneath their mothers' cloaks. What stepped from the shadows was nothing more than an elven man. He was tall, easily a head above the tallest of them, and well muscled, though gracefully framed as the rest of his kind. His hair fell in red curls to his shoulders that glinted copper in the light, and his beard was worn tight against his face. He was dressed well, if plainly, and the chill of the night beyond the fire did not seem to disturb him, or dampen the merry light in his eyes. He was weaponless, and so the vargren stood down. "Lost, are you?" the alpha asked, looking him over. "Taking shelter for the night?" Again the strange elf laughed. "I am... fairly close to home, actually. And you are not as far from a place of welcome as you think. ...There is village half a league East." The grizzled snout frowned. "And we would be welcome there? A whole pack of vargren?" he snorted. The delicate eyebrow arched. "Should the right words be said, aye." "And you would know these 'right words'?" challenged Velana. "Aye, madam." The alpha stepped back, swept his furry arms towards the fire. "Then be welcome, elf." He waited until the elf had seated himself comfortably before settling beside him, held up his pipe in offering. When the elf nodded, he began to repack it. "So tell me, red one, why should we relax our guard in this place where even bats fear to roost?" "Well," he began, stretching his booted feet towards the fire. "Bandits and large animals dare not come within a mile of this cave. And the locals... well, they'd not be about on a night like this." "A night like this?" Velana asked, two of her three cubs beginning to poke their noses out of her cloak to sniff the stranger. "So it is a bit cold." "Spring rains this way are a bit... nasty," he said, accepting the lit pipe from the alpha and gestured with it towards the cave mouth. Even as he spoke the air began to hiss with falling rain that pounded the stone and ground outside relentlessly. "You speak vargren well," someone commented. "For an elf." "I've had a long time to learn to vocalize," he chuckled, not disturbed by the rudeness in the least. A brown cub of maybe nine years pricked his ears forward, looking across the fire at him. "What's yer name?" His mother reached out a paw and boxed his ear. "How many times have I told you about that?" she snarled. "You ask what they're called." "What's the difference?" he whined, rubbing his head and wounded pride. "More than just an inflection," the elf grinned, then grew serious. "Names have power, young wolf. Your people do not keep your names, you change them as you earn them. Sometimes you keep one you like, or make up one the humans can say," he laughed. "Most of you don't even know your True Names, which is why so few of your people can wield magic. But the humans... the elves... others... our names we keep to ourselves, for protection. Asking a name will make humans suspicious of you. A dwarf will probably outright attack you. It's a grave insult to ask a dwarf his name. Only one soul in all my years, ...besides my dam... ever knew my name." Velana shifted uncomfortably. There was a great deal of wiggling and whispering going on under her cloak between her two eldest. "May we ask what you are called then, elf?" His green eyes danced as he took a deep puff of the pipe. "I am called Krith, madam." The grizzled vargren introduced the group first, then himself. "Me," he chuckled. "What they call me depends on who they are. I am father, grampa, boss... you get the idea," he shrugged. Krith laughed, offered his arm. "Then I shall just call you Alpha." "That works," he grinned, grasping the elf's arm, marveled at how rock hard the muscles were. He had expected something softer, more ethereal. "I'm telling you, he's got to be old. He's an elf," came the slightly louder whisper from Velana's direction. Her ears went back, the fur of her cheeks standing up in embarrassment. She began a low, warning growl that the two inside her cloak ignored. There was a sudden pair of yelps as her hands closed around scruffs and the cloak fell away. The two boys sat on either side of her, leaning over her lap, caught in their conspiracy of rudeness. "We just thought..." one whimpered. "...he'd know lots of stories," the other finished. "Better'n Grampa's." "Less scary." "But I like scary," huffed the brown cub across the fire. Velana looked over at Krith, mortified. "Allow me to apologize for these two whelps. Oulin knows I taught them better manners." He merely grinned, making interesting shapes with the smoke from the pipe. "I know lots of stories. What kind do you want?" The caves rang out with shouted requests. "Dragons!" "Elves!" "Monsters!" Their cries echoed through the cavern, causing most of the adults to cover their ears. Krith winced. "Well, if there were any bats, that would have run them out," muttered Cowel. A small, slightly stuffed-up voice rose in the throbbing quiet that followed the dying echoes. "I wanna hear about the horse-men." Krith looked over at the small cub with her paws wrapped around her mother's neck. Her blue eyes blinked soulfully at him. He laughed softly, drew deeply on the pipe. He blew the smoke out to mingle with that of the fire, watched it tangle and twist until they were one. "I shall tell you of all of them then," he said. Without looking behind him, he passed the pipe to Alpha, turned his gaze to the children, one by one. "Ten thousand years ago," he began. "The elements who gathered this world together out of the eternal nothingness mingled amongst themselves to create children. These children were the five Great Dragons: red Eor, the eldest; emerald scaled Elafria; the gold and brown Oulin; Silathorne the black and Relathia the fair. The elements, having used all of themselves in their efforts, became one with their creation, leaving the world to their children. "The children got along fair enough as siblings do, but after a thousand years with no other playmates, they tired of each other and went their own ways. They loved each other no less, but when one is grown one wishes other company. Eor retreated into the warm earth, taking comfort in the weight of the world above him like a blanket, but the silence made him sleepy and soon he fell into a deep hibernation. "Elafria was a living contradiction, much as nature itself; at times talkative and high spirited like a babbling brook and at others serene and thoughtful as a deep glade. It was she who first experimented with the act of creation. She created the races of fey: from the tiniest fair sprite to the tall lithe elves, and she graced them with spirits and personalities as varied as her own, children fit to attend her many moods. "It was not long before the chatter of these children woke the sleeping Eor. Shaking the soil from his head, he entered the forest wherein his sister dwelled and asked her what she had done. The idea pleased him so much that he returned to his caverns and made his own creations." Two voices interrupted the narrative, shouting out simultaneously: "Dwarves!" Krith laughed, nodding even as the other cubs shushed the two brothers. "Yes. The stout dwarves. They lived within the ground with their father and filled earth with the sounds of their hammers and their singing. Soon, Relathia took her turn. She liked the look of her sister's elves, but knew that to live in the unsheltered open, they would need to be sturdier. So she made them more solid. In her wisdom, she knew too, that long lives yields a tendency to cling to long known ways, that adaptability is necessary for survival, and so she traded years for fertility. "Eventually, the wild Oulin stopped his romping through field and wood to notice these new things which walked upon the land. His sisters patiently explained what they had done and he too wanted children of his own, someone to play with. He loved the wild things their parents had left behind and so decided instead of making something new, he would take what he loved and make them something more. First he took a handful of horses and gave them man-like shapes, blending what he loved of both. The Paardis were beautiful, swift and graceful, but they were peaceful and preferred their own company to running across the face of the world with no place they could call their own. So he tried again, this time taking the sleek felines that prowled plain and jungle. The Aylurin were also breathtaking to behold, but were proud and solitary creatures and, at times, fickle in their hearts. They ran with him for a while, but often fell to fighting over his attentions, or simply found something else to interest them. "Once more he plied his hands to creation, this time taking the wolves which had often traveled with him in packs, whose loyalties never wavered. And this time he was pleased. The Vargren were the perfect companions for his untamed spirit, and so it is not uncommon for your people to wander or to feel the call to adventure. This is not to say that he abandoned his other children. He loved them no less for their independence of spirit. Some say he loved them more because of it, but that is not for mere mortals to say. "Meanwhile, Silathorne sat upon his black peak and watched, seething with jealousy as his siblings were bathed in the attentions of their creations, eventually even worshiped. He writhed as they spread out upon the surface of the land, stealing what he saw as his own. But he did not rush to make his own people. For hundreds of years, with a patience only a dragon can know, he watched and he learned and he hated, wanting his own servants, his own worshipers, his own slaves. "Finally, he was ready. And from the muck of the swamps and the rotting underbelly of wood and earth and the dead he molded his own people: Goblin-kind. He cared not for appearances, only purposes. He gave them hardly any lifespan at all, a few decades at most, and because of this they bred faster than vermin and cared less about dying. To some he gave great strength, others cunning. To all he gave hunger. For generations, he sat upon his black mountain and watched his army develop and grow. He made certain he was their sole object of devotion, fed their bloodlust and thirst for destruction, then let them loose upon the unsuspecting children of his siblings. "The race of man was the first and hardest hit. Whole tribes were slaughtered and wiped out as the goblin hordes washed over them like a black tide. Relathia rose up against this threat, confronting her brother in the skies by the southern sea, crying out for him to stem his hordes. For the first time in history, one dragon raised claw against another. Silathorne answered her words with violence. The battle raged fiercely for days, destroying everything in their path. To this day nothing grows on the Western coast of the Southern Sea and only scorpions and bones reside there. "By the time the others had learned what was happening, it was over. The youngest of them lay dying and their brother trumpeted his victory from the Eastern shore to the black peak and beyond. Eor and Oulin carried their sister back to the green dales that she loved so well, laid her in a broad valley whilst Elafria sang out her grief so loud that even the stones themselves wept. They had never experienced a death amongst them, never been prepared for the pain the breaking of that bond could bring. Their brother, too, felt that pain, they knew this. But they also knew he reveled in the killing even as he raged over having been driven to it. Something had to be done, they agreed to that; but none of them could bear the thought of another death amongst them. "For eleven years they argued and debated what should be done, and in then end they decided while they could not kill their brother, neither could they allow him to continue to ravage the world has he had. Using what remained of their magical power, they called upon the blood of their slain sister and using the True Name of their brother, they tore his soul from his body and banished him from the world of their parents, imprisoning his soul in a place of their making, where he could run rampant and ravage as he chose yet harm none who would not themselves harm others given the chance. His body they used, twisting his mortal form into a barrier of stone as black as his heart had been and cast his children into the wilds beyond it. "Mourning the loss of their siblings, they returned to their own places of rest, surrounding themselves with all those things they had created and loved best. Eventually, lulled by his grief and the singing hammers of his dwarven children, Eor slept again, never to awaken. Oulin became wilder than ever, and, finding no solace upon the earth at last sought refuge in the air where his tears clung to the night sky like jewels and his body coiled and hardened into the pale golden moon. Elafria could not come to terms with her pain. Even the fey who clung to her began to lose that immortal joy that marked them apart from all other creatures. But Elafria, seeing what her sorrow was doing to her beloved children, left them, seeking to preserve them from herself, and fled into the sea. It is said that the Merkin are evidence that she dwells still beneath the waves, seeking to fill that void left in her heart. Some of the elves tried to follow her, sailing across the sea, singing out to her in hopes that she would answer and take them to her bosom once more. These elves were never heard from again. "Relathia's people mourned her in their own ways, lighting fires, leaving offerings of flowers, silver and white rocks by the great body. As time passed, those that chose the duty of guarding the great carcass noticed eleven smoothe boulders near the base of her body, half covered by one wing. They were larger than a Paardis, and a deep, bloody brown with dark veins and streaks of white. In their ignorance, they called them sacred and left gifts beside them as well. They thought nothing more until, generations passed, they found them broken open and realized they had been eggs. The dragons that had hatched from them had flown away in the night, answering to whatever calls to an infant dragon born from the blood of a slain god." Krith's voice weighed heavy and deep in the air, snaring his audience and holding them captive to his tale. Now the silence that followed was heavier still and harder to bear as each listener sank deep into their own thoughts to debate if this had been a history or merely a faery tale spun to quiet restless cubs. For a long time the only sounds were the crackling of the fire and the hissing of rain outside the cave mouth, until Cowel found the courage to murmur aloud. "I have heard tell from the humans in the Dales that the White Hills are the bones of the Great Dragon." Krith nodded sagely, accepting the pipe passed back to him from the old vargren leader. "That is what they say. And from the sky it looks much like one, though more runicly rendered." A small, sleepy voice pouted, "You didn't tell much about the horsemen." Krith reached over and smoothed the fur under the cub's chin, brushed the cheek just below her bright blue eye. "That story can wait for another rainy night. And, as I am not Paardis, I cannot tell you their tales. I can only tell what I know. But fear not, little one. If you reach the City of Dragonlade itself you will no doubt meet with many Paardis, who could tell you all manner of stories." "Promise?" she mumbled, fighting sleep. Krith chuckled. "Promise." Mollified, the cub snuggled further into her mother's arms and allowed sleep to finally claim her. The younger cubs were slipped into their makeshift beds without much of a fuss. The older two lay down, but struggled to remain awake, watching their elders with determined, half-alert eyes. The pipe continued to be passed to those with an interest and the conversation turned from stories to more practical themes such as how far they should go and where would be the safest place for the pack to settle. "Is it true," Velana finally asked, "that all races live peacefully in the White City? That a dragon lives there?" Krith smiled. "The city of Dragonlade was founded on that principal, my lady." "Were you there?" she dared. His eyes danced. "Aye. I was." "Tell us!" begged one of the two brothers, eager for something more to keep them awake and occupied. Krith chuckled, shook his head. "That is a story that is too long for one rainy night. That story begins before I entered the picture, though I have my place in it, long before the kingdom of Dragonlade was glimmer of a thought in the eye of a lost knight errant shipwrecked on an unknown shore."
1
The pale warhorse pulled himself out of the water, his body trembling with cold and fatigue. He turned, bent down, and touched his nose to the elf face-down on the sand, pushed him over. He nudged the cold, pointed ears, breathed into them and awaited the usual reaction. The long fingered hand did not reach up to shove him aside. A wave stretched forward, touching their feet. The stallion looked back at the ocean and shivered. With a shake of his body he proceeded up the beach, the rope tied between them dragging the still form safely away from the water. Finally, he collapsed on the warm, dry sand beside his friend and master and fell asleep. Gilderoth opened his eyes to the glare of the rising sun and a heavy weight on his chest. He looked up to see his horse stretched out beside him, head resting like dead weight on his torso. He struggled to sit up, touching a hand to the horse's face and was rewarded by a low grunt. Sighing, he slapped the dusty grey neck. "Quite a night, eh, Ravel?" The horse whickered, repositioned his head for a more comfortable nap and closed his eyes again. Gilderoth laughed and deftly removed himself from beneath the animal, stood up. The beast watched as the knight stretched, ran his hands through his hair. The sun had darkened his skin to a deep honey-hue and streaked his shoulder-length black curls that were stiff with salt. Gilderoth looked down at the rope around his waist. The water had swollen it beyond untying. He searched for the small knife he kept in his belt and found that the sea had stolen it from him in the night. With a sigh, he pried the sword out of the tightly bound sheath on his back and began sawing at the rope at the base of the knot. The sun glinted blindingly off the golden blade, causing the horse to turn his eyes away. Gilderoth then bent to cut the crude harness from the stallion's body. It was an awkward job, though the blade was more than sharp enough to cleave swollen hemp. The sword was a flamberge and nearly a man's height. Not the best tool for delicate work. Free of the hard, itchy rope, Ravel promptly rolled over onto his back and began kicking his feet, grinding his body into the sand. Gilderoth stepped back, laughing. The horse glared up at the elven knight, and rolled to his feet. Shaking himself first to recover his dignity he then trotted over to dine on a cluster of sea oats amid the dunes. Gilderoth looked around them. The sky was a clear, cloudless blue and the sea calm. The beach seemed to be no more than a secluded strand. In one direction it abutted a towering cliff of sheer white rock and in the other it petered out, mingling with dense underbrush of an old growth forest whose trees were nearly as tall as the cliff. There was no sign of debris from the shipwreck or other survivors and apparently no other way to go but inland. He tried to judge the sun's position, but that would do little good without a few hours' observation. The ship's captain had told him that the only land was south of the islands, and that they had a dangerous cape to round before they entered Southern Current and sped down the eastern coast to the Harbor Gates and the city of Cynathros, their destination. He suspected they had not quite reached the cape, and so guessed that the ocean was 'north', meaning any land was 'south', which would eventually land him in populated territory. The only question was 'populated by what?' The only map he had ever seen in his life marked most, if not all lands north of the Spineback Mountains as vargren lands, and the little he knew of the vargren were that they were intensely territorial. Hopefully, he prayed, a lone elf and his horse might not be seen as a threat, might even he aided along his way if he could provide them with some service in exchange. He sighed at the thought, scratched at the back of his neck where the dried salt in his collar had begun to irritate him. He was beginning to get used to the concept of being a mercenary, having to trade services to meet his basic needs. There was something kind of thrilling about it. Satisfied that he had no other options, and deciding that his horse, at least, had enjoyed a decent breakfast, he walked over and stroked the horse's side, gathered up the trailing reins. "Come on, Ravel. Let's go see what we've gotten ourselves into." Securing his sword once more into its sheath, he swung nimbly up onto the horse's bare back and guided them inland.
*****
"Ahh," Gilderoth sighed, stretching. "Nothing like a warm summer day to chase away the frost of the northern sea," he said as the morning melted into late afternoon. The stallion shook his head in agreement. The past four months in the polar islands had been downright unbearable for him. They had been put there so suddenly and out of season that Ravel had not been given opportunity to thicken his coat. And, now that he was finally good and shaggy, he had Summer to face. He sighed, shook himself again, dying to rub his itching hide against the nearest tree. Gilderoth smiled in understanding as the skin beneath his knees twitched and jerked. He reached down and scratched the great neck. The horse reacted like a cat, turning his head away and his neck towards the stiffened fingers, grunting. Gilderoth sighed, patted the bulging muscles. "You win, Ravel. We stop," and slid nimbly to the ground. He reached up and pulled the bridle from Ravel's head, chuckling as the animal headed immediately for the nearest tree and devil take how silly he looked. The trunk was a big one, a full eighteen inches thick, but it shook and bent against the stallion's weight. Gilderoth set himself to gathering firewood, picking out the driest pieces to begin and a good stock of long burners for the night. Without flint, it was almost full dark before he had a fire going. Worse, he had no bow to capture food and no blanket to curl up in. Everything he owned but the sword on his back and the bridle on his horse had been lost in the storm, not that he had owned much. Ravel stopped grazing and moved closer to the fire behind his master. Gilderoth reached back without looking and ran his hand down the thick grey leg. It felt cool to his touch, like the air was turning, although the chill did not bother his own body. The only discomfort he felt was from the salt-stiffness of his clothes. Wrapping his fingers around the stallion's ankle, he lifted the foot up and gently pulled downward. Obediently, Ravel lowered himself to the ground, kneeling with his master's back against his side, savouring the warmth of fire and body even if his master did not. Gilderoth leaned back, idly playing with a fetlock as he stared into the fire. He ran expert fingers blindly over the frog and hoof, checking the foot inside and out for cracks and imperfections. His thumb found one. He looked down at the hoof in his hand, moved his finger, tilting it just enough for the firelight to touch it. There was a spot of rust on the shoe. He sat up, checking the others. Sure enough, they were all beginning to rust. The salt water had taken its toll. Sighing, Gilderoth took out his sword. He studied the blade for a minute, reluctant to use it for so base a purpose, then decided that, if a stone golem and a soldier's armour could not nick or mar the golden surface, surely the removal of a set of horseshoes would not either. Ravel looked up at his elven master, watched as he stood with his sword and began fussing with his feet. Master making no indications that he should rise, he rolled onto his side and closed his eyes. The only move the horse made was a swish of his tail and the stiffening of his leg as Gilderoth set his foot lightly on the hoof to brace it. He slid the tip of the blade between hoof and cold iron, carefully wedging it in between the nails as a wedge and began to pry the shoe off. It came off easily, which surprised him. He had expected more resistance or to have to cut the nails. He bent to examine the foot, found no fragments of rusting nails to cause later problems. With a grunt, the horse pulled the now bare hoof from his hand and tucked it closer to his body, leaving the other outstretched in its place. "Ravel," the elf said, tossing the shoe aside and moving on to the next, "you are nothing more than a cat with hard feet." The horse only grunted again. One by one the shoes came off and were tossed aside, clanging against each other as they landed. All but the last. There was a quiet "thunk" as it struck a small thorny bush and a sudden, high-pitched, "Yieeeee!" from inside. Gilderoth turned. The shoe was leaning against the base of the bush, and, just above it, was a tiny light. He walked over, bent down to look closer, and saw a pale skinned, golden headed girl only six inches tall hanging onto a twig by her tiny fists, just inches from the cold iron shoe. Her wings fluttered in panic, but were hopelessly tangled in the thorn branches. He quickly moved the horseshoes and placed his hand beneath her feet. "Hold still for just a second," he said quietly. She froze in terror, but stood patiently on his hand as he began to untangle her wings with his other. In less than a minute she was free and sitting happily in his palm. "Thank you," she tittered, her voice high and ringing, gave her battered wings a test flutter. "You're welcome," he said. "Forgive me for knocking you out of the bush." She giggled, blushing. "Unless elf knew China was there, there is nothing to forgive." "Even so, I apologize," he nodded, suspecting that had he been a human or even remotely less attractive that she might not have been so readily forgiving. "I was wondering," he asked, "would you happen to know where I am?" She put her tiny hands on her hips. "Don't you know anything about faeries? Besides the language?" "I know a little." "Faeries don't name places." "Well, I was hoping you would know what the ...'big-people' called this place." She shook her head. He tried a different question. "Who lives here, besides faeries?" She scratched her hair, tilting her head in confusion. "When you see 'big-people', what do they look like? Are they elven, human, what?" "OH!" she exclaimed. "What few China sees are a bit smaller than you, and hairy. Like big wolves but with thumbs, and they walk on their back toes and wear clothes. At least the ugly, bent one who leaves milk and stuff for us sometimes." Vargren, he thought. Could be a problem. If there were no other races near it would mean he was deep in vargren territory as he feared and a very long way from any kind of civilization. "Someone leaves offerings for you?" he asked. She nodded. "Where? Where do they come from?" "South-east. From a little rock house. The bogglies go there a lot, sleep under the house when it's cold." Suddenly, there was another yell. They turned to see a tiny creature struggling with his twig-like foot trapped in Ravel's mouth. "Let it go! Let it go! Let it go!" he screamed. "Bad, bad sharp ears!" "Vicious!" China cried, and flew over. She hovered angrily above him, wings buzzing like a silver hummingbird. "Bad bogglie, picking on elf!" "China," he whimpered, turning bright, beetled eyes on her, trying to make his ugly, dried up face look pitiful. "Don't 'China' me!!" "But sharp ears got foot!" he whined. "China hope he bites it off," she huffed and flew off into the woods. Gilderoth quietly laughed at the pair. The argument sounded like a canary fussing at a squirrel. He crossed to the horse's head and squatted beside the flustered bogglie. Vicious now tried a different tactic on the horse glaring at him, as he watched Gilderoth warily in his peripheral eye. "Nice, sharp-ears. Give Vicious back his walking thing." The horse breathed on him. "Foot is not a fester-grained, pus-cud ear of corn!!!" he shouted, hopping up and down on his one leg. Still Ravel didn't let go. "Oooooh, now Vicious mad!" Restraining his laughter, Gilderoth reached down and placed his hand over the horse's nostrils. A few seconds later, the mouth opened and the bogglie fell flat on his backside. He stood, huffed himself together. "That'll teach!" he humphed, and darted off after the other fey. Ravel looked up at his master. The two of them stared into each other's eyes for a moment. Then, without warning, the bogglie came back, running pell-mell out of the bushes, across their camp, picking up speed past Ravel and dashing up a tree on the other side. The stallion rolled over, preparing to rise, his master reaching for his sword as a large buzzing noise began to fill the air. Before either of these actions could be completed, the pair was swarmed by a flock of faeries. They were everywhere, silver-voiced belles dancing by the fire in gossamer clothes, pixies piling up berries and wild fruit, bogglies toting wineskins, and glowing whispies fluttering about Ravel's head. China whizzed up in front of the elf's face. "Put pig-sticker away, handsome. Come and play! Eat! Drink! Party's for you!" "Why?" he laughed, trying to take all of it in at once. "'Cause," she shrugged. "You lost, you lonely, you got nothing but pig-sticker and fat sharp-ear. Pretty pig-sticker, but can't eat it. You help. We help. Fair?" "Well, I ... guess, but...," he began. China grabbed his sleeve and tugged. "Come on! Or does China have to use magic to make elf dance?" "All right! All right!" he laughed. "But let's move my horse out of the way so no one gets stepped on." Gilderoth put his sword in its sheath and hung it from a tree limb. Shooing most of the faeries safely back, he got Ravel up and led him to the edge of the small clearing, well out of the way. He gave the horse a consoling pat and left him to graze. Re-entering the midst of the faeries, he was assaulted by the hundreds of little voices that filled the tiny area. "More berries!" "More wine!" "Hey, you got milk? Where'd you get milk?" "(Giggle)" "Hey, quit tickling!" "Vicious, come join party!" He picked the last voice out of the crowd and followed it to its source. China was arguing with the tree the bogglie had run up. "No. If can't make mean, don't wanna play!" he pouted in his hoarse little voice. "But you can't scare the elf! He help China. You want he left China get hurt?" "Vicious would have ...!" he began to protest. "Vicious!" shouted one of the other faeries. "What?!" he growled, irritated by the interruption of his little rant. "Bring out the music!" a sprite crowed. "Aww, Bilberry can make 'em dance, good as Vicious can!" Gilderoth cleared his throat, attempting diplomacy. He was curious what kind of music a bogglie would play. "Vicious, I would consider it an honor if you would play for us." A small black nose poked out from under a leaf. "Did he say ... ?" "If you please?" the elf added. The bogglie crept out, and crawled down the trunk head first, grumbling. "Aw nuts, fancy eared tall thing even says pretty please! 'Honored' he say! Bogglie be nice to elf. Bogglie don't play tricks on elf. Bogglie play the damn music! Bogglie don't wanna be nice, bogglie wanna scare somebody!" Gilderoth sat down a few feet from the fire and helped himself to a wild fig. A pixie sat beside him burying his face in a grape. He looked up at Gilderoth and smiled the smile of a drunk. Gilderoth raised his fig in a toast and shook his head smiling. Several whispies dragged in a battered but well polished fiddle and the bogglie walked over to it. He began weaving his hands in front of it, muttering something, and then it began to move. It hopped up on its end, the bow leaped to the strings and music filled the forest. The bow danced a lively tune accompanied by several pan pipes and a flute in the hands of sprites. A group of pixies dragged up a brightly painted drum and, using it as a trampoline, kept up a vivacious rhythm. Vicious seated himself on a low branch and drank from a curled leaf filled with wine while he watched the drummers and kept the fiddle playing with the swinging of his feet. Gilderoth danced with the faeries until he tired, then sat and watched their antics. When he looked over to check on Ravel he was rewarded with a dirty look. Faeries were all over him. Dangling from his forelock was a mountain climber's chain of pixies hanging coat-tail to coat-tail down the side of his face. Bright glowing whispies were weaving his mane like a maypole. Belles danced on his back as they waited their turn to swing on his tail, and the more he lashed it, the more they liked it. Gilderoth merely shrugged at him as he was once more pulled to his feet to dance. The night wore on with the party in full swing. Gilderoth's storm-borne exhaustion had faded, but a contented sort of weariness crept over him in its place. Eventually, lulled by the music, the wine and the food, he fell into a deep sleep beside the fire, for first the first time in a long while without concern or care.
*****
Gilderoth shifted in his sleep, brushing unconsciously at some insect walking across his cheek. The smell of pine and white oak began to pervade his senses, a fragrance he had sorely missed the last four months he had spent in the frozen north and slowly he began to wake. He sat up, looked around himself. The camp was empty, no signs of the festivities from the previous night. The elf rubbed his face. "I have got to stop with these wild dreams. Soon I won't be able to tell what's real and what's not," he groaned. He got up, stretched, automatically kicking dirt over the ashes of the fire even though it had long since gone out. He turned to his horse who stood asleep beside a large oak tree. He stopped, blinked. The horse's mane had been interwoven with bright grasses and flowers, his silvery grey coat brushed clean. The bridle hung from the branch he had hung the sword from, mended and oiled. As he took it down, he noticed a knotted bundle of cloth nestled in the fork of the branch. He rehung the bridle and brought the package down to examine. Untying the many intricate knots, it unfolded into a soft white shirt of some silk-like linen wrapped around a pair of doe-colored trousers as smoothe and soft as sueded buckskin. They were plain and simple, but made finer than any king's. Smiling, he shrugged out of his old clothes and slipped into the new ones. Their fit was perfect, as comfortable as wearing nothing at all. He sat down to pull on his boots and found that they had been mended and relaced, the salt rubbed out of the leather and made pliant again. "Well, Ravel. I think we made some friends last night. These clothes feel marvelous!" he grinned, turning to display his new finery. The horse only snorted. "Aww, come on. 'Be nice, sharp-ears'," he teased, mimicking the grumbling, hoarse voice of the bogglie as he rubbed the smoky forehead. "You're nice and clean, and fed no doubt." Strangely, he did not feel hungry himself, and assumed that the faery feast would last them a good while. He reached up for the bridle, taking it by the bit to warm it, and discovered someone had smeared honey on it. "Great," he mumbled, looking for some way to clean it off. "Here," he said, holding his hand in front of Ravel's mouth. "Lick." The horse took one sniff and obliged him most willingly. "Of course, I don't know which is worse." He squinched up his face as he wiped his hand off on his old shirt. Ravel happily took the bit as Gilderoth slipped the bridle on. The two of them headed aimlessly into the morning, feeling better and more refreshed than they had since they had begun their glory-road nearly eleven months ago. They traveled peacefully through the ancient forest, walking lazily through the shafts of sunlight that filtered down through the broad canopy, catching glimpses of birds and other animals about their daily business. Gilderoth hummed to himself, in no hurry to get anywhere. The new shirt was thinner of cloth than the old, but the sword buckler did not chaff through as it used to do. He was still unaccustomed to wearing the sword's weight at his back, but its strangeness was a comfort to him. Something about it gave him a feeling of strength and determination. That something radiated from it, filling him unawares as he half-dozed while they wandered.
*****
The shadow pursued him more insistently, less cautiously. That meant it no longer cared if it was noticed. That was bad, very bad. Gilderoth was lost in the ruins of a city more ancient than most dragons, yet in better repair than the great trade city of Capion. Its inhabitants had long since fled or faded into oblivion, leaving only ghosts to rule the golden city; ghosts, he feared, that now pursued him. He turned down one yellow cobbled street, crossing through a grassy park. The soft leather soles of his boots slipped across the dew and skidded him shoulder first into a statue. He looked up, startled, then stared in blind wonder as the faint starlight made the statue glow to his elven eyesight, the pursuing shadow forgotten. It was an angelic figure in flowing robes with wings of golden fire. Its arms were out-stretched, its face up-lifted as if offering up a gift to the gods of the sky. The gift was a sword that lay balanced across the up-turned palms, a great, golden flamberge that did not seem to belong there. He stared hard at the blade, letting his mind gaze on it with his second sight, eyes widening in wonder as the sword lit up like a bonfire with 'It'. He had seen 'It' before, when he looked at things and people he knew to be of magic, and around some things he was not certain of. This blade reeked of It, breathed It, made him part of It. He reached out his hand and touched the waved edge, tracing a finger along its sharpness. It seemed to sing to him, begging to be lifted down and settled into his hand. He had heard about the ancient rune swords, the secrets of their making lost with the great beings who had forged them to win their wars; of the Orc Swords who marked their bearers as warriors unsurpassed so long as they were used to seek out and drive back the goblins that escaped the Black Veil and plagued the lands of men. He had heard of Rune blades so powerful they required a dragon to forge them, and nearly a dragon's will to control them, of how they possessed intellects and vast powers, how they could communicate with their wielders and cast spells on their own using the silent Dragonspeak. Somehow he could sense that this sword would do none of these, but he felt so much stronger as he touched it, as if the very fabric of its magic were beginning to course through him as well; as if the threads of magic that had been forged within it had been woven into his own life's tapestry as far back as he could sense. Blindly, he obeyed his inner urgings, and removed the sword from the angel's hands, half expecting another, more terrible seraphim to swoop down on him in punishment; but no one attacked. The sword lay quiet and serene in his grasp, subtly feeding the strength of gods into his young body.
A noise startled him out of his reverie. For the barest moment he had felt the blade's weight lying across his palms, vibrating its warning. But it was the sound of children screaming that ultimately turned his head, disturbing the otherwise peaceful morning. Four young wolves appeared over a small ridge to the right, running and screaming in terror: wolves who ran upright, and wore clothing much like men. One of them, looking behind him, ran smack into Ravel's shoulder. He looked up, even more frightened, spouted words Gilderoth could not understand, and ran off. Before Gilderoth could chase after the young ones, Ravel squared himself facing the way they had come, muscles bunched as he only did to set for a charge. The sword all but leapt into his hand as he reached for it. Ravel reared up as a bear charged over the ridge roaring, only to face horse's hooves instead of soft cubs. The bear stood up, furious, and was struck down by the force of the falling sword. As the blood ran out over the grass from the severed head, the children crept back to stare in awe. Gilderoth gazed down at the bear, oblivious to the vargren cubs gathering behind him. The blade hummed in his hands as he cleaned it on his old shirt. Something tugged at his pant leg. He looked down to see a dark grey face staring up at him, asking him a question he did not understand. The other three were surrounding his horse, stroking, scratching, and spoiling the great creature. Then they were leading him off eastward, chattering away as children do. The older, darkest of them, said something, trying to speak slowly and clearly. Gilderoth was barely able to recognize the words as his own tongue. "House to talk," he translated. He sincerely doubted that was what the child meant to say, but it gave him the idea that he was being taken to see someone, perhaps the cubs' parents. He reached down and swept the smallest of them onto the horse with him and settled back to enjoy what was left of the morning. After an hour's walk, Gilderoth was led out of the forest into a large clearing in which some twenty huts were scattered in a circular pattern around one larger stone house. Several of the vargren adults began to wander curiously closer. The cub in his arms began squirming to get down and Gilderoth gently set him on the ground. The child ran over into the arms of a white vargren, yipping excitedly. The other two also darted off to respective parents, leaving the oldest standing alone at the horse's head. "Wait," the cub said, as Gilderoth dismounted. "Head coming." He then shouted at one of the other children. The cub nodded and darted off toward the stone house. A few moments later, a light grey wolf, bent old shoulders weighted down with many rows of wooden beads, fur singed with blackened tattoos of arcane symbols, emerged. There was a distinct herbal smell to the old one, not altogether pleasant. He and the dark cub traded a great deal of words, words that made the adults turn their eyes often towards Gilderoth and hug their cubs tighter. The old vargren who spoke with the cub looked up at Gilderoth. "You ... speak the Man's Tongue?" he asked. Gilderoth, swinging his attention suddenly forward, nodded. "Aye," he answered. "Could you tell me where I am?" "The village of Kofi, in the northern reach of the Mountain Clans. But tell me, how is it you come to be this far North with no saddle, or armour or survival gear?" "Blind luck," he sighed, taking Ravel's head from the cub. "I was on board a ship from one of the polar islands when we were sunk in a storm. My charger and I only barely survived to reach shore about a day and a half's ride north of here." "Spring though it is, it is still cold nights, and no fur ... or blanket .... How kept you warm? And your clothes, they are hardly the garb of a man shipwrecked," he observed. Gilderoth ran his hand down the front of his shirt conscientiously. "Well, I ran amok of a tribe of faeries and..." he shrugged. "Dancing and wine often makes the blood warm." The old one paused to translate to the others. There was a rustling of sharp breaths and harsh whispering in the crowd. Someone asked the old one a question, was answered with a sneer. He chuckled to himself. "One of the faeries spoke of you," Gilderoth ventured, feeling an intense need to add something more. "Said something of a rock house of a bent one who feeds them milk. And that winters often find your cellars full of bogglies." Again he laughed. "I am he, yes. Small offerings now and again keep them from making mischief. So they sent you here, eh?" Gilderoth shook his head, "I came this way hoping I could find my bearings. Maybe find my way to a more populated clime." Another conversation ensued between the old one and a big, rough looking brown vargren who appeared to be a chieftain. At the brown one's bidding three males detached themselves from the others and headed off into woods led by one of the rescued children. The brown male said something to the crowd and they began to disperse. The old one turned to Gilderoth. "The men have run off to get the bear. We would be honored if you would dine with us tonight and allow us to shelter you in gratitude for the lives of our young." "I accept," he intoned with a bow, secretly glad that his sister had insisted on playing 'court' for so many years. Growing up a mid-class farmer, he had never expected to need fancy manners. Privately, he hoped life on the Eastern Shores afforded her the grand occasions she had craved in life. "Good. Thela there will show you to a place where you may bathe and will wash the blood from your fine shirt." Gilderoth looked down at his shirtfront and saw the splattering of bear blood. Sighing, he allowed the white vargren named Thela to lead him off into the village. She was a dainty thing, nearly a foot shorter than he and quite graceful. The grey tips of her white fur gave a silver cast to her coat, and, in spite of vast species differences, he found her extremely attractive. Her pale blue eyes watched his every move with a quiet, awed curiosity that made him uneasy. She led him to one of the smaller houses, called someone to take his horse. Once he handed the reins over she brought him inside and into a side room, said something to him as she began to set up a baked, earthen tub in a corner of the tiny chamber. He just stood there in the doorway, extremely uncomfortable and feeling rather rude for not answering her, despite the fact that he couldn't. She looked up at him, asked again, then suddenly understood. She said something that had the tone of an apology and gestured towards the fireplace in the other corner. Still confused, he went over to the little hearth and began to put more wood on the fire. He heard a soft laughter behind him and looked up to see her standing there smiling. Gently, she reached into the fireplace and swung out an iron arm, and set on it a kettle of water that had stood beside the hearth. She swung it inward over the fire and gestured for Gilderoth to stand. He obeyed. Still smiling, she began to unlace his shirtfront. He put his hands out to stop her, "Please, madam!" he said, trying his best to maintain his dignity without offending her. She only winked, nodded and left the room. Gilderoth sat down beside the hearth watching the water slowly bubbling. When it reached a fast boil, he swung the arm out from over the fire and lifted it off, tipping its contents into the tub. Thela returned. Conscientiously, he set the kettle down on the hearth. She set a small chair beside the tub, and crossed over to him. She held up a rather large wool shirt to his chest, measuring it for size. Satisfied, she laid it across the back of the chair and held out her hand. Gilderoth furrowed his brow in question and Thela reached out and plucked at his sleeve, making a gesture with her hands of dipping it into the bath water. Gilderoth finally got the picture, and removed his shirt. Smiling, she took it and left again, returning with a second steaming kettle that she also emptied into the tub. She took a lump of soap and a small cloth off a shelf over the hearth and set them on a short stand beside the tub next to a rather large towel. Gesturing him to get into the water, she once again left the room and closed the door behind her. Left alone finally, Gilderoth undressed himself and slid gratefully into the hot bath. The tub was a bit short lengthwise, being made for the vargren who rarely reach six feet tall, but by bending his knees a bit he fit quite comfortably. The water was soothing and the steam relaxing and Gilderoth lay back to enjoy himself.
*****
There was a tapping on the door. Gilderoth opened his eyes, startled by the growly voice of the young male vargren who was knocking. The water was considerably cooler, and Gilderoth assumed he must have fallen asleep. Quickly, he washed himself, rinsed and climbed out of the tub. He was just shrugging into the woolen shirt when the door opened and the dark cub peered in, asking a question. Seeing Gilderoth dressed, he entered. "Elder say," he stammered, racking his brain for remembered words. "Bear is ... cooked. You din ... dine in house of Elder, Kindan. Please to follow." Gilderoth quickly slung his sword buckler on his back and followed the young wolf out of the house. Outside, his nose was suddenly assaulted by the rich aroma of roast bear meat served with an heady eider berry wine, informing him just how long he must have slept. The meat was spitted over a fire pit in a large open area between a group of houses. Vargren were everywhere, scurrying to serve or receive their share of the feast. Children ran in and out among the crowd, playing a wild game of catch and tag. Gilderoth noticed as, off in the dusky shadows between houses, the "bear", played by one of the older cubs, finally caught a squealing young female who was not trying very hard to avoid him, and playfully nipped her ear. Gilderoth smiled as he turned his attention to the feast, thinking, "The first signs of spring." Several of the adults clapped him on the shoulder as he passed, said things to him to which he could only smile and nod in confused ignorance. Many held up their cups to him as they stood about and conversed with others. One handed him a cup of wine, and several others, each in turn, offered to refill it before he had taken the first sip. Someone else handed him a plate and cut for him a thick, dripping slice of meat from the place closest to the heart of the beast. He thanked him and moved out of the way so that others might be served. As he ate he saw that the other children had realized that their "bear" had given up the chase for fairer game and were now mauling the two lovebirds in a screaming, giggling heap of tails and furry feet. "The cubs tell me you killed the bear with one strike," said a voice behind him. Gilderoth turned suddenly, saw the old vargren standing there watching the tickle fight with merry eyes dancing. "... Cleaved the great head in two." Gilderoth gave a half-smile of modest embarrassment, swallowed his mouthful. "Sort of." The black-blue eyes studied him, stared unfocused for a brief moment, then cleared. The old one looked him in the eye and said, "On behalf of their parents, I thank you for saving the lives of the cubs. For myself however, I would like the liberty of questioning you." "Questioning me?" One delicate brow arched. "You are a traveler, and a well worn one at that. You have seen much in the last year or so, and your adventures I would like to hear. I don't get to travel much any more and I miss fresh news. So few messengers come to Kofi, isolated as we are, and we do not get to the All-Thing as often as we should. Please, come to my house. I will brew you something to steal your weariness away." With that he began to shuffle towards the stone building in the center of the village. Gilderoth hesitated a moment, debating with himself, then shrugged and followed, taking the last bite from his plate as he went. The inside of the house was cluttered and dark. It had a distinct cacophony smell of herbs and spices, earth and age. On closer inspection, Gilderoth discovered that the "clutter" was highly organized. The entire room was one giant puzzle of jars and junk. However, he seriously doubted that the "junk" was in any way "useless". Gilderoth lost track of his thoughts as his eye caught a glimpse of something moving off to the left. It was a huge open book on a pedestal with a bright orange quill writing in itself. "Never seen an air servant, boy?" He shook his head slowly, without tearing his eyes away from the now poised feather. "No, sir." It scribbled a second and stopped again, waiting. "Well, you'll see more fantastic things than that in your life time. Might even learn to do a few of them yourself. How old are you, anyway?" "Ninety-seven, sir." "You're barely an adult!" he exclaimed, drawing Gilderoth's attention with a clay cup he filled from a teapot shaped like a squash. "And already a knight?!" "Knight errant," he corrected, drawing himself up straight, politely accepting the tea. "I have not yet been knighted. And I am a full twenty years by vargren standards." "I ... meant no insult by my outburst. It's just, I know elven cubs just outside their first century who still live with their parents." Gilderoth sobered, but answered the probing questions frankly. "My family has passed on. My mother and sisters to Dame Death, and my father to the call of the East." The vargren chuckled, "Your father was an old one, eh?" Gilderoth nodded solemnly, "Eight hundred and twelve. He left for the Eastern Shores some forty years ago." "What is this unknown place?" the old one begged. "These Eastern Shores you hunger for." "Even we elves don't know," Gilderoth sighed with a shake of his head. "Those who will never feel it claim it no more than madness, to chase after a goddess that abandoned us thousands of years ago. Others, more devout, claim it a divine pilgrimage, and that the fact that no one ever returns is proof enough of heaven." "And you? Is this drive in you? Do you seek these Eastern Shores as well?" Something faraway glittered in the elf's dark blue eyes at that, something haunting. "No. I think... I think it is something else entirely. Besides, I'm way too young to be seeking an end to my life." The old one nodded slowly, "So you see these Shores as death?" Gilderoth shrugged. "Well, no. But certainly the end of life here. I am not quite ready to forget what this world has to offer, or to turn my back on it." "Ahh, enough of that," he grumbled, setting his own cup. "I see I have depressed you. Tell me, instead, something exciting, like where have you been, and where you acquired that blade." Gilderoth looked at him over the rim of his cup. The old one was leaning forward, bright eyes frighteningly young in his wizened face as he stared hungrily. "Tell me," he urged. "It must have been an adventure and a half for you to risk a faery feast at the end of it." Gilderoth set his cup down and nodded, pleased with the change of subject. "I was beginning to feel like a fire-fly, with all the teleporting I was doing." "Your own doing?" "Oh, no!" he laughed uneasily. "I wield swords, not magics." The old one grinned. "Nothing to say you cannot do both, but go on." "Frankly, right now I'd rather walk across an ocean than teleport again." Gilderoth settled himself in his chair, taking note of the quill scribbling his every word, and began to tell his story. "All I know of my father was that he was a knight, a man full of high ideals and noble intentions. I was still a child when he left. There was no explanation at all, not letter, no message, no goodbye. I woke up one morning to find my mother crying and father's side of the bed slept in, but empty. She could not or would not explain. My older sister took care of everything after that, the house, my mother, me... the only thing I could get her to say was that mother feared that one day I too would just vanish from the world, answering some god-call or sun-induced madness. "Me? I wanted nothing in the world more than to be a knight like my father. I knew he had a sword that he kept hidden away, a special sword he told me once would be mine, but I never laid eyes on it, and mother claimed it disappeared with him even as she cursed its existence. Then about a year ago a plague swept through the province. Our entire village was wiped out. The handful who survived moved away and I was left alone in the world with a single horse and a farm I wanted nothing more to do with." He shrugged, leaned his head against the back of the chair to stare up at the ceiling beams, which were hung with drying herbs. "Did you try to find your father?" Kindan asked quietly. Gilderoth shook his head. "What would be the use? He left no trace. It was like he vanished into nothingness. There was nothing to find." "So what did you do? Surely you had some plan." He sighed. "Not really. Just get away, find adventure, play the knight-errant. After all I had a horse, I knew how to use a sword. I wandered for a while, four or five months I guess, plied my blade where it was useful. I rousted a few goblin nests, helped an Aylurin settlement in wake of a mudslide, that sort of thing. Then I found myself lost somewhere in the Spineback Mountains. How I got out of there I still don't know. The last thing I remember was coming out of rocky-snowcapped peaks into this green little valley. It was all flat and treeless, almost like a bowl of grass, except for this single black structure... it was like an obsidian tree or an obelisk of bone, I don't remember clearly, except that it was magical. The whole valley was. Then this knight appeared out of it and charged..." The old one interrupted. "How ... how did you know he was magic?" He shrugged. "I just knew. When I stared at him for any period of time, I could see a ... glow around him, the same kind of glow as the valley. He didn't seem real at all, and yet he was there physically, drew blood when he struck me." "And can you see this ... 'glow' around anybody?" Kindan asked casually, refilling the elf's cup. "Well,... yes. But with some people it's different. You have It, too, but yours is different from the black knight's, though how I couldn't begin to tell you." "How long have you been able to read people like this?" he asked, began packing a long clay pipe. "As long as I can remember." The old one nodded, gestured for him to continue with his story. Puzzled, Gilderoth went on, taking a moment to backtrack to where he had left off. "You were charging the knight at the obelisk," Kindan reminded him. "Yes, yes I was. Well, actually, he charged me. As I said, he didn't look real, yet the blade that cut my arm as he galloped past felt real enough. We wheeled, charged each other. And then suddenly he wasn't. I saw a flash coming at me, like a mirrored shield set up between the two of us and then I was in a dark wood and more lost than I've ever been in my life," he said, shaking his head. "I still don't know where I was, but it was there that I found my sword." The old one shifted eagerly, tail twitching in anticipation. Gilderoth took note of that, piling it onto the mountain of puzzle-clues building in his mind. "I wandered the woods for weeks it seemed, finding nothing alive but a few birds, the rare squirrel monkey. Ravel and I survived on fruit and foliage, no doubt traveling in circles in that dense jungle. And then I saw the city." "What city?" The old eyes gleamed brighter. "A golden city. There was no one there to ask its name." Excitement crept into his voice, a blind, child-like wonderment filled his eyes as he envisioned the marvels he had seen. "The place was in ruins, but more beautiful than a thousand sunsets. More beautiful than the moon if that's possible. The houses were so ... even the streets with the grasses growing up in between the pale yellow cobbles," he fumbled, trying to find non-existent words to describe the haunted place that had burned itself into his memory. "It was almost blinding," he whispered. "Walkways no foot has trod in eons still bright and gleaming; garden walls glowing as if polished by the sun; broken windows streaked as if freshly washed. All of it so mystically fresh and new, in spite of its disrepair. I mean, how can a wall be broken yet each stone look so new, as if it had been built that way, maintained in its broken state? Does that make any sense?" The old one shook his head, ears forward and alert. "No," he said. "And yet yes." His eyes had the look of a child having a city made of spun sugar described to him. "Did this place glow with magic like the valley?" Gilderoth frowned, trying to remember. "I don't think so. It... it had the look and feel to it of a candle just blown out. A lingering feeling." The vargren elder nodded, "Go on," he urged. "I picked a small house that still had a roof and set up camp, but I couldn't sleep, not there. Though the room seemed made for me, I could not sleep. Even Ravel, my horse, was alert and infected with the wander-eyes. He was not uneasy, just wide-awake ... like me. So I decided to do a little more exploring. "It was not long before I discovered the shadow following me. I sensed it first, a movement, a glimmer, an aural presence just beyond recognition, uncertain whether it was really there, or merely my awakened mind playing with me. I tried to lose it, but it was like my shadow, always there, attached to me. When it began to follow closer, no longer bothering to hide its presence, I ran. I slipped and skidded into a statue and I was suddenly very alone. All I could do was stare at the statue. It encompassed my entire awareness and yet was ... so unclear in my vision. For long minutes I just stared at it, unable to focus on it. it ... was of an elven seraph with wings of fire, upholding a sword. And this was the sword in its hands," he said, laying it across the table. "You took this from the statue?" The dim lights played off it as he slid it from its sheath, causing the old vargren to blink and squint until his eyes adjusted. He ran his furry old finger across the hilt and down the shimmering golden blade. The rune marks seemed to dance off his fingertips, glimmer and fade as he touched them. "Remarkable," he whispered, entranced. "I have never seen craftsmanship like this. The blade must have been folded a hundred times. And this metal ... it is not gold, but something the like of which I have never seen. I understand why you stole it," he muttered. Gilderoth cleared his throat. "I have a feeling that sword would not allow itself to be 'stolen'. There was such a sense of rightness to it, I ...I took it down without thinking what I was doing," he admitted sheepishly. The old one took note of the markings on the blade, the subtle hints at the craftsman's origins. He waved his pipe at the elf, "Continue with your story," he prompted. "There is not much more to tell, really. Once I had the sword in my hands, I remembered the shadow thing that had been following me and turned to confront it. But it was gone as if it had never been there. Ravel and I settled down to sleep in that park and when we woke up we were not in the golden city, but some frozen island up north. Although I didn't feel the weather so much as I probably should have," he added in retrospect, drinking the rest of his now cold tea. "I finally managed to get enough money together for a ship southward." "But we are miles west of any port," the old one mused, his eyes beginning to cloud with the smoke of his pipe. "We didn't make it to port. The ship was sunk by a storm and Ravel and I washed up some miles north of where I ran into the cubs, or where they ran into me," he added with a chuckle. "A lot happened between the golden city and the shipwreck, but little of it very important: a wizard's war and a few other scuffles, an ice dragon or two, none of it really worth telling." The old one seemed to be drifting off to sleep as he smoked, so Gilderoth quietly stood, sheathed his sword and began to take his leave, trying his best not to disturb his host. He was reaching for the knob when the door opened, and a piece of paper presented itself to him, hanging in mid-air at chest-level. Hesitant, he accepted it, and unfolded it to read. The message was written neatly in Elven in an umber ink. It read: Go to the house where your bridle hangs. The family of the dark cub will put you up for the night. --Peace and Long Life. Puzzling over the strange message, he whispered a thank you to the invisible butler and walked out into the village. The party was well on its way to being over. Several of the males were dividing up the remains of the carcass and hauling their shares home to their families. He wandered among the houses, going in circles as he took everything in: the young couple from earlier walking along the edge of the encampment holding each other close; mothers calling their errant cubs in for bed; the great fires being put out; sons standing behind their fathers as they got their shares of the bear, watching and learning. Gilderoth looked up from his thinking and noticed something odd swinging in the shadows in front of one of the houses. He walked over and saw that it was his bridle hanging from a nail outside the door. He looked down at the paper in his hand and smiled. He knocked. Suddenly, a hand reached around from behind him and opened the door. He whirled to see the large brown vargren he had taken to be a chief waving for him to enter. Still a little rattled, he obeyed. The house was small, but cozy. A female was fussing over some sort of couch in front of the fire, spreading out a heavy fur rug over it, fluffing up a pillow. The dark cub was sitting on the hearth playing with the youngest of the cubs he had rescued from the bear. The female looked up as they came in, said something to her husband who hung the meat by the fire. It seemed to Gilderoth's eye, that the chief's portion was a lot larger than the others he had seen cut. He shrugged it off as Thela came in from one of the side rooms. She smiled at him and laid his now clean shirt by the fire to dry and said something to the dark one on the floor. The cub looked up, thought a minute, then said in the Man's Tongue. Apparently he knew it better than Elven, "Shirt wearing, her mate's. Give back next day." "Tomorrow," he corrected gently. "'Next day'-'tomorrow'." The dark one smiled. "Tomorrow," he echoed. The smallest cub yawned, prompting a similar response in Gilderoth, which he tried unsuccessfully to stifle. The couch was starting to look very welcoming in spite of his earlier nap in the tub. Thela took her cue from that, taking her son from the dark one's lap, and, hugging the other female, began to leave. The chieftain stopped her at the door with a short bark. He cut a good portion of the bear meat and gave it to her, for which she reached up and kissed his cheek. The pair called their goodnights with the familiarity of family and left. Daughter? Gilderoth thought. Possibly. He tried to kill another yawn and settled for covering it up instead. The remaining female moved in quickly, pulling back the blanket and gesturing Gilderoth to make himself comfortable. He readily obliged her, pulling off his boots and laying them on the floor beside the couch. She continued to speak to him as if he could understand him, and her son said something back, apparently pointing that out. But for once it didn't bother him. He found her voice soothing, propelling him further along the course of sleep. Activity went on around him: a brief argument between father and son, most likely about going to bed. The mother proceeded to wrap Gilderoth up and tuck him in without asking if he minded. Lamps were blown out and the house finally quieted down. Throughout the rest of the village, Gilderoth heard the faint noises of settling in, fading in the other sounds of night as the world closed in on him and he slept.
2
He was in the woods again, in the golden place with all its ghosts. The wind carried long dead voices echoing through the empty streets, walked on in the blurred, unhurriable manner one can only manage in dreams. He walked past the buildings that at once seemed new and ancient in the same space, but well tended and hopelessly forgotten. Through gaping windows and doorframes he could have sworn he saw figures out of the corner of his eyes, heard laughter, but saw nothing when he turned his head, heard nothing when he stopped to listen. Once more his feet led him to the park where trees of many kinds grew, and within that circle he noticed new growth: a tiny tree had reached forth with nearly naked branches and reached for the sun. A tree he did not remember seeing before. Nearby the statue stood untouched by time, holding empty hands to the sky. The sword weighed heavy against his back. This time no shadows pursued him as they had went he had actually been transported here. This time he had the opportunity to explore beyond the manicured lawn with its spreading oaks and slender birch. That was how he knew he was dreaming. He had never actually lain eyes on the small palace that rose out of the gardens that had become a tangled jungle running rampant with weeds and untrimmed hedges. Approaching it, he began to feel a sense of sadness pervading the grounds, something he had not noticed in the city. In that way of dreams, found himself inside almost as he considered going. The audience chamber rising above him with vaulted ceilings painted with dancing nymphs and laughing children. The light entered through high windows and made the hall a bright, pleasant place, but he could not shake the weight of sorrow that seemed to press down upon his shoulders the closer he came to the empty throne. Standing at the foot of the dais, he surveyed the golden chair. It was cushioned, seat and back, in patterned velvet and on it rest a crown of gold and sweeping silver filigree. Drawn inexplicably, he set his foot upon the first step.
*****
Someone was stoking the fire. Gilderoth slowly began to wake up, the wispy tendrils of the dream fading from his memory like the sun burns away the morning mists. The female was sitting with her back to him boiling something over the fireplace. He sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Something fell from his pillow to the floor. He bent down as the vargren mother turned and smiled at him. Gilderoth saw a scrolled set of papers lying haphazard beside his boots. He picked them up, nodding briefly to the vargren mother as she rose and walked past him out of the room. He opened the roll of paper. The first page was a letter addressed to him in Man's Tongue, written in the same burnt-orange ink as the note he had been given the night before. It read: Enclosed here is a rough map of the vargren territories, with directions that will lead you to the port city of Cynathros. There, at the address listed, you will find an alchemist by the name of Dorsy. His is my uncle and a great deal older than I, with a dragon's wealth of knowledge. Take the second letter to him, and show him your sword. He will know more about it than I, and may be able to help you understand its powers. He will do this as a favor to me (and out of rampant curiosity), so there will be no need to pay him for this service. Go with the blessings of the gods and fulfill what destiny the Fates will bring you. --Wealth and Happiness, Kindan IsterFrost. Bound within the first letter, he found a second, sealed in a dull orange wax, with no address upon it. He assumed it to be the letter for the uncle, Dorsy. The female vargren returned as he opened the map, set a plate on the small table and barked him over. Gilderoth nodded, laid the letters beside his sword, and approached, map clutched firmly in hand. He thanked her and sat down, ate the hashed eggs and meat she had served while pouring over the parchment. Something scratched at the back of his mind, a nagging feeling that he had forgotten something important. As he ate, he searched for it, picking his mind systematically, and in the end found only the cobwebby echoes of past dreams and memories. Perhaps it is something about the sword, he thought, some warning in regards to it. The cub came loudly through the door, breaking him out of his trance. The mother looked up and asked a question and it suddenly occurred to Gilderoth that he had heard one of the words before in conversation with the dark one. "Gegin?" he asked, repeating it. The cub pricked up his ears in surprise, then he was smiling. "Horse ready," he beamed, happy to have his name recognized by the tall elf. "Ready go when ... you go." "Thank you," Gilderoth said, allowing the mother to take his empty plate. "Ge-rok," Gegin said. "'Thank you' is Ge-rok." "Ge-rok," Gilderoth repeated, letting the last syllable snag itself properly in the back of his throat. Gegin followed him back to the hearth as Gilderoth returned to his couch, began to pull on his boots. "How does one say 'Please'?" he asked, deciding to take advantage of a translator to learn a few basic words he might later need. "Please?" Gegin repeated as he sat a minute racking his brains. "Please what?" "Just 'Please'," he shrugged. "No 'Please'." Gilderoth looked into the cub's dark brown eyes. "There is no vargren word for please?" he asked, stunned. He had heard horrible things of these wolfmen from the humans he had met in his travels, none of which had proved true yesterday. Was there, perhaps some truth to the tales after all, if these people had no word in their language for a polite request? "No one word," Gegin explained. "Part of..." There was a long pause, "do-word. Please take, please give, please do," he listed, and then said three words in vargren in the same tone of voice. Gilderoth noticed an inflection at the end of each, almost an upward whine. "You hear? Is not change in word but how said. Tone important." Gilderoth nodded. "Ge-rok. I see." And, smiling, Gegin politely corrected the knight's pronunciation. Gilderoth laughed and said it more correctly. He was beginning to realize that while the vargren tongue was simpler on the surface in terms of words than the elven tongue, it was far more complex and difficult to learn as far as actually speaking it understandably. He wondered as he changed back into his now clean and dry faery shirt if he would have the throat to be able to pronounce all of the language. Folding up the borrowed shirt, he handed it to Gegin, who was about to launch into another lesson, when his father walked in and he ran off to take the shirt back to Thela. The brown vargren had an impressive management of presence, Gilderoth observed. It was easy to see why the others chose to follow him. He had easily as much clout as Kindan, the old one, and knew well how to use it. This subtlety of two leaders belied the savage reports he had heard of these people. They valued their old and their wisdom as well as strength, nor did they seem to fear magic, which the old one obviously was. He laughed to himself as he suddenly realized that one could be civilized without resorting to civilization and perhaps be the better for it. The chief stopped in front of Gilderoth and extended his arm. Gilderoth reached out and clasped the muscled limb in his own. The brown one said very little, knowing nothing spoken would be understood. All that he wanted to say was easily read in his warm, expressive eyes. He gestured for Gilderoth to follow him outside and, putting the letters with the map and grabbing his sword, Gilderoth obeyed. Ravel stood waiting in front of the house, being fussed over by some of the villagers. Kindan was nowhere to be seen. A crude saddle had been fashioned from leather straps and a heavy folded blanket, with a pair of saddle bags anchored behind it. One of the villagers standing by the animal quickly showed him how to do and undo the straps and buckles securing the blanket. Gilderoth thanked him in vargren; an attempt which pleased the small crowd immensely and set them to slapping his back and barking pleased words at him. As he opened one of the saddlebags to but the letters and the map inside, he noticed that someone had filled them with bear meat and a few other necessities, including candles, flint and steel and a serviceable dagger. Once again, he reached for the chief's arm, thanked him in his own tongue. Behind him, a short, thick armed, black male in a leather apron made a final check of Ravel's feet, double-checking the new shoes. The chief pulled Gegin over, said something and gestured for him to translate. The cub grinned. "My father says if Goldensword come back to woods again, Goldensword is welcome in his house." "I take it Goldensword would be me?" he asked. "Oukrlinan," he replied. "Ow-oo-kerl'-inan'," Gilderoth said slowly, trying to repeat the word carefully. Being given a name by one tribe would likely carry weight in others as he traveled through their lands. Both father and son nodded approval. He turned to his horse, swung easily into the saddle, wiggled around a bit until he got the feel of it. Then Gilderoth turned to the gathering crowd, gave a short bow and said, "Ge-rok." "Nya," the brown one said with a nod. "Ge-rok." The blacksmith gave Ravel a slap to his rump then and Gilderoth rode out of the village to waves and shouts as everyone gathered there to see him off. Some of the children ran after him as far as the woods, then fell back as the pair galloped southeast towards the coast. (To be continued...)
As I have said about all of your stories, I really like this one. A bit different from your other ones, but its good. I agree with the first comment. On to the next parts. Sandra Leigh Wagner replies: "thank you. I like different. Please bear in mind I have a move emminant (which is taking forever and getting stalled in all kinds of places) so I'm literally stealing time to placate my muse on this one. Forgive me if it takes a bit before you see chapter 5. (Email me an active email address and I'll add you to the notification list when it clears the mod queue)"
A long but very good read. I like how the elf told the creation story to the cubs, it made it more interesting. Sandra Leigh Wagner replies: "Thank you. I could not find a believable way of telling the creation myth/prologue without boring non-genre readers. The prologue, I will confess, got away from me. I promise that Krith will be making an appearance in the stories around book 3 I think. This one still needs a title though. ANy ideas?"
28 Jan 2007
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Sweet Story going to see if there is more to it and if so read it! Heh if not I look forward to more being added. Sandra Leigh Wagner replies: "thank you. Very soon. I have some minor adjustments to make to chapter 6 before posting and then its into the mod queue and up when they're done with it"
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